“Great, you’re here already!” he said, like we were just bumping into each other in a mall. “Jasmine’s so excited to see you. She wants her usual milk tea from that café you love. Could you go get it for her?”
I blinked at him.
Did he not see my bandages?
Did he not care?
“No,” I said quietly.
“What?” His smile faded. “What do you mean no?”
“I don’t want to.”
His brow furrowed. “Are you disobeying me now? What’s this all about?”
“You’re disobeying me now?” he repeated.
Scott’s voice snapped at my ear like a whip. His eyes were wide with disbelief, the kind that made me want to laugh if I wasn’t so exhausted.
“No,” I said, my throat raw. “I’m just tired. I got hurt, Scott. Didn’t I call you?”
His expression flickered — the mask slipping back into place, the apologetic husband, the sweet savior he liked to play for everyone else’s benefit.
“Oh, baby, I thought you were joking,” he crooned, stepping forward, brushing a hand down my cheek as if that would wipe away the bruises I still felt on my ribs.
“Why didn’t you tell me again? Where are you hurt? We’ll find who did this to you, huh? They’ll pay. You should lie down. I’ll take care of you—”
A sharp scream cut through the corridor.