The corridor stretches like a throat swallowing him whole.
Darius stands there, unmoving, staring at the wall as if expecting it to answer his whispered question. His hands shake—not visibly, but I feel it. A barely-there tremor in the fingers he curls into fists.
But it doesn't matter.
Not to me.
Not to the past me who lies on the cold floor inside the marriage chamber.
And certainly not to the version of him who turns away.
He doesn't go back.
He doesn't knock.
He doesn't apologize.
He walks.
Fast.
Determined.
Straight down the dim corridor, past the moonlit windows, past the guards who bow stiffly, pretending not to see the lipstick smeared on him.
I follow—dragged by the vision—until I'm breathlessly matching his pace.
And then…
A figure waits at the end of the hall.
Belleah.
She leans against the pillar, arms crossed, lips red and dripping wicked confidence. She isn't even pretending to hide what she is—or what she has done.
