So fucked up

You felt your hands clench into fists in your lap, the fabric of your new suit groaning in protest. The air was thick, a cocktail of Jessica's expensive perfume, Jacob's cologne, and the raw, musky scent of primal tension. Every polished surface in the immaculate living room, the marble fireplace, the gleaming hardwood floors, the huge flat screen on the wall felt like it was mocking you. This was a stage, and you were the unwilling audience to a play you never agreed to star in.

Amy leaned back into Jacob's touch, her body curving against his like it was made to be there. She was melting, dissolving into him. The woman you had held just hours ago, whose head had rested on your chest, was a stranger.

Jacob's eyes met yours over the top of Amy's head. There was no apology in them. No guilt. There was only a cool, arrogant challenge. A silent, smug declaration: Look what I have. Look what she wants.

Your throat was a desert. You tried to swallow and failed.

Then, Jessica shifted on the sofa. The movement was small, deliberate. She uncrossed her legs, the emerald silk of her dress whispering against her skin, and then recrossed them in your direction.

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