Novels by Dorcas Williams

The suitcase handle cut into my palm.One bag. Thirteen years reduced to one fucking bag.My heels hit the marble. Each step echoed. Sharp. Final.No one moved to stop me.My hand closed around the doorknob."Mummy?"Every muscle in my body locked."Mummy, are you going away?"His footsteps. Running. Getting closer.Don't turn around. Don't look at him. Don't—"Mummy, please don't go!"His hands fisted in my dress.I closed my eyes. Breathed through my nose. Then dropped to one knee.Richie's face was red. Tears streaked down his cheeks. His bottom lip shook.He looked exactly like Desmond."Baby." My throat burned. "Mummy has to go.""Why?"Because they broke me. Because I'm nothing here. Because your father fucks other women in our bed."Because Mummy isn't valued here. No one wants Mummy here."His face twisted. Tears fell harder.Then something shifted in his eyes. Something cold. Something Desmond."Fine then." His voice went flat. "Go."The air left my lungs."I don't even want

I stood in the doorway.My brain knew what I was seeing. My eyes registered every detail with crystalline, horrible clarity. But my body—my body refused to accept it.He didn't stop.Desmond's eyes locked onto mine. His wife. Standing three feet away. And his hips kept moving. Kept driving into her. His fingers dug deeper into her flesh like he was making a point. Like he wanted me to see. Wanted me to understand exactly how little I meant.The room smelled like them. Like sweat and sex and her perfume—something expensive and floral that made my stomach heave.Thrust.I couldn't look away.Thrust.My hands went numb.Thrust.His face contorted, and he let out a sound I used to think was sacred. A groan that vibrated through the room, through my bones, through what was left of my heart.Only then did he pull away from her. Slowly. Taking his time.My knees buckled. I grabbed the doorframe so hard a splinter drove under my fingernail. I didn't feel it."What the hell are you doing here,

I checked my phone again—5:47 PM.The candles were already lit—thirteen of them, one for each year we'd been together. The hotel suite looked perfect. I'd spent three hours getting it right, draping fairy lights across the curtains, scattering rose petals on the bed, setting up his favorite wine. The food I'd cooked myself was staying warm in the containers I'd brought. Pasta carbonara. The first thing I'd ever made for him that didn't turn out like garbage.My hands were shaking as I smoothed down my red dress. The one he'd bought me on our fifth anniversary. Back when he still noticed what I wore.I texted him: I'm here. Can't wait to see you.Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.On my way. Be there by 6.I sat on the edge of the bed and waited. My heart was doing that stupid thing where it beat too fast, like I was some teenager waiting for her crush. God, I was pathetic. But today had to be different. Today was ours.Six o'clock came.Then six-thirty.I called. It ran