Julian's POV
I didn't slam the door.
I wanted to. God, I wanted to rip it off its hinges.
But I didn't.
Because that would've meant I still had control of myself.
I walked out like a man on autopilot. Down the hall. Past the framed photos I hadn't looked at in weeks. Past the table she used to sit at when she couldn't sleep. I made it to the guest room—the one I never used—before the rage hit me.
Not loud. Not wild.
Quiet. Slow. It crawled up my chest and sat there, like a weight I couldn't breathe around.
She slept with him.
Callum.
The one she swore was just a childhood friend.
The one I trusted enough to let into my home.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, and stared at the floor like it had answers.
She said it was a mistake.
But it didn't feel like one when I walked in.
It felt like something that meant something.
And what did that make me?
The safe choice? The backup plan?
