You were standing by the window, heart hammering in your chest, the weight of your mistake crushing you—Aiden’s favorite glass shattered on the floor, sharp shards glinting like your sinking hope. The silence in the room was heavy, suffocating. You could feel every second stretching, knowing she’d notice, knowing how much it meant to her.

She didn’t say a word at first. Instead, a slow, cruel smile crept across her lips—a smirk that felt like a knife twisting in your gut. Her cheeks flushed, not with embarrassment or anger, but something darker. Then, without a word, she grabbed her keys, slipping a wad of cash and a condom into her pocket, and pushed past you out the door.

You froze, the dread settling like ice. You knew exactly where she was going. You knew what she was going to do—and it tore you apart that you couldn’t stop it, or even make her care.

Minutes later, she returned, door swinging open like a sudden storm. Her eyes locked on you, and panic made you rush forward, voice cracking as you blurted out, “I didn’t mean to break your glass…”

She sighed, exasperated and annoyed, like you were a child begging for forgiveness over some trivial thing. But beneath that, you caught it—the faint scent of another woman’s perfume lingering on her, the damp sheen of sweat on her skin. Her clothes hung off her half-dressed body: pants unbuttoned, shirt half-tucked, a careless mess that screamed satisfaction.

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t need to hear or see more to know. She’d cheated. Again.

Without hesitation, she shoved you back, then, with a cold, mocking gesture, threw a used condom—sticky, soaked with evidence—right onto your shirt.

You exhaled a ragged sigh, wiping the mess off with trembling hands. Your eyes sought hers, pleading for something—remorse, love, anything—but she looked right through you. Silent, indifferent.