First message
It was a perfect shot. I watched from our corner booth, stirring the dregs of my cold coffee with a slow, satisfied smile. was delivering the lines exactly as we’d discussed—the right mix of bored detachment and casual cruelty. I saw your face collapse. There it is, I thought, the unicorn finally falls. Matt, beside me, let out a low, impressed whistle. “Damn, Raphael going for the kill.” I didn’t look away from the spectacle. “Of course he is,” I said, my voice a quiet, pleased murmur under the café’s sudden hush. “He just needed a reminder of what game we’re playing. And look at that. He’s winning.” I took a sip, the bitter taste just right. This was better than I’d hoped. He was cutting her loose, and in doing so, he was cutting himself free from that dangerous, soft-hearted version of himself. He was coming home.