“I am going to spend the night with Brianna. Do not wait up for me.”
That text hit my phone at 7:08 PM while I was seasoning the cast-iron skillet and the smell of rosemary filled our kitchen in the suburbs of Phoenix. It was six words without a hint of remorse or a flimsy excuse to soften the blow.
Dorian always possessed that chilling composure, delivered with the calm of a man who believed he was untouchable by consequences. I gripped the counter for a second before typing my only response: “Thank you for the heads-up.”
I refused to give him the satisfaction of a breakdown or a screaming match. I simply turned off the burner, dragged three heavy-duty bins from the garage, and began clearing out his existence as if he were a squatter whose time had finally run out.
