The glass shattered against his temple.

The sharp sting of pain followed almost immediately, hot blood trickling down his face. August staggered back, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter to steady himself. The fluorescent light above buzzed faintly, casting long shadows across the polished surfaces of their kitchen—sterile and pristine, like a museum piece.

"You're a liar, August!" Clarissa's voice cut through the air like a whip. Her blue eyes, usually placid pools of calm, burned with unchecked fury. Her trembling finger pointed directly at him, accusing, damning.

"I'm not lying, Clarissa," he said, his voice quiet, even. He'd learned to keep it that way, especially in moments like this.

Her laugh was sharp, brittle. It twisted something in his chest. "Oh, please. You think I'm blind? You think I don't see what's happening? How she looks at you? How Tiffany looks at you?"

"Tiffany?" The name startled him. His brows furrowed, but he didn't move from where he stood. He didn't dare. "The waitress? At the bistro? Clarissa, I don't even know her. She brought us coffee, for God's sake."

But Clarissa was past the point of reason. "Don't you dare gaslight me," she spat, her voice shaking. "I saw the way you looked at her. I saw the way she smiled at you, like you were her whole goddamn world. You're disgusting."

"That's not true," he said firmly, though the words felt like shouting into the eye of a hurricane.

Her eyes narrowed, her face twisting into something almost unrecognizable. She reached for the wine bottle on the counter, her knuckles white as she gripped it. Before he could stop her, she flung it against the wall. It exploded in a cascade of crimson and glass shards, the dark wine staining the walls like blood.

August exhaled slowly, his patience thinning. "Clarissa, stop. You're going to hurt yourself."

She let out a guttural scream, advancing toward him. "Don't you dare act like you care about me! You think I don't know what you are? August, I've always known you were a dirty, bastardized philanderer. Always."

Her words hit harder than he expected. But he didn't flinch. He'd learned not to.

"You're wrong," he said, though his voice softened this time. "There's no one else, Clarissa. There's never been anyone else."

"LIAR!" she shrieked, and before he could react, her fists were pounding against his chest, a flurry of pain and frustration.

"Stop it," he said, grabbing her wrists. He didn't squeeze hard—he could never bring himself to—but just enough to still her. Her face crumpled, and for a moment, he thought she might break down entirely.

Instead, her lip curled in disdain. "You think you're better than me, don't you? You think I don't see it in your eyes? The pity. The disgust. But I'll show you, August. I'll show you what happens when you push me away."

Her words were venomous, laced with something unspoken, something darker. And for the first time in their marriage, August felt a flicker of fear.

August woke with a start, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His hand flew to his temple, as if expecting to find blood there, but it was only a faint scar beneath his fingers. A memory. Just a memory.

The bedroom was silent except for the faint hum of the city outside, the orange glow of the streetlights slipping through the curtains. His shirt clung to his damp skin, the sheets twisted around his legs.

For a moment, he simply sat there, head in his hands, trying to catch his breath. But the silence was oppressive, and the echoes of her voice lingered in his ears.

You think I don't know what you are?

He stood, moving to the window, the floor cool beneath his bare feet. He pushed the curtain aside and stared down at the street below, where a solitary car crept past and the distant murmur of voices rose from the corner café.

New Orleans. The city had always felt alive to him, like it had its own pulse, its own secrets. It was a city of contradiction—beauty and decay, mystery and revelation. A city that whispered its truths in the dead of night. And lately, those whispers sounded too much like Clarissa's voice.

His phone buzzed on the kitchen counter downstairs. He didn't move to check it. He already knew who it was. Lila.

She had questions. They always did. About the gala. About him. About Clarissa.

But some things weren't meant to be understood. Some things were better left buried.

He kissed her like he was chasing silence.

There was no tenderness in it, no softness. Just urgency. Just distraction. Just the raw need to stop thinking. To stop remembering.

Lila met him with the same energy—no illusions, no softness in her touch. Her hands slipped beneath the damp fabric of his shirt, fingers skating over the lines of his ribs. She leaned into him, her breath hot against his mouth.

"This isn't real," she whispered against his lips.

"I know."

But he kissed her again anyway.

The kitchen was cold, sterile, and full of ghosts, and still, he pushed her back against the counter, lifting her slightly to sit atop it. Her legs wrapped around his waist, and her fingers tugged at his hair, grounding him in the now, in the heat of skin on skin and not the memory of glass slicing his face or Clarissa's eyes brimming with rage.

"You only call me when you're drowning," Lila murmured, nipping lightly at his jaw.

He didn't answer. What could he say? Yes. And you let me.

Lila's hand curled around the back of his neck, nails grazing lightly. "Am I a lifeline, August? Or just something to sink into while you fall?"

He pulled back slightly, their faces close, breaths mingling in the tight space between. "Does it matter?"

She studied him, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she smiled—but it didn't reach her eyes.

"No. It never has."

Her kiss was slower now, more searching, like she was trying to find the place inside him where he still felt something. But all she found was ash.

August's hands roamed her thighs, slipping beneath the silk. He wanted to lose himself in the curves of her body, in the warmth of her mouth, in the sound of her breath catching when he pressed harder, deeper. And still—Clarissa.

That damn scar burned under his skin.

He could feel her in the room. Like she'd never left.

Her scent in the lavender dish soap. Her voice in the hum of the refrigerator. Her shadow in the shape of the spilled wine against the wall.

"You're not here," he whispered, and he wasn't sure if he meant it for Lila or the ghost still coiled around his spine.

Lila stilled, her hands pausing. "What?"

August didn't respond. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers. "Stay," he said.

Lila closed her eyes. "Of course I will."

But neither of them pretended it meant anything.

Later, when her breathing slowed beside him and the sweat had cooled on his skin, he lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling. He thought of Clarissa's scream, the way her voice cracked when she called him a liar. He thought of the shattered glass and how, even now, he hadn't swept it all up. A piece of it still lay glittering by the baseboard, catching moonlight like a warning.

Lila's arm lay draped across his chest, but her presence was already fading from him. She wasn't who he wanted, not really. She was the pause button on a memory he couldn't delete.

And Clarissa—she wasn't gone. She never had been. Even now, her ghost curled against his chest like a second heartbeat, whispering in the dark.

You think I don't know what you are?

August closed his eyes, and for the second time that night, tried to forget.

But forgetting Clarissa was like trying to hold smoke in his hands. The tighter he tried, the deeper she slipped into his veins.