He’s living a fantasy. She’s living a nightmare.

——

Martin’s POV

The blood came off the floor easier than it should have.

It always does when it’s fresh.

I scrubbed harder anyway, like maybe I could wash away the guilt while I was at it. The rag soaked red. The tiles shone. The smell of bleach settled thick in the air, stinging my eyes but not as much as the memory of what I’d done.

This wasn’t the first time I’d had to clean up after myself. I grew up doing it. Watching my mother bleed on the bathroom tile, watching my father pour a drink like nothing happened.

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