The morning after

The photo sat on my phone screen like a grenade with the pin pulled.

In it, the dark glass behind us reflected Julian and me. My cheek was pressed against the cold wood while he held me against him.

How the hell did he get this? The message beneath it read.

Tell anyone and this goes to your mother. Let's talk soon, Tamara.

I didn't sleep.

Three-fifteen. Four-twenty. Five-oh-eight. The numbers kept changing while I stared at the ceiling.

Derek. My mum's face crumpling the second she saw the photo. Andrew finding out his own son had bent me over a conference table. Everything I'd been trying to hold together would explode.

But Julian... that thought hurt the most.

Would the photo change anything for him? Or had I been nothing more than a mistake he'd bury the moment things got messy?

I replayed every touch, every look, every word from that night, searching for something I'd missed.

When morning came, would he still be the man who held me? Or just my stepbrother again?

"Motherfucker," I whispered into the dark room, my fingers trembling as I looked at the picture again.

The sky outside my window shifted from grey to a gentle pink. Sleep never arrived. Every time I closed my eyes, everything kept replaying in my head. The heavy weight of his hands, the terrifying thrill of what we did, and that single, sickening text message waiting on my phone screen. I was exhausted, but my mind just wouldn't shut up.

I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to stop my thoughts from spiraling. What was wrong with me? Why was I still thinking about him while my whole life was falling apart?

At six-thirty, the deep roar of a familiar car engine rolled through the driveway. Usually, that sound made my heart race. Today, it only made my chest ache. I hurried over and peeked through the curtains, only to realize it was his secretary, Damien. Just as I expected, Julian was avoiding me.

He had no idea Derek was holding a photograph that could destroy us both.

I took a slow shower. Got dressed for work. Stood in front of the mirror for a long time.

My lips looked pale. My eyes looked tired. I barely recognized the woman staring back at me. "Tamara," I whispered to my reflection. "Get it together."

The glass-and-steel office tower rose into the morning sky. I walked through the revolving doors with a weight so heavy it felt like it was pressing against my ribs. The receptionist smiled and waved. I couldn't make myself smile back.

The click of my heels echoed through the hallway. Every step felt louder than the last.

Julian's office waited at the end. I wanted to see him. I needed to know if last night had meant something to him... or if he'd already buried it the moment the sun came up.

I was only a few steps from his door when I stopped.

A sound leaked through the heavy wood. It was a sound I would know anywhere—a low, breathless murmur.

"Yes... right there."

Then came another voice—deep, rough, and low. Julian. I knew that exact sound. It was the same sound he made hours ago in the conference room.

A small gasp left my lips. My hand moved towards the doorknob. I needed to see the truth before my brain would believe it. The door opened without a single sound.

She was right there on his desk.

Julian’s blonde secretary was pressed against the polished wood, tangled with him in a way that left zero room for doubt. Julian stood behind her, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his hands gripping her hips as he moved with a rough, relentless rhythm.

A sharp gasp left my lips. Julian’s eyes immediately snapped to the door. He looked straight at me.

He saw me standing there with my mouth open, my hands shaking. He looked at me with the same dark eyes that had stared into my soul last night while he held me.

But he didn’t stop. He kept his gaze locked on mine, moving with a cold, deliberate intensity that cut straight through my chest.

I turned and ran. I flew down the hallway, past the receptionist, and into the stairs because the elevator was too slow. My heels tripped on the steps, so I tore them off and left them behind. I kept running barefoot through the lobby and out into the parking lot. The hot asphalt burned the bottoms of my feet, but I didn't care about the pain.

As I drove home, Derek's old voice crept back into my mind. You think you're special, Tamara? You think any man wants you for more than a quick fuck? Look at yourself. Look how desperate you are.

Derek was right. I'd spent months trying to put myself back together. Then Julian came along and made me believe Derek had been wrong. He made me believe I mattered. That I was worth choosing.

When I got to my apartment, the canvas was still propped against my bedroom wall. It was one of my best pieces. A man emerging from the darkness. Half his face hidden in shadow, the other half reaching toward the light. I'd painted it in a frenzy after he left the night before, pouring everything I couldn't say into every brushstroke.

My fingers closed around the edge of the canvas. I tore. The rip split the room like a scream.

Wet oil paint smeared across my hands—red, yellow, deep purple. I tore it again. And again. His face disappeared beneath jagged strips of canvas.

I didn't stop until there was nothing left to destroy.

Thick paint dripped onto my bare legs and pooled on the floor. My hands shook so hard I couldn't even curl them into fists.

The room fell silent. Just me. The ruined painting. The photo on my phone. Julian's cold eyes meeting mine while another woman stood between us.

Tell anyone and this goes to your mother.

I stared at the paint streaked across my fingers. The ache in my chest didn't fade. It changed. It hardened into something hot. Something dangerous.

They both thought I was someone they could use and throw away whenever it suited them.

A sob caught in my throat, but I swallowed it. No. I was done crying.

I wiped my hands on my shorts, leaving dark streaks of paint across the fabric. Then I picked up my phone. My thumb hovered over the screen, trembling.

I opened Derek's chat. I typed one line.

Name the place. Let's talk.

I pressed send.