Page 50

A plan forms in my head, something simple, effective.
A way to make her reveal herself—without even realizing she’s doing it.
I grab my glass and drain the last sip of whiskey, already knowing exactly what I’m going to do.
Now, it’s just a matter of waiting.
10
SASHA
By the timeI make it home, I’m exhausted.
My whole body feels like it’s running on fumes, my feet ache from wearing heels all day, and my patience is hanging by a very thin thread.
I push open the door to my apartment, half-hoping that just this once, Melanie will acknowledge my existence.
No such luck.
She’s sprawled on the couch, headphones in, eyes locked on her phone like I don’t even exist. I drop my bag by the door with a heavy thud, but she doesn’t flinch.
Typical.
I head to the kitchen, barely managing to pull off my shoes before reaching for a glass, only to freeze mid-motion.
The sink is full.
Overflowing, actually—dirty plates stacked so high it’s a miracle they haven’t toppled over. The counter is a disaster zone, littered with crumbs, empty takeout containers, and a coffee mug with something that looks suspiciously like mold.
I stare at the mess, my jaw tightening.
She’s been home all day.
I know this because she works remotely, which is a fancy way of saying she watches reality TV in her pajamas and sends a few emails between episodes.
And yet—she couldn’t be bothered to clean up?
I take a slow, deep breath, clenching my fingers around the glass.
Fine. Whatever.
Maybe she just forgot.
Maybe she’ll clean it later.
I turn on the faucet, only for water to splash up violently, drenching the front of my blouse because—of course—someone shoved a fucking fork in the drain, blocking it.
And just like that, I snap.
“Hey, Melanie?”
She doesn’t react.
I rip off a paper towel, wiping myself down aggressively before trying again. Louder.
“Melanie!”
This time, she glances up, pulling out one earbud with the enthusiasm of someone being summoned to jury duty. “What?”