Anya tried to breathe without making noise. She clamped her hand over her mouth, like holding herself shut could keep the reality from spilling out.
Her phone buzzed again.
Another email.
Another screenshot.
Another sickening confirmation that this wasn’t a misunderstanding.
Her knees threatened to fold. She sat down on the closed toilet lid in her robe, like some kind of exhausted stranger, and stared at the messages until the letters stopped making sense.
She should have confronted him privately.
She should have walked out quietly.
She should have done something dignified.
But humiliation wasn’t logical. It wasn’t polite. It didn’t care about timing or makeup or guests who’d flown in.
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