Chapter 7: Breaking Point

Bullying Mason was twisted, but it put a spring in my step. My usual dread at the office faded, replaced by a strange sense of purpose.

I powered through my to-do list, ready to bail out as soon as the clock hit five. My purse was already packed, my coat draped over my arm.

Just as I pressed the elevator button, my boss’s voice boomed from behind: "Tess! Hold up."

"Tess, don’t leave yet. Tonight we’re having dinner with Director Harris from Horizon Group." He said it like it was a reward, not another round of schmoozing with strangers.

I plastered on a smile, but inside, I groaned. These dinners always ended with someone getting tipsy and someone else promising more than they could deliver.

Director Harris liked his whiskey neat, his jokes crude, and his cigars thick. I choked down glass after glass, feeling the burn all the way to my toes. By the end of the night, the world had started to double around the edges.

The house was dark, save for the glow of the night light in Mason’s room. He sat upright in bed, unmoving, his gaze fixed on a point just beyond the lamp. The shadows made him look almost spectral.

I staggered toward him, smile wobbly, the room spinning. Mason jerked away, landing on his feet before I could even touch him.

Moments later, retching noises echoed down the hallway. I followed, clutching the wall for balance.

He huddled over the toilet, knuckles white against the porcelain. His hair stuck to his forehead in damp clumps, and he looked like he might shatter if I so much as breathed wrong.

He flinched as I stepped into the doorway, then began to grab anything within reach—a hairbrush, a bottle of shampoo, a towel—and hurled them in my direction.

One by one, objects thudded against the tile. The crash of a bottle splitting open, the slap of a towel hitting the doorframe. My patience snapped a little further with each blow.

Mason’s eyes blazed with disgust and fear, his movements frantic. It stung more than I cared to admit.

I ducked another missile and kept moving forward, determined to bridge the distance.

"Do you really hate me that much, Mason?" I whispered, voice raw. I needed to hear something, anything, from him.

I leaned in, thinking maybe closeness would soften him, but he jerked forward and threw up, catching me full in the chest.

His voice was barely more than a croak. "...Get out."

I stood there, stunned, sticky, and speechless. Mason glared up at me, breathing hard.

He’d spoken. He’d actually spoken to me—outside the walls of our bedroom, without anyone watching. My heart lurched.

Was this a breakthrough, or just another wall going up? I couldn’t tell.

The sharpness of his voice cut deeper than I wanted to admit. All the anger I’d swallowed came bubbling up. I stormed out, slamming the bathroom door behind me.

After a few deep breaths, I returned, forced a smile, and coaxed him back into bed, smoothing the sheets around his shoulders. Then I scrubbed the vomit off my skin, hands shaking, letting the hot water scald away the last of my frustration.