Chapter 32: "The Voucher’s Weight" Marcus POV

I’m standing by the window, still shook from that shadow Julian saw outside, my heart pounding loud in the quiet flat. He’s on the sofa, bruised up from the ambush, staring at me like I’m a stranger. His words from earlier—“You dragged me into this”—are stuck in my head, and I can’t shake them. Claire’s text, “You’ll pay for Ethan,” sits heavy on me too, hinting she set us up in that alley. My hands are sweaty, and I know I can’t keep this in anymore—the truth about that $5,000 voucher I gave him. It’s eating me up, and he deserves to know, even if it breaks us.

I turn to him, slow, and sit on the coffee table, facing him. My voice is rough when I start. “Jules, I’ve got to tell you something. About that voucher.” He looks up, eyes hard, and I swallow, feeling the guilt rise like bile. “It wasn’t for rent, not really. It was hush money from Victor. Back when I was gambling bad, before you came along, I owed him—big. He gave me five grand to keep quiet about his slot scam, and I took it.” My chest tightens, and I force the rest out. “Claire begged me for it—Ethan’s hospital bills, she said—but I gave it to you instead. Chose you over her.”

He’s quiet, just staring, and it’s worse than yelling. His face goes pale, then red, and I see it—hurt, deep and raw. “You lied to me,” he says, voice low, shaking. “You told me it was a bonus, some casino perk, and I believed you, you git.” He stands up, fast, wincing from his bruises, and I reach for him, but he pulls back. “Three weeks ago, you kissed me, made me think we were solid, and it was all built on this?” His hands ball up, and I’m stuck, watching him unravel—watching my mess unravel him.

“Jules, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I say, standing too, but he’s already moving, grabbing his jacket off the chair. “Didn’t mean to?” he snaps, turning on me. “You picked me over her dying brother, and now she’s coming for us—guns, traps, all of it—and you didn’t tell me?” His voice breaks, and my stomach twists—shame flooding me, hot and heavy. I want to grab him, hold him, but he’s at the door, yanking it open. “I trusted you, Marcus,” he says, quieter now, “and you lied to me, you git.” Then he’s gone, door banging shut, leaving me alone with the echo of his steps.

I sink back onto the table, head in my hands, and the flat feels empty—too big without him. My throat’s tight, and I’m seeing it—his face when he said it, the hurt in his eyes. Three weeks ago, I kissed him, told him he was my world, and now he’s walking out because I couldn’t keep that promise clean. The voucher was my choice—Victor’s dirty cash, my way to pull Julian closer—and Claire’s right to hate me for it. Ethan’s dying, she’s drowning, and I picked love over her pain. My hands rub my face, and I’m thinking—I’ve lost him, haven’t I? Lost us.

The room’s dark, just the lamp flickering, and I’m stuck, replaying it—his voice, “You lied,” cutting deep. I should’ve told him sooner, should’ve owned it, but I was scared—scared he’d bolt, like he just did. My legs ache from the alley, my head’s pounding, and I’m wondering—Claire’s text, that trap—was it all for this? To split us, to punish me? I grab my phone, staring at her words—“You’ll pay for Ethan”—and my gut twists. She’s out there, close, and I’ve got nothing left to fight with, not without Jules.

I stand, slow, pacing the flat, trying to shake the shame. The blinds are half-open, neon buzzing outside, and I’m thinking—he’s right, I dragged him in. My past—gambling, Victor, that voucher—it’s a weight, and he’s carrying it now, bruised and mad because of me. I stop by the sofa, where he sat, and my hands tremble—I want him back, want to fix this, but how? My chest’s heavy, and I’m kicking myself—should’ve given Claire the cash, should’ve kept him out of it, but I didn’t, and now he’s gone.

Then I hear it—a rustle, soft, by the door. My heart jumps, and I step over, slow, peering down. Something’s there—paper, slipped under, crinkled and white. I bend, pick it up, and my breath catches—it’s Claire’s hospital bill, same one she showed me a year ago, begging. Ethan’s name’s on it, $5,000 due, and scrawled across in black ink—“Too late.” My hands shake, and I’m froze, staring at it—her handwriting, her jab, right here in my flat. My skin’s cold, and I’m thinking—she’s been here, just now, while I’m falling apart, and she’s not done.