The lasagna grew cold as the hours dragged into midnight. Isabella paced the dark living room, her mind trapped in a terrifying, relentless spiral. She blamed herself entirely, her chest aching with a frantic need to mend the rift. By 2:00 AM, she finally crawled into bed, unable to sleep but forcing herself to breathe. It’s going to be alright, she repeated like a mantra. He was crying. He’s hurting just as much as I am. Tomorrow, we’ll talk.
A sudden, sharp chime broke the silence. It was Tyler’s iPad, left behind on the nightstand. Isabella rolled over and glanced at the glowing screen. It was a new email preview from an account named M. Vance. Her breath hitched as she read the preview: Counting down the hours until you get back to the hotel.
Isabella’s blood ran cold. She picked up the tablet, which unlocked instantly. Tyler hadn’t been offline “processing his grief.” He had been actively messaging this woman for hours from his hotel room, mocking the “domestic drama” he had to sit through before he could finally be free.