Page 25 of A Sinful Gravity

Not a sharp headache—more like something deep behind my temples, swelling outward, slow and relentless. Like someone pressing a fist against my skull, applying steady pressure.

The light was yellow, harsh, nauseating. I stared at the hotel suite's ceiling for a long time. The dark edges made the room feel like a coffin. My suit was still on, tie hanging loose like a dead snake.

How did I get back here?

Fragments. Alcohol. Sloane's laugh. Me slumped on a couch, tongue tangled, saying something...

Luna!

I shot upright, heart seized by an icy fist. Her birthday! Last night was her birthday!

Fuck.

I threw off the covers to get up, but froze mid-motion. A dark red mark on my collarbone, suggestive, glaring, like a silent accusation.

Sloane. I knew it was her. But when had she...

A wave of nausea hit me. Not disgust at Sloane—disgust at myself. I'd allowed this to happen. No, I'd created the conditions for it to happen.

I rushed to the bathroom, scrubbing my face with cold water until my skin burned. The man in the mirror looked wrecked, defeated. That mark on his neck seared my eyes like a brand.

Oliver brought me up. I tried to remember. Right, Oliver. I was sure of it. That was probably the only thing giving me any relief right now.

Then the words I'd said last night stabbed into my brain like ice picks, one after another.

"Her submissive act makes me sick."

"She's boring as hell in bed, like a dead fish."

"Want to escape this house."

Did I really say that? On Luna's birthday, I said that?

I practically lunged for my phone. Eight missed calls, all from Luna. The last one at ten p.m.

After that, my phone went dead silent.

No messages. No confrontation. Nothing.

Relief washed over me. I told myself it was good she hadn't come, good she hadn't heard. She was still that Luna—as long as I went home and bought her favorite necklace, or said a few soft words, her eyes would redden and she'd forgive me. She always did.

The car stoppedat the house. Those white flowers in the yard swayed gently in the morning breeze, like countless hands waving goodbye. I took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

What greeted me wasn't the cold war I'd expected, but an emptiness that felt gutted.

The cashmere throw she always used on the couch—gone. Her perfume on the coffee table, her magazines, that ugly cup she'd insisted on buying from the antique shop—all gone. The air still held traces of her woody fragrance, faint but almost mocking as it drifted into my nose.

A document lay quietly on the coffee table. On top of it was the sapphire ring I'd given her, sitting alone, weighing down a few sheets of paper. It glinted coldly in the morning light.

I walked over, each step like walking on cotton. Then I picked up those papers.

"Divorce Agreement."

My brain exploded into white noise. My legs moved before my mind could catch up. I rushed into the master bedroom, into the walk-in closet. Half her wardrobe was empty. That old suitcase she'd brought from her family home—gone.

Was she serious?

How dare she?!