Yours Truly

Declared War

The apartment smelled faintly of syrup and butter, the kind of scent that clings even after the plates have been cleared. Jay stood at the stove reheating leftovers, his son perched on a chair at the counter, swinging his legs and humming to himself as he colored between bites of grilled cheese.

I sat nearby, nursing a glass of water like it could wash away the ache still lodged in my chest. Every so often, Jay's gaze flicked toward me, unreadable, like he was trying to keep one eye on me and the other on the six-year-old sitting ten feet away.

It wasn't silence. Not really. It was the kind of quiet filled with too much thinking, too many things unsaid.

I kept replaying his son's words in my head. Is she gonna be my new mommy? The innocence in his voice, the way he'd said it so matter-of-factly, like Ariana had planted the seed and now he was just waiting for it to grow.

I didn't know which part hurt worse: that Ariana had dragged me into her war, or that Jay had no idea how to shield me or his son from the fallout.

"Want one?" Jay's voice cut through my spiral. He held out another sandwich, still warm from the pan.

I shook my head. "I'm good."

His brow furrowed like he wanted to press, but his son interrupted, holding up the coloring book. "Look, Daddy. I stayed inside the lines."

Jay smiled, genuine this time, and ruffled his hair. "Nice work, champ."

I watched them, an ache blooming deep inside me. This was what Ariana didn't understand, what she refused to let him have. The quiet moments, the almost-normal ones, the little joys that weren't about possession or power.

But Ariana didn't want him happy. She wanted him hers.

And the thought lodged sharp and heavy in my chest.

⸻

By the time lunch was over and Jay's son was curled up on the couch watching cartoons, the air between us had cooled. Not eased, exactly, but shifted—like the storm was moving farther out to sea, waiting.

Jay leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. His eyes tracked me where I sat, absently scrolling on my phone but not really reading anything.

"We need to talk," he said finally.

I set the phone down, bracing myself. "About what?"

His gaze flicked toward the living room before coming back to me. "About what he asked. About her."

My throat tightened. "I already know it's her. You don't need to—"

"Deja." His tone was sharp enough to cut. Then it softened. "I just... I need you to understand. She doesn't get to call the shots here. Not with me. Not with us."

"You say that like it's that simple," I murmured.

"It is," he said, almost too quickly. "It has to be."

I stared at him, at the hard line of his jaw, the tension braced in his shoulders. He wanted so badly to believe his own words, but we both knew better. Ariana didn't play by rules.

Before I could answer, a knock sounded at the door.

The kind that wasn't tentative, but sharp. Impatient.

Jay swore under his breath. "Unbelievable."

His son's head popped up. "Is it Mommy?"

Jay hesitated, and that hesitation was answer enough.

When he opened the door, Ariana stood there, her hair perfect, her smile sharper than any blade.

"Told you four o'clock," Jay said flatly.