I drove home with the windows down, the March air cutting across my face, and one thought pressing hard inside my chest: I was not going to humiliate myself again over a man who confused love with permission. The moment I got back, I called an emergency locksmith. He changed the locks, reprogrammed the digital entry, and charged me an outrageous amount. I paid it without hesitation. It was still cheaper than sharing a home with betrayal.
The calls began before midnight.
Okay, what did you do?
Answer me. This isn’t funny.
Where’s my stuff?
At 1:14 a.m., he started pounding on the front door. I watched him through the doorbell camera. There he was, still wearing the same navy shirt from last Sunday, stumbling across my porch and acting furious, as if he were the one who had been wronged.
I sent him one final text:
You said you were sleeping with Lara. I just helped with the move.
After that, nothing.
I thought he had finally gone somewhere else to sort out his mess. I thought the night had reached its limit.
I was wrong.
At three in the morning, my phone lit up the bedroom like flashing police lights. The number was unknown. I answered with a heavy chest, expecting Emiliano—either begging or threatening. But it wasn’t him.
