Laughter echoed faintly through the half-open bedroom door — a woman’s laugh, achingly familiar yet so wrong in that place.
I froze in the hallway, the grocery bag slipping from my hands as oranges rolled across the floor. My chest tightened. My heart pounded.
I pushed the door wider — and there they were.
My fiancé, Ethan, tangled in the sheets with my best friend, Chloe.
The smirk on Ethan’s face cut deeper than the betrayal itself. He didn’t rush to cover up or explain. Leaning back casually, sheets at his waist, he looked at me with a cruel little smile.
“What are you going to do, Lena?” he taunted. “Cry?”
For a long second, I couldn’t breathe. Chloe turned pale, guilt written all over her, but Ethan’s arrogance filled the room. He thought I was fragile—someone who would crumble, cry quietly, and disappear.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
I stood still, every emotion hardening into something sharp and deliberate.
“You’re right,” I said calmly. “Crying’s not my thing.”
