Blood trickled slowly from Daniel's lower lip, staining the white towel he pressed against it. His right eye was swollen, half-shut, turning a sickly shade of purple-blue. He stood in front of his bathroom mirror, shirtless, the bruises across his ribs already blooming like angry flowers.
He winced, gripping the edge of the sink.
"That bastard," he muttered, spitting blood into the basin.
Theo had come in like a storm—unannounced, furious, brutal. Daniel hadn't even seen the first punch coming. The second knocked him against the wall. The third nearly knocked him out.
But what hurt more than the bruises was why it happened.
"She told him," Daniel whispered to his reflection, eyes dark.
He slammed his fist into the mirror, cracking it down the middle. "She told him."
A sharp pain shot through his knuckles, but he welcomed it.
He thought she'd never confess. He thought she'd cling to him, just a little longer. He thought she'd sneak back, apologetic, aching, needing him like she always did.
But now, she was gone.
Back to her husband.
And Daniel was just a bleeding, broken man—left with nothing but shattered glass and memories of skin and sweat and things he could no longer have.
He walked back into the living room, poured himself a drink, and winced as the liquor stung his split lip.