“I know you’re in there!”
Her voice was sharp, annoyed.
Not apologetic.
Still no explanation.
After a few minutes, her tone shifted.
“Marcus… please. We need to talk. I can explain.”
He stared at the door.
He had lived on explanations for months.
Half-truths.
Excuses.
Reassurances that never added up.
He finally spoke.
“Your things are in the garage. Two suitcases. The code still works.”
Silence.
Then—
“You packed my clothes?”
“Enough for now.”
“Marcus, you can’t just do this. This is my house too.”
“And you chose not to come home to it.”
She moved toward the garage.
The keypad beeped.
Minutes passed.
Then she returned.
Her voice softened—carefully.
“Baby… I’m sorry about tonight. You’re right to be upset. But this—changing the locks—it’s too much. Let me in. We’ll talk.”
He closed his eyes for a moment.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
“Through lawyers.”
“Lawyers?” she whispered.
“Have you lost your mind over one missed dinner?”
He stepped closer to the door.
“Over six months of lies. Tonight was just the last one.”
Silence again.
Then—
“I don’t know what you think is going on.”
He answered calmly.
“His name is David Preston.”
A pause.
