“You had me followed,” he said quietly.
“You gave me a reason,” I replied, holding his gaze without flinching.
He finished reading and placed both hands flat on the counter, leaning forward as if steadying himself against something he had not anticipated.
“So this is what you have been doing,” he said.
“Yes,” I answered.
“In my house,” he added, his tone sharpening.
“In my marriage,” I corrected.
He laughed once, but there was no humor in it, only disbelief that the narrative had shifted outside his control.
“You think you can tear apart everything I built,” he said, his voice rising slightly.
“You already did that,” I replied.
His reaction came fast and ugly, anger replacing composure as he knocked a stool aside and stepped closer.
“You were nothing when I found you,” he said, each word deliberate and cutting.
For a moment, the world narrowed to that sentence, echoing through everything I had once believed about myself and everything I had allowed him to redefine.
I steadied myself, refusing to let the weight of his words dictate my response.
“No,” I said evenly. “I was someone you needed to become quieter.”