The evening air was cool and crisp as I drove back. My apartment felt small and empty without Apollo, and the silence had started to grate. I missed the familiar rhythm of home, even with the recent discord. As I pulled into the driveway, the soft glow from the living room windows beckoned, a silent promise of normalcy.

Stepping inside, the aroma of a delicate stew, free of any suspicious ingredients, filled the air. Glenda was on the back patio, watering the orchids Brett loved. She glanced up as I entered, her eyes meeting mine for a brief, almost imperceptible moment. No greeting, no smile. Just a cool, neutral acknowledgment. I offered none in return, heading straight for Brett's study.

He was sitting at his large mahogany desk, surrounded by architectural drafts and financial projections for our next major firm expansion. He looked up, his face breaking into a wide, hopeful smile the moment he saw me. "Alex! You came!" He pushed himself up, his crutches clattering slightly.

"Of course," I said, a faint smile touching my lips. "You said you wanted to talk about the future."

"And I do!" He motioned to the stacks of papers. "Come, look at these. New clients, new cities. We could be expanding into Europe, Alex. Imagine that. Parker-Hardy Designs, dominating the globe." He beamed, his enthusiasm infectious, pulling me back into our shared dream.

I sat beside him, flipping through the impressive proposals. As I read, a part of me softened. This was the Brett I fell in love with – the visionary, the dreamer. We were a formidable team.

"About Glenda," he began, his voice dropping, almost conspiratorial. "You know, she has a pretty tough backstory. Single mom, escaped a difficult situation." He looked at me with those earnest, vulnerable eyes that always disarmed me. "She's just a little rough around the edges, not used to... our kind of life."

My gaze sharpened. "Are you trying to make excuses for her, Brett?"

He immediately backtracked, his hand reaching for mine. "No, no, baby, absolutely not! I swear. I told her off. Seriously. She cried, Alex. Said she didn't mean to offend. I told her you're the boss, my partner, and my fiancée. She knows her place now. And I showed her the allergy list. I made her repeat it back to me. No nuts, ever. Promise." He squeezed my hand, his thumb stroking my knuckles. "I promise, Alex. Everything will be different now."

His touch, his words, the genuine anxiety in his eyes chipped away at my resolve. He looked so vulnerable, so remorseful. He was trying. And I was pregnant. I needed stability. I needed him.

"Alright," I said, my voice softer than I intended. "Just... make sure it is."

A soft, polite knock sounded at the study door. "Dinner is served," Glenda's voice called out, perfectly modulated, perfectly respectful.

Brett winked at me. "See? Progress."

When we entered the dining room, the table was impeccably set. My plate was in its rightful place. Glenda stood by the kitchen entrance, not at the table, her hands clasped in front of her. She waited until Brett and I were seated before saying, "Tonight we have slow-cooked lamb stew with root vegetables, and a side of steamed green beans. No nuts whatsoever, Ms. Hardy. I double-checked everything." Her gaze was direct, almost challenging, but her tone was deferential.

I nodded, a silent acknowledgment. Brett smiled, pleased. "See, Alex? I told you."

The meal was quiet. Not entirely comfortable, a lingering tension in the air, but peaceful enough. Glenda served us, then retreated to the breakfast nook. I could hear the faint clink of her cutlery from there. It was progress, I supposed. A fragile truce.

After dinner, Brett settled in the living room to watch a documentary, his leg propped up. I decided to retreat to my study to catch up on a few more emails. The new proposals still sat on my desk, waiting for review. I felt a sense of calm returning, a quiet hope that things might actually be alright.

I flipped open my laptop, but the warmth of the house, the satisfying meal, and the lingering fatigue from Chicago began to weigh on me. My eyelids grew heavy. I leaned back in my ergonomic chair, closing my eyes, just for a moment.

A soft thud, a metallic clang, jolted me awake. It came from my bedside table. My eyes snapped open. I was definitely in my study, not my bedroom. The sound had been distinct, out of place. My heart hammered against my ribs.

I slowly sat up, my gaze fixed on the corner of the room where my personal documents, my laptop, and a stack of sensitive client blueprints lay. My breath caught.

A small figure, no more than waist-high, was crouched by my desk, his back to me. He was rummaging through my portfolio, his small hands rifling through the delicate, confidential blueprints. One of my expensive fountain pens lay on the floor, its cap off, a dark stain of ink spreading across a pristine design sketch.

"Hey!" I yelled, my voice sharp, adrenaline flooding my system. "What do you think you're doing?"

The child startled, dropping a sheaf of papers. He spun around, his face smudged with ink, a half-eaten cookie clutched in his hand. His eyes, wide and defiant, were Glenda's eyes.

He couldn't have been more than nine or ten. He wore a brightly colored T-shirt and shorts, completely out of place in my formal study.

"Who are you?" I demanded, pushing myself out of the chair, my voice rising in volume. "And what are you doing with my things?"

He didn't answer, just stared at me for a second, then stuffed the rest of the cookie into his mouth.

"Glenda! Brett!" I shouted, my voice raw with a mixture of disbelief and fury. This was too much. This was completely unacceptable.

The child, instead of being scared, dropped to the floor and began to wail, a theatrical, ear-splitting scream. He kicked his legs, pounding his fists on the carpet, throwing a full-blown tantrum.

I stared at him, aghast. I had dealt with difficult clients, demanding partners, but never a nine-year-old child throwing a fit in my private study, surrounded by my ruined work.

Just then, Glenda rushed in, her face a mask of concern. "Leo! What's wrong, baby?" She swept him into her arms, pressing his face to her chest, glaring at me over his head. Her eyes were hard, accusing. "What did you do to my son?"

My jaw dropped. "Your son?" I stammered, pointing a trembling finger at the ruined blueprints. "He was in my study! Touching my things! Look at this mess!"

Glenda hugged the crying child tighter. "He's just a boy, Ms. Hardy. He didn't mean any harm." She looked at me with a fierce, protective glare. "What are you shouting at him for?"

"Why is he here?!" I demanded, completely bypassing her question. "I was told no children! This is a professional environment, and a private home! Who gave you permission to bring your child here?"

She softened her voice, her eyes darting around the room, then back to me. "Mr. Parker said it was fine. My babysitter canceled, and I had nowhere else to take him. He just wanted to see his mommy."

"Brett!" I roared, my patience gone. I stormed out of the study, Glenda hovering defensively over her still-sobbing son. I found Brett engrossed in his documentary, headphones on, blissfully unaware of the chaos.

I ripped the headphones from his ears. "Brett Parker, what have you done?!"

He stared up at me, bewildered. "Alex? What the hell?"

"Get up!" I hissed, grabbing his arm and pulling him. His crutches clattered as he struggled to keep up. "Get up and see what your 'generosity' has wrought!"

I dragged him, hobbling, back to my study. Glenda was still cradling Leo, who was now just whimpering, peering at us from behind his mother's arm, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Did you or did you not give Glenda permission to bring her child into our home?" I demanded, my voice shaking with barely suppressed rage.

Brett's face went from confusion to a sheepish defensiveness. "Well, yes, I did. She said she was in a bind, Alex. And he seemed like a sweet kid. I didn't think he'd be... that much trouble."

"Sweet kid?" I pushed him toward my desk, making him look down at the carnage.

My laptop screen was cracked, a spiderweb of broken pixels. Client blueprints, delicate and irreplaceable, were torn, smudged with ink and cookie crumbs, scribbled over with crayon. My expensive pens were scattered, some broken. My collection of rare, vintage stationery, ruined. My custom-made, hand-tooled leather portfolio, scored with deep scratches.

A faint, sweet, cloying smell hung in the air. I looked at my vanity table, its pristine surface now a chaotic mess. My favorite perfume, the one Brett gave me for our anniversary, lay shattered on the floor, its precious liquid soaking into the rug, mixing with spilled eyeshadow and foundation. Shards of glass glinted under the soft lamplight.

Brett stared, his face paling, the color draining from it. His eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing uselessly. He looked from the shattered perfume to the ruined blueprints, then to Glenda, who was now staring at him with wide, innocent eyes, her son tucked behind her.

"What... what happened?" Brett whispered, his voice barely audible. He looked at me, a flicker of fear in his eyes.

I didn't answer. I just pointed at the devastation, then at Glenda and her son. "This," I said, my voice cold and hard, stripped of all emotion, "is your 'sweet kid.' And you, Brett, are going to explain exactly how you're going to fix this. Every single piece."

Glenda stepped forward, her voice a reedy whisper. "Oh, no! Leo, what have you done?" Her words were gentle, theatrical, completely belied by the hard glint in her eyes when she looked at me. "He's just a child, Ms. Hardy. He doesn't know any better. He must have just been playing."

"Playing?" I stared at her, my blood running cold. "Glenda, this is thousands of dollars worth of damage. These are irreplaceable client documents! How do you propose to 'play' your way out of this?"

Her chin lifted, a flicker of pride in her eyes. "I will pay for it. Whatever it costs. I take responsibility for my son." She said it with an air of noble sacrifice, as if she were doing me a favor.

I let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "Pay for it? Do you know how much a custom-built architectural laptop costs? Or high-end design software? Or the value of these client blueprints, which represent months of work?" I pulled out my phone, opened a calculator app, and began tapping furiously. I listed every item, every cost, every hour lost trying to reconstruct the data. The numbers climbed, dizzying and astronomical.

I turned the phone screen to her. "$27,450. And that doesn't even begin to cover the intangible losses."

Glenda's eyes widened, her bravado faltering. The color drained from her face. "$27,000? That's ridiculous! You're trying to con me! I don't have that kind of money!" Her voice rose, shrill and accusatory. "You're trying to take advantage of a single mother!"

"Am I?" My voice remained chillingly calm. I looked at Brett, who was still staring at the damaged goods, his face a mixture of shock and discomfort. "Brett, darling, perhaps you can enlighten Glenda. Are these prices accurate for our firm's equipment? For my equipment?"

Brett cleared his throat, avoiding my gaze. "Well, Glenda, Alex does use top-of-the-line gear. The laptop alone is... significant. And those blueprints are indeed very important." He wouldn't look at me. He couldn't.

Glenda's eyes welled with tears, her voice quivering. "I... I can't pay that. I just can't. I'm a single mother, Mr. Parker. I work hard, but I barely make enough to feed my son." She looked at Brett, her lower lip trembling. It was a practiced, perfect performance.

Suddenly, Leo, who had been hiding behind Glenda, darted out. His small fist balled up, and he swung it, connecting with my thigh. A sharp, stinging pain.

"You're a mean lady!" he screamed, his face contorted in a childish rage. "Don't you hurt my mom!"

My instinct was purely defensive. I recoiled, my hand swatting out to push his arm away. It wasn't a hard push, just a reflex. But Leo, seeing his chance, crumpled to the floor, wailing even louder than before.

"She hit me! Mommy, she hit me!"

Brett exploded. "Alex! What the hell?!" He hobbled forward, abandoning his crutches in his haste, nearly falling. He scooped Leo into his arms, cradling the sobbing child. "You hit a child? My God, Alex, what is wrong with you? What kind of monster attacks a nine-year-old?" His eyes, usually warm and affectionate, were now blazing with a furious contempt I' d never seen directed at me.

"He hit me first, Brett!" I shouted, my voice cracking. "He hit me! Right here!" I pointed to my thigh, where a red mark was already blooming. "And he's not just 'a child' when he's ruining thousands of dollars worth of property! He's old enough to know right from wrong!"

"He's nine!" Brett snarled, pulling Leo closer. "How dare you lay a hand on him? Can't you see he's upset? Glenda, are you alright?" He looked at Glenda, his concern for her palpable.

Glenda sniffled, her head bowed. "I... I'm fine, Mr. Parker. It's just... I tried to tell her I'd pay. She just kept screaming at us." My blood ran cold at her blatant lie.

"Screaming?" I repeated, incredulous. "I was calm! I was asking for accountability! And I asked you how you intended to pay for nearly thirty thousand dollars in damages!"

"That's enough, Alex!" Brett's voice boomed, cutting me off. He glared at me, his eyes hard. "I'll pay for it. Every last penny. Glenda, don't worry about a thing. I'll take care of it." He looked at Glenda, his expression softening, then turned back to me, the anger returning to his face. "This is my fault. I brought them here. I'll handle it."

I stood there, frozen. Brett. My fiancé. The man I was building a life with. He was looking at me like I was a stranger, an enemy. He held Glenda's child in his arms, his hand resting on Glenda's back. They looked like a family. And I was the intruder.

The world tilted. The air left my lungs. A sharp, searing pain shot through my chest, as if a fist had clenched around my heart and squeezed. I felt lightheaded, my vision blurring at the edges.

"Brett," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Brett Parker."

My chest constricted violently. A wave of nausea washed over me. The figures in front of me-Brett, Glenda, Leo-swirled, their faces melting into grotesque caricatures. My knees buckled. A sharp, hot pain lanced through my lower abdomen.

Then, darkness.

I woke to the sterile smell of disinfectant and the dull beep of a heart monitor. The room was white, impersonal. A hospital. I blinked, trying to clear the fog from my brain. A drip was attached to my arm.

Brett was sitting beside my bed, his face pale and drawn, his usual confident demeanor replaced by an anxious, worried frown. He reached for my hand, but I flinched away, turning my face to the wall.

"Alex," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Thank God you're awake."

I didn't respond. The anger, the pain, the profound sense of betrayal, hadn't dissipated. It had simply solidified into a cold, heavy stone in my gut.

"Alex, honey," he said again, his voice softer, more hesitant. He moved closer, settling back into the chair. "I... I have something to tell you." He took a deep breath. "The doctors said... you're pregnant. We're having a baby, Alex." His voice cracked, a fragile mix of joy and fear. "I'm going to be a father."

My breath hitched. Pregnant? A baby? My hand instinctively went to my lower stomach, a wave of shock, confusion, and a strange, unwelcome tenderness washing over me. A baby. Our baby. It was real. Too real.

The news hit me with the force of a physical blow, threatening to overwhelm the anger. A baby. A tiny, innocent life, dependent on me, on us.

Brett, misinterpreting my silence, plunged on. "Glenda feels terrible, Alex. Truly. She understands she messed up. She even signed this." He pulled a crumpled slip of paper from his pocket, a handwritten IOU for the full $27,450. "She said she'd pay it back, little by little."

I didn't need to see the paper. I knew Glenda. I knew Brett. "And you, of course, told her not to worry. That you'd cover it, because that' s the kind of 'good man' you are, isn't it, Brett?" My voice was flat, devoid of warmth.

He winced. "Alex, come on. Don't be like that. She's a single mother, Alex. She didn't mean any harm." He lowered his voice, almost pleading. "Please, honey. We're having a baby. We need to be a family. I promise, Glenda understands now. I've laid down the rules. No more kids in the house. She'll stick to her duties, keep her distance. She knows her place. You have my word."

He reached for my hand again, this time gently taking it, his thumb stroking my knuckles in a familiar, comforting gesture. "I know I messed up, Alex. I was distracted, my leg hurt. I wasn't thinking clearly. But this baby... this is our future. Our marriage. Please, don't let this ruin us. I need you. Our baby needs you. Our firm needs you. Glenda... she saved my life when I was alone, when you were away. I owe her. But you are my life, Alex."

He leaned in, his eyes searching mine, full of genuine anguish and desperate hope. "I promise, I'll make it right. Every single thing. I'll buy you new everything. Better than before. Just... please. Come home."

The thought of the baby, our baby, swirling in my turbulent mind. A tiny life depending on me, on us. I closed my eyes, trying to block out the image of Glenda's hand on Brett's back, Leo's triumphant smirk. But the image wasn't fading. It was a brand on my soul.

I thought of the shattered perfume, the ruined blueprints. The brazen lies. The contempt in Brett's eyes when he'd accused me of hitting a child. But then, I thought of the tiny flutter in my womb, the fragile beginning of a new life. Could I deny this baby a family? Could I walk away from everything we had built, everything we were about to build?

I opened my eyes and looked at Brett. His face was etched with raw worry, but beneath it, I saw a glimmer of hope. He truly believed he could fix this. He truly believed I would fix this. For our baby. For him.

"This time," I said, my voice barely a whisper, "this time, Brett, we'll let it go."

A wave of relief washed over his face. He squeezed my hand, tears welling in his eyes. "Thank you, Alex. Thank you. You won't regret this, I promise."

Two days later, I was discharged. Glenda was still there. She knocked on my bedroom door, offering a steaming bowl of chicken soup. Her eyes were downcast, her voice soft. "Ms. Hardy, I am truly sorry for everything. I understand my place now. And I will ensure total respect for your household and your privacy."

I looked at her, then down at my still-flat stomach. The baby. For the baby. I nodded, a silent command for her to leave the soup and go. She did. The truce was fragile, but for now, it was enough.

After a few days of hospital-mandated rest, I immersed myself back into work. Pregnancy was a delicate dance I had to learn, balancing morning sickness and fatigue with client demands. Brett' s leg was slowly healing, the cast replaced by a walking boot. He was still dependent, still spent his days mostly at home, but he was regaining some mobility.

The incident with Leo, Glenda, and the ruined study seemed to have created a temporary détente. Glenda was almost aggressively compliant. She knocked. She kept Leo out of sight, supposedly at a friend's house or after-school care. She cooked meals meticulously free of nuts, checking the laminated allergy card with exaggerated care.

Brett, for his part, was a picture of a doting fiancé. He doted on me, brought me flowers, talked endlessly about the baby, and poured over wedding magazines with an enthusiasm that almost seemed genuine. We spent evenings planning our future, discussing nursery designs, and even debating baby names. It felt like we were repairing the damage, brick by brick.

The final piece of our wedding preparations, our custom-designed invitations and wedding favors, arrived a few days later. They were perfect. Elegant, subtle, reflecting our firm's aesthetic. I had put so much thought into every detail, every embossed line, every silken ribbon. Holding them, I felt a surge of genuine joy and anticipation. This was it. Our new beginning.

I decided to surprise Brett. He was so excited about these. I pictured his face, his genuine delight. My heart, still bruised, fluttered with a tentative hope. Maybe we could still make this work. For us. For the baby.

I drove home early, the box of invitations carefully placed on the passenger seat. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the tree-lined street. As I approached the house, a wave of warmth spread through me. Home.

I opened the front door, the delicate scent of fresh ginger and chicken broth wafting from the living room. Glenda was definitely cooking something comforting. I smiled, imagining Brett relaxed on the sofa, maybe watching a game.

I tiptoed to the living room entrance, eager to surprise him. My smile, already wide, faltered, then died a swift, agonizing death. My heart clenched, a physical spasm of pain.

Brett wasn't on the sofa. He was on the floor, leaning back against the plush cushions, his injured leg propped up on a footrest. Glenda sat beside him, on the floor, a bowl of soup in her hand. She was spoon-feeding him.

He swallowed a mouthful, then looked at her, his eyes warm, intimate. Glenda giggled, a soft, seductive sound, and playfully tapped his chest with the back of the spoon. Not a hard tap, a light, familiar caress. Brett chuckled, leaning his head back, his eyes closing in utter contentment. It was a scene of domestic bliss. A scene I should have been a part of. A scene I was supposed to be a part of.

They looked like lovers. A couple. Two people completely at ease, completely absorbed in each other, an invisible bubble of intimacy surrounding them.

The box of wedding invitations crumpled in my hands. The heavy cardstock bent, the delicate ribbons tore. My vision blurred. The world around me dimmed, the vibrant colors of our living room fading to a dull gray. The air was sucked from my lungs.

My face, which had been beaming with happy anticipation just moments ago, felt frozen, a grotesque mask of betrayal. The carefully constructed hope, the fragile truce, shattered into a million pieces.

Brett opened his eyes, sensing a shift in the air. His gaze met mine. His smile vanished. Glenda, too, looked up, her spoon clattering into the bowl. Her face, previously soft and warm, hardened into a familiar mask of composure.

"Alex?" Brett stammered, his face paling, a flush rising on his neck. "What are you doing home so early?" His voice was laced with guilt, his eyes darting from me to Glenda.

I looked at him, then at Glenda. The scene replayed in my mind: the spoon-feeding, the giggle, the intimate tap, Brett's contented sigh. They weren't just playing house. They were playing our life.

My voice, when it came, was a whisper, cold and flat. "I seem to have interrupted something." I walked to the nearest waste bin, the one usually reserved for junk mail. My hands, still trembling, slowly, deliberately, crushed the box of wedding invitations, crushing our future, crushing my hope, into a mangled ball of paper and silk. I dropped it into the bin. It landed with a soft, mournful thud.

Brett stared at the crumpled box, his eyes wide. "Alex, what are you doing? Why did you ruin the invitations?" He tried to sound angry, but his voice was thin, desperate.

"There's no need for them now, Brett," I said, my gaze sweeping over him, then Glenda. "No need for a wedding. No need for a future. It seems you've already found your new domestic partner."

"Alex, that's not fair!" Brett struggled to stand. "Glenda was just helping me with my soup! She's been so kind, so attentive because you're always busy, always working!"

Glenda, ever the actress, chimed in, "Ms. Hardy, I would never! I respect you and Mr. Parker. I was simply following his instructions to help him eat, as his leg is still recovering." Her voice was smooth, innocent, but her eyes held a defiant gleam.

"Don't insult my intelligence," I said, my voice rising, losing its composure. The words tasted like ash. "I know what I saw. And I know what this looks like. You two are a little too comfortable, aren't you?"

"That's enough, Alex!" Brett bellowed, finally standing, leaning heavily on Glenda. "You come in here, make accusations, throw away our invitations! What is wrong with you? Why are you always so dramatic?"

"Dramatic?" I laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. "You want to talk about drama, Brett? Let's talk about the drama of a fiancée betraying me in my own home, with the hired help, while I'm pregnant with your child!"

He flinched, his face paling again. Glenda' s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something dark in their depths.

"Glenda," I said, my voice dangerously low, my eyes fixed on the spoon still clutched in her hand. "Do you enjoy feeding my fiancé? Do you enjoy being his 'attentive' little helper?"

Before she could answer, a piercing, desperate shriek cut through the air. It wasn't human. It was Apollo. A guttural, terrified cry.

My head snapped towards the sound. It came from the back patio, near the shed. My heart leaped into my throat. Apollo. I hadn't seen him since I'd come home.

I pushed past Brett and Glenda, ignoring their startled gasps, and rushed to the patio door. It was slightly ajar. I flung it open.

There, in a small, rusty dog crate, usually used for transporting small animals, was Apollo. He was curled into a tight ball, trembling violently. His once sleek ginger fur was matted and dull. His usually vibrant green eyes were wide with terror, rimmed with dark circles. His water bowl was bone dry, his food dish empty and covered in dust.

And then I saw it. A dark, ugly bruise blooming beneath his left eye. A fresh, angry red scratch marred his nose.

No. This wasn't possible. Apollo was the sweetest, gentlest cat. My beloved companion, our shared pet. He never made a sound like that, never looked so terrified.

"Apollo!" I cried, my voice choked with horror and fury. I fumbled with the latch, my fingers clumsy with shock. It was stiff, as if it hadn't been opened in days.

Finally, it clicked open. Apollo scrambled out, not toward me, but away, trying to hide behind a planter, his whole body shaking.

Brett had hobbled out onto the patio, Glenda right behind him, a smug, unreadable expression on her face.

"What is this, Brett?!" I screamed, my voice raw with anguish. "What have you done to Apollo?" I finally managed to coax my terrified cat into my arms. He was lighter than I remembered, his small body rigid with fear. He felt like a bundle of bones.

"Oh, the cat," Brett said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. "He's been a little... aggressive lately, Alex. Scratching at Glenda, trying to get into Leo's room. We had to put him in time-out. Glenda said it was 'animal training.' He's fine, Alex. Just being a cat."

"Aggressive?" I choked, clutching Apollo to my chest. He pressed himself against me, digging his claws into my shirt, his purr a low, raspy rumble of fear. "Apollo has never been aggressive! And what is this?" I pointed to the bruise, the scratch. "Did you hit him, Brett? Did you hit my cat?"

Glenda stepped forward, her voice surprisingly sweet. "Oh, Ms. Hardy, he's just being dramatic. He was very naughty. And pregnant women shouldn't be around cats, you know. Toxoplasmosis. We were just trying to keep you safe. Maybe it's time to... find Apollo a new home? For the baby's sake."

Brett nodded, his expression serious. "She's right, Alex. We should probably rehome him. For the baby."

The world spun. My baby. My cat. My fiancé. My home. All of it, twisted and defiled. They had neglected him. Abused him. And now they wanted to get rid of him. For my safety. For their convenience.

I looked at Brett, at his indifferent, almost condescending expression. He had chosen. He had chosen her. And he had chosen to hurt my beloved, innocent cat.

My chest tightened. The rage I felt was cold, absolute. It eclipsed every other emotion. Every hurt, every betrayal, every disappointment. This was unforgivable.

I gently lowered Apollo, who immediately darted behind me, seeking refuge. I looked at Brett, my eyes burning. "You want to rehome him?" I said, my voice dangerously calm. "Fine. But I'm taking him with me."