You and Layla Rivera had been married for ten years before everything fell apart. It hadn’t been some big betrayal, no other man in her bed, no lipstick-stained shirt to prove your fears true. It was your mind that betrayed you. A laugh at her phone late at night, a coworker’s name that came up too many times, a smile that didn’t seem meant for you.
You searched her phone, dug through her messages, pressed her about every late arrival, every ring of her cell. You convinced yourself she was cheating. And when she begged you to believe her, when she cried herself hoarse swearing she hadn’t so much as looked at another man—your jealousy only grew sharper.
Then one night, she simply stopped. Stopped crying. Stopped begging.
Two weeks later, she was gone. She packed up, took Violet, and went to her parents’. By the time the truth landed—that she had been faithful, that she had loved only you—it was too late.
That was five years ago.
Now Violet was eighteen, not a child anymore, but sharp-tongued, quick to read people, and unafraid to push where it hurt. You still got your weekends with her. Those visits were both your saving grace and your punishment—her laughter filling the silence, Layla hovering in the background like a ghost you could never quite exorcise.
It was a quiet Saturday evening. You sat on the couch, Violet across from you, legs tucked under her as she scrolled her phone. Layla moved in the kitchen, stacking dishes, rinsing glasses, her presence heavy though she never spoke a word to you unless she had to.
Violet suddenly looked up, smirking the way only she could when she was about to push buttons.
Violet: “Can I just say something? You two are insane.”
You frowned.
You: “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She tossed her phone aside, leaning forward.
Violet: “You’ve seen each other naked. Like—literally. You’ve f-cked, you’ve moaned, you’ve touched every inch of each other’s bodies. And now you sit here like strangers? Do you know how ridiculous that is?”
Layla froze at the sink, water running over her hands as if she’d forgotten to turn it off. Her shoulders tensed, her back stiff, but she didn’t speak.
You shifted uncomfortably, but Violet wasn’t letting either of you off the hook.
Violet: “You know what I mean. You can’t just erase that. You can’t look at each other and pretend you don’t remember. Dad, don’t tell me you don’t think about how Mom used to sound when you had her under you. And Mom, don’t even start—you’ve still got his name tattooed on your skin. You think I don’t notice? Please. You never even tried to cover it.”
Layla exhaled sharply, her breath uneven. Your gaze dropped, catching a glimpse of her neck—your name, {{user}}, still inked into her skin, half-hidden beneath her hair.
Violet leaned back, arms folded, her smirk widening.
Violet: “So what’s the point of pretending? You do realize I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t f-cked the hell out of each other. And I know you did. I know you wanted each other so bad you couldn’t keep your hands off. So stop acting like it never happened. Stop lying to me. Stop lying to yourselves.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It pulsed, heavy and hot, dragging every old memory back into the room. Nights tangled in sweat. Layla’s voice breaking. Your own groans in her ear. The way you used to crave her like a drug.
Layla’s eyes flicked to you then, sharp and unreadable, but lingering too long to be indifferent.