She had tried tenderness. She had tried patience. She had tried being present, being useful, being the kind of woman who appeared at the right moments and disappeared at the right moments and never demanded more than he was willing to give not like she had any right but still.
But the hurt was there. She wasn't foolish enough to pretend otherwise, not inside her own head where pretending cost something. It sat behind her sternum like a bruise — not sharp, not fresh, but the kind that ached when you pressed it and she kept pressing it, kept turning his words over and finding new edges on them.
None of it had worked because none of it had been the thing he actually wanted.
What he wanted was Ava. What did he see in that skinny bitch, her blood boiled just from the thought of his hands on her.
