“Poor Camille,” he murmured, almost tender. “You never even saw it coming.”
I kept my breathing slow and deep. He leaned closer, and I smelled his cologne — the expensive one, the one his mistress had bought him, the one I’d known about since I found the receipt in his coat pocket three weeks earlier and felt absolutely nothing, because by then there was nothing left to feel.
Then he straightened, picked up his bags, and walked out of our bedroom for the last time.
I waited. I listened to the front door. I listened to his car start in the cold December dark, back out of the driveway, and pull away down the street.
Only then did I sit up.
I turned on the lamp. I sat on the edge of the bed in the sudden quiet, and I waited, because I knew exactly what was coming next. Men like Garrett can never just leave. They have to win out loud.
