Page 122 of A Sinful Gravity

Would Laila wake up and miss me? Would she ask her mother where Cassian had gone?

I pushed the car door open and walked to the front door. My hand touched the handle. Didn't turn it. The door was unlocked. I could hear faint sounds inside—Luna's footsteps, pacing in the living room.

What was she doing? Packing? Getting ready to leave?

I pulled my hand back.

Turned around. Got in the car. Drove away.

In the rearview mirror, that light grew smaller and smaller until it became a dot and disappeared into the night.

I went back to my old apartment. The place I hadn't been to in over a month. Usually, when I was hurting, I'd go there and drink myself numb, bottle by bottle.

When I pushed the door open, the air was cold. Cold as a morgue, made me shiver.

I walked straight into the living room and threw my keys on the coffee table. The sound was loud. The glasses on the table rattled.

Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust. The curtains were drawn. The room was so dark, only a sliver of streetlight squeezed through the curtain gap, falling on the floor in long shadows.

I didn't turn on the lights. Just kept walking. My shoes made dull thuds on the floor.

My phone rang, shrill and insistent. Again and again. I pulled it out numbly and saw Chloe's name. I hung up. Then turned it off.

I yanked the curtains open and went to the liquor cabinet. Grabbed a bottle of whiskey, twisted off the cap, and drank straight from it.

For over a month, I'd been someone else.

Braiding hair. Making breakfast. Sitting on the floor playing pretend.

I thought I'd changed. I thought those changes were good enough to make her stay.

But I was wrong.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Washington's nightscape glittered with dizzying brilliance. Streaming headlights converged into cold rivers, weaving through neon lights, but none of it reached this silent penthouse apartment.

I slumped onto the cold floor, back against the couch. The expensive suede fabric pressed against my spine but gave no warmth.

The whiskey in my hand was nearly gone in minutes. My fingernails scraped against the glass bottle, making a harsh squeaking sound that tore at what little sanity I had left. The burn traveled down my throat. My stomach lurched, but I didn't throw up.

Liars. All of them.

My head was still clear. I started replaying everything.

I remembered clearly that when Luna said she was leaving, her voice shook, but her tone was certain.

She'd lied to me. From the very beginning. From the first day, she'd been planning to leave.

Looking back now, I should've noticed. Like when I talked about taking her and Laila on vacation, or when I'd plan our future, she never actually committed. Never said yes.

But I'd been a clown, drowning in my fantasy of happiness, never thinking deeper.

She never planned to stay. Never planned to tell me Laila was my daughter.

The bottle was empty. I hurled it at the floor.

The sound of shattering glass echoed through the empty room. Shards scattered. One piece bounced up and sliced my ankle, a thin cut. Blood seeped out, warm, running down. I didn't feel it.

This whole month, I'd practically ripped my heart out and handed it to her. I thought she'd at least look at it.