Chapter 4

Alyssa POV:

"I' ll walk you out," Brad said, his voice tight with an irritation he was trying to suppress. He followed me out of the lounge, closing the door on the cozy domestic scene inside.

Alone in the hallway, his pretense of patience evaporated. "What the hell was that, Alyssa?"

"What was what?" I asked, my voice as empty as I felt.

"Your attitude. You walk in here looking like you' re attending a funeral. You' re cold to Joshua, and you practically glare at Jaime. What is your problem?"

He stopped in front of me, his hands on his hips. He was no longer the concerned partner. He was the disappointed judge.

"I' m tired, Brad," I said, the excuse tasting flimsy and pathetic on my tongue. "It was a messy job. I probably... smell."

His eyes flickered over my worn jeans and faded t-shirt. A faint wrinkle of distaste appeared at the bridge of his nose. It was a micro-expression, one I would have missed before, one I would have misinterpreted as worry. Now, I saw it for what it was: disgust.

"Well, you need to learn to leave it at the door," he said, his tone clipped. "Go home. Take a long shower. Scrub yourself clean. We' ll see you tomorrow."

Scrub myself clean. The words hung in the air between us, heavy with unspoken meaning. For seven years, I thought his comments like these-his suggestions that I use a special soap, that I keep my work clothes in a separate hamper, that I wash my hands before touching Joshua-were born of a concern for hygiene.

Now I knew the truth. He wasn't worried about germs. He was embarrassed by me. He was ashamed of the work that was funding his sick, twisted game.

He saw the look on my face, the dawning horror, and his expression softened into a mask of regret. "I' m sorry," he said, reaching for me. "I didn' t mean it like that. I' m just worried about you. And you need to be fair to Jaime. She' s been a rock for us. You can' t just walk in and treat her like that."

He accused me of treating her poorly? The woman who was actively conspiring to ruin my life and steal my son? The injustice of it was so immense, it felt like a physical weight pressing down on me, crushing the last remnants of my will to fight.

Every doubt, every last shred of hope that this was all a terrible misunderstanding, was pulverized into dust.

My gaze fell to his wrist. It was bare.

"Where is it?" I asked, my voice a hoarse whisper.

He looked confused. "Where' s what?"

"The watch," I said, my eyes locked on his empty wrist. "The one I gave you for your birthday last month."

It had taken me six months of saving, secretly setting aside a few dollars here and there from my already stretched budget. It was a beautiful, classic timepiece, nothing too flashy, but elegant. It had cost me nearly three thousand dollars-a fortune for me. It was the most expensive gift I had ever given anyone. I wanted him to have something nice, something to show him how much I appreciated him.

A flicker of panic crossed his eyes. "Oh, that. It' s... it' s at the jeweler. Getting cleaned. You know how meticulous I am about my things."

The lie was so smooth, so practiced. But I knew the truth.

I had seen it earlier today. When I was leaving my last job, I had cut through a back alley to get to my truck. Next to the overflowing dumpsters of a high-end apartment building, I saw a familiar box. It was the watch box. And inside, nestled among coffee grounds and discarded food wrappers, was the watch I had saved for. The watch I had given him with a heart full of love.

He hadn' t taken it to be cleaned. He had thrown it in the trash.

He had thrown my sacrifice, my love, my pathetic attempt to give him a piece of luxury, into the garbage like it was nothing. Because to him, it was nothing. I was nothing.

He saw the deadness in my eyes and must have realized his lie wasn' t working. He sighed, a sound of pure exasperation.

"Look, Alyssa, I' m sorry," he said again, trying a different tactic. He stepped forward, trying to pull me into a hug. "I was going to tell you. It was a bit... much. You shouldn' t have spent that kind of money on me."

I placed my hands on his chest and gently, but firmly, pushed him away.

The shock on his face was absolute. In seven years, I had never once denied him physical affection. I was always the one reaching for him, desperate for a scrap of comfort.

He stared at me, his mouth slightly agape. For a moment, he looked genuinely lost.

"You' re just tired," he said again, more to himself than to me. It was the only explanation his mind could conjure for my behavior. The possibility that I knew the truth was so far outside his realm of thought that it didn' t even register. He had all the power. I was just the poor, simple cleaner.

"Go home, Alyssa," he said, his voice regaining its authority. "Get some rest."

He turned and walked back toward the lounge, confident that his little problem had been managed. Confident that tomorrow, I would be back, apologetic and compliant.

He was wrong. There would be no tomorrow for us.

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