Page 69 of Controlled Burn
She dressed in silence. Pulled her hair into a knot so tight it made her eyes sting. Looked at herself in the mirror—mascara smeared, lips bitten raw, new marks rising along her throat and collarbone.
You let him use you, she thought. You let him lie and pretend and crawl right back to his wife like nothing happened.
Should she even be angry? She was the other woman. The mistake. The ghost. But the humiliation felt real. So did the hunger that wouldn’t quit.
Why do I care? Why do I want more? Why does it feel like being invisible is the worst part?
By the time she left the locker room, the station was quiet. The lights were dimmed. But in the shadows, her shame was loud.
She didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him—mouth hungry, eyes wild—followed by the cold flick of his phone screen lighting up, his voice softening for a woman who’d never have to see the wreckage he left behind.
By the time the sun cracked through the engine bay windows, she’d already decided: she was done feeling small.
At breakfast, Jake and Ryan dropped into their usual banter—teasing, relentless, too familiar.
Jake nudged her, a knowing glint in his eye. “We’re hitting the bar later tonight. You in?”
She smiled, all teeth, no warmth. “Why not?”
Ryan grinned. “That’s the spirit.”
And when she watched Dean walk through the bay that morning—cool, unreadable, not even glancing her way—she told herself she didn’t care.
If he could move on, so could she. If he wanted to pretend last night never happened—
Fine.
She’d find a way to forget, too.
Maddox
He washed his hands twice before he dared pick up the phone. Scrubbed them until they stung, until the grit of brick dust andsweat and her was gone—except it wasn’t. It never was.
He dialed home out of muscle memory, listening for Rachel’s voice, his own still rough from things he couldn’t say.
“Yeah, I’m still here,” he told her, voice steady as bedrock. He let himself fall back on the routines—inspection, groceries, school drop-off in the morning—like reciting scripture, like penance.
He caught his reflection in the window: uniform rumpled, skin flushed, jaw set tight. If Rachel noticed, she didn’t say so. She never did.
“I’ll pick up coffee and bread,” he promised, knuckles white around the phone. “Just a long day. I’m heading to bed after I finish the reports.”
It sounded so ordinary. So easy. If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe it.
He hung up. Stared at the wall.
Talia’s scent lingered in the air—shampoo, sweat, the ghost of her perfume. His hands still trembled, but not from fear.
He wished he felt regret. He told himself it was a mistake—a moment of weakness. But the truth burned beneath his skin: he’d wanted her. Not just the body, not just the power trip. He wanted the chaos she brought. The way she saw through him. The way she didn’t flinch when he shattered.
He wished he could hate himself enough to stop. But all he felt was empty, wrung out, and desperate for something real. Something that wasn’t routine or guilt or a marriage already burned to ash.
He sat in the dark, letting the weight settle in his chest.
He’d promised Rachel groceries and another typical morning. He’d promised Talia nothing—and still taken everything.
He didn’t know which lie felt worse.
He only knew that come morning, he’d walk out in the bay, face the world, and pretend nothing happened.
