Chapter 12: The turning point

The dim glow of the lounge bathed the room in amber light, and the slow jazz spilling from the speakers wrapped around Sandra like a bittersweet memory. She sat alone in the corner, swirling her margarita in lazy circles. The ice clinked against the glass, but her mind was far from the music, far from the laughter of strangers around her.

Her eyes were fixed on the drink, but her thoughts were a storm—questions crashing against each other, none with answers she could bear to face. Where did I go wrong? When did my home become a battlefield? How long has he been living this double life?

She reached for her phone, thumb hovering over her best friend’s name. She could almost hear the comforting voice on the other end, the familiar laughter that used to dissolve her troubles. But just as she was about to press "call," something in her chest tightened. No. Not tonight. Some things were too raw to speak aloud.

The clock on her phone read 11:07 p.m. Time had slipped through her fingers like water. She sighed, picked up her purse, and made her way to the door, the heavy bass of the lounge fading into the night behind her.

When she stepped into the house, the air felt heavier. The faint scent of Micheal’s cologne was still hanging in the room, and there he was—sitting rigidly on the couch, his expression unreadable.