Something crashed in the bedroom.
Darius apparently couldn’t sleep and was tossing and turning.
Kiana listened closely.
Then muffled sobs reached her.
He was crying.
She scoffed quietly.
Self‑pity.
That was all he was capable of.
Not pity for her or for their broken marriage, but for himself.
Kiana returned to the kitchen and began packing a bag.
Documents, keys, phone, charger—all the essentials.
She wouldn’t be staying with Shauna for long, maybe three days, until she figured out her next move.
The apartment was hers, purchased before the marriage with her grandmother’s money, so she wouldn’t have to fight for it.
He would leave on his own, or his mother would take him.
They would see.
Around eight, she heard the alarm clock ring in the bedroom.
Darius got up and went to the bathroom.
Water ran from the tap.
Kiana sat in the kitchen drinking her second cup of tea and looking out the window.
Darius came out about twenty minutes later, dressed but rumpled, with red eyes and a drawn face.
He sat down opposite her and poured himself coffee from the French press she had made.
“Kiki,” he began quietly, “I messed up. I know. Please forgive me. Please.”
