Page 64 of Shattered Dreams

She storms toward the exit with the kind of dramatic flair that probably served her well in her influencer days, but now simply looks desperate and unhinged. The door closes behind her with more force than necessary, leaving me alone at the table with my coffee and the satisfaction that comes from a job well done.

I finish my drink at a leisurely pace, savouring both the rich flavour and the silence that follows her departure. My smile grows with each sip, and I can't help but appreciate the irony of the situation—sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone is show them exactly who they really are, even when that revelation destroys them completely.

Right now, Annie is drowning in the consequences of her choices, and I'm not throwing her a lifeline.

I’ll toss her a brick.

That night,I sit in my room, the door locked, my laptop open.

There’s a request in my inbox—from a podcast calledFemme & Fierce. They want to interview me.

Not about Roman.

Aboutme.

My heart skips.

It’s about rebuilding my confidence. About finding strength after betrayal.

And god, does that idea thrill me.

I haven’t responded yet.

23

ROMAN

Idon’t sleep. Again.

The house is too quiet and too loud at the same time. Every creak of the floorboards sounds like judgment. Every tick of the clock is like a countdown to something I can’t stop. I sit on the edge of the guest bed—my bed now, apparently—staring at the cracks in my knuckles, at the bruise forming across the bridge of my hand.

Adam didn’t fight back.

I wanted him to. God, I wanted him to hit me so I could justify breaking his face. But all he did was defend her and ask if she was okay. Like he was the good guy in all of this.

He probably was. But she’s fucking mine to defend.

I glance at the clock.6:12 AM.It’s still dark outside.

But I hear Ava somewhere downstairs, padding around the kitchen like this is any other day. Like we didn’t obliterate our marriage and burn everything in our wake.

I walk downstairs barefoot, the chill of the floor grounding me. The living room is scattered with forgotten toys and folded laundry. It looks so normal, but it’s not.

She’s standing at the counter pouring coffee into a pale pink mug, her robe cinched tight, her hair in a braid over her shoulder.

I used to make her that morning coffee she loves so much.

She doesn’t look at me or acknowledge me at all. She just takes her coffee and walks out of the kitchen like I don’t even exist.

And I don’t stop her.

Because what the fuck would I even say?

I make my own coffee and sit at the table, trying to swallow it past the stone lodged in my throat. My phone buzzes beside me, screen lighting up with a new notification from TMZ.

I click it.

Ava Muller breaks silence in an empowering podcast interview.