The door slams shut. The sound echoes through my apartment, rattling my nerves, but the real storm is inside me. My hands tremble as I grip the envelope, the weight of it heavier than anything I've ever held.
Michael stands a few feet away, watching me like a predator sizing up its prey. His expression is calm—too calm. That's what makes him dangerous. He only smiles when he's winning. And right now, he doesn't know if he is.
"You're not actually considering reading that love letter, are you?" His voice is smooth, casual, but there's an edge beneath it.
I don't answer.
Because the truth is—I don't know.
The letter burns against my palm, my mind racing with possibilities. What if this is the missing piece? The thing that makes everything make sense? Or worse—what if it makes everything worse?