SCARLETTThe bedroom door crashed open so hard the handle dented the wall.I jumped, book tumbling from my lap onto the silk sheets. Ethan staggered in, reeking of whiskey, cigarettes, and something sharper—desperation, maybe, or just the raw edge of a man who’d finally lost control. His tie hung crooked like a noose he’d tried to tighten and failed. Shirt half untucked, collar askew, hair mussed in a way I’d never seen before. The perfect mask he always wore was gone.He looked at me.I looked back.Neither of us spoke for a long second.Then he lurched toward the bed.I tensed.He dropped onto the mattress beside me, too close, breath hot and sour against my cheek.“Come here, wife,” he slurred, leaning in to kiss me.His mouth aimed for mine.I turned my face away so fast his lips grazed my jaw instead.“Don’t,” I said, sharp and cold. "Stop it, Ethan!"He froze.Then laughed—low, ugly, the sound scraping across my nerves like broken glass.“What’s wrong?” he murmured, fingers a
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