Sabrina Monroe entered the condo with glossy shopping bags from New York boutiques. She had makeup done like she had stepped off a magazine cover. She dropped her coat on a chair and scrolled through her phone without greeting her daughters. Tara whined, reaching for her mother’s leg, but Sabrina shook her off gently with the detached ease of someone brushing away a pet.
At dinner, Braylen noticed the glowing screen of Sabrina’s phone on the counter. A text popped up. The name read Pierre followed by a red heart emoji.
His stomach knotted.
He swallowed hard. “Long trip,” he said without looking up.
“It was necessary,” Sabrina replied, twirling pasta around her fork. “Expanding our international network. Contacts do not build themselves.”
Later that night, Braylen gathered the courage to ask. She admitted everything. She did not cry. She did not stumble. She said she had fallen in love with someone else. She announced she wanted out. She said she would be relocating to New York. She suggested Braylen should keep the twins because, in her words, “They already have someone to look after them.”