He never lost gracefully.
He never apologized honestly.
And he never showed up this early unless something had frightened him badly enough to crack his polished mask.
I tapped the microphone icon on the security app.
“Step away from my door.”
All three heads snapped toward the small black camera mounted above the frame.
The locksmith lowered the drill immediately.
Ronald, however, looked straight into the lens.
“Lexi,” he said, his voice smooth now, too smooth, “open the door. We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.”
“You blocked my number.”
“That was the point.”
His jaw tightened.
Priscilla stepped forward, lifting her chin. “Alexandra, stop behaving like a child. This is embarrassing.”
I almost laughed.
Embarrassing.
Not the drilling. Not the lies. Not arriving at my home before sunrise with a locksmith and a fabricated crisis.
No. My refusal to open the door was the embarrassing part.
“I’m calling the police,” I said.
