(Sanya’s POV)
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. The sun shifts through the window, painting patterns on the floor around me.
I am nothing to him. Less than nothing. An object that lost value because someone else touched it first.
But Aaron and I never—we didn't—
It doesn't matter.
The truth doesn't matter to Tyron. Only his pride matters. His image. His need to possess the best, the first, the finest.
And I'm none of those things in his eyes anymore.
Finally, when the sun has moved far enough that I'm no longer lying in its warmth, I drag myself upright. Every muscle protests. My ankle refuses to bear weight properly—sprained at minimum.
I use the desk for support, then the chair, then the wall. Inching my way out of the study like an old woman instead of a twenty-three-year-old bride.
T
