Chapter 266: Not Today, Delilah

David’s POV

I didn’t bother turning on the light as I walked into the house.

The front door closed behind me with a soft finality and my legs gave out before I made it three steps.

I collapsed onto the couch, suit jacket still on, tie half-loosened, the leather creaking under my weight like it was disappointed in me too.

The darkness swallowed the room whole. Good. I didn’t want to see the framed photos on the mantel…smiling faces that belonged to people who didn’t exist anymore. I didn’t want to see the empty chair across from me where Dad used to sit with his crossword puzzle, pretending everything was fine.

If anyone in this fucked-up story had the right to be furious, the right to want to burn the whole world down, it should be me.

I was seventeen when they still looked like the perfect couple.

Saturday mornings in the kitchen back in Manhattan… Mom laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes while Dad tried (and failed) to flip pancakes without making a mess. Flour dusted the counters, the floor, their hair. She’d grab him by the shirt collar, pull him in for a quick kiss that looked like maple syrup and mischief.

I’d groan from the doorway… “You two are disgusting” but I loved it. I loved how safe it felt.

Summer afternoons on the front lawn. Dad with the hose, Mom in cut-off shorts and one of his old T-shirts, shrieking and sprinting barefoot across the grass while he chased her, water arcing like silver ribbons in the sunlight.

She’d tackle him into the sprinkler and they’d roll around laughing until they were both drenched and breathless. I’d watch from the porch steps with my headphones half-on, pretending I was too cool for it, but I memorized every second. That was what marriage looked like. That was what forever looked like.

And the nights… God, the nights.

They’d drag the old record player outside, put on Sinatra or Nat King Cole, and slow-dance under the backyard string lights. Mom’s cheek against his chest, Dad’s hand resting low on her back, the way he’d whisper something in her ear that made her smile like she was seventeen again.

I’d peek through my bedroom blinds, blanket pulled up to my chin even though it was warm, thinking, This is it. This is the real thing.

Then the morning after my eighteenth birthday.

I woke up to silence.

No coffee smell. No radio. No Mom humming while she packed my lunch even though I was technically an adult now.

I found her at the kitchen table, staring at an envelope like it had personally stabbed her. Her hands were shaking.

Dad had been gone since the night before.

He came home that afternoon smelling like another woman’s perfume.

The fight was nuclear. I heard every word from the hallway and felt every bit of the pain.

Mom wanted to let go…to forgive…to forget. But, it turns out that it wasn't a one-time thing.

Years.

He kept a whole parallel life while still being the devoted husband and doting father.

And he had a child with the so-called mistress. A son.

The kid had turned eight on the exact day I turned eighteen.

Same birthday. Same fucking day.

I thought that was the worst thing that could happen.

I was wrong.

The next afternoon I came home from school…still raw from getting jumped in the parking lot because some senior didn’t like that I’d called him out for cheating on his girlfriend. My lip was split, my knuckles bruised, my pride in shreds.

I turned onto our street and the world turned red and blue.

Police cruisers. Ambulance. Neighbors standing in clusters, hands over mouths.

Mom had taken a straight razor to both wrists in the upstairs bathtub.

No note.

No goodbye.

Just…gone.

The paramedics were still zipping the bag when I pushed through. I saw her face before they covered it…eyes wide open, surprised, like death had caught her off guard. The water was still faintly pink. The razor lay on the tile, innocent-looking, like it had nothing to do with the carnage.

I wanted to hate her.

I wanted to scream at her for being so selfish, for choosing the dark instead of fighting for me. We could have left. Packed our bags in the middle of the night and disappeared. I would have dropped out, worked construction, waited tables…anything. I would have taken care of her. We could have rebuilt somewhere new, somewhere clean.

But she took the coward’s exit and left me holding the pieces.

A day after the funeral…just a fucking day later… Dad brought them home.

His mistress and their son. Justin.

They moved into Mom’s house like she’d never existed. Like her perfume wasn’t still lingering in the closets. Like her toothbrush wasn’t still in the holder.

I watched Dad do all the same things with her.

Flour fights in the kitchen.

Hose chases on the lawn.

Slow dances under the string lights.

The same smiles. The same touches. The same whispered jokes.

That was when the truth hit me like a sledgehammer.

Love isn’t sacred.

It’s just a role.

A simple performance.

You put on the costume for whoever’s sitting in the audience at the time.

And when the show ends, you change outfits and start the next act.

So I stopped believing in it and went cold.

I became notorious in and out of school. I rebelled so hard that I lost my way. Because deep inside? There was nothing but pain.

Justin thinks I ruined his perfect little family fantasy?

No.

They ruined mine first.

That day didn’t just break me. That day forged me.

The monster they all whisper about?

He was born in that bathroom, watching pink water swirl down the drain.

I don’t remember passing out on the couch.

One second I was staring at the ceiling…memories of when my family was perfect flooded my mind. And the next, sunlight was slicing through the blinds like knives.

Thursday.

I groaned, rolled onto my side, and tried to sink back into the dark.

I should stay home. Draw every curtain. Lock every door. Let the world spin without me for one goddamn day.

But today was the day.

The line in the sand.

The moment I stop playing defense and start playing to win.

I forced myself up.

Bathroom. Cold water on my face until my skin burned. Teeth. Shave. The cologne Holly once complimented me for…the one I saved for days like this.

Then the suit.

Midnight-black Brioni. Cut so precisely it looked painted on. Crisp white shirt beneath, first two buttons undone, sleeves rolled once to show the watch that cost more than most people’s rent. No tie. Power didn’t need a leash today.

I pushed my hair back, just messy enough to look like I didn’t care, but deliberate enough that everyone would know I did.

Phone. Keys. The slim black leather case that held everything I needed to change the game.

I locked the door behind me, inhaled the crisp morning air and headed for my car.

“Morning, gorgeous!”

The girl from across the street, yoga pants, ponytail bouncing, waving like we were starring in a rom-com called out to me.

In another life I would’ve flashed her the grin that used to get me whatever I wanted. Would’ve crossed the street. Would’ve had her number before she finished her next sentence.

But not today…not anytime soon.

Today Holly needed to see obsession.

Needed to see loyalty.

Needed to see a man who only had eyes for her…so she’d fall so hard she’d never think about climbing out.

I gave the girl the smallest polite nod. “Morning,” I said, voice low, already moving toward the car.

She blinked. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look like you’re about to commit a hostile takeover Dave.”

Damn. She knows my name.

Which means I’ve probably slept with her. The odds are embarrassingly high.

And yet, standing here now, I don’t remember her name at all.

“I’m perfect,” I lied, sliding into the driver’s seat as I saw her moving towards my side of the road.

I started the engine, pulled out too fast, nearly clipped the tree at the corner because I was still watching the girl’s confused little frown in the rearview.

I barked a single, humorless laugh.

“Not today, Delilah,” I muttered to the empty car, fingers tightening on the wheel. “Not fucking today.”