"How can someone who can't manage his own gut, content with mediocrity, keep pace with you? Support your journey?" Ryan's poisoned dagger plunged into my ear. "You picked *this* loser?!" The thread of sanity, frayed for weeks, snapped. Shame, rage, pent-up frustration exploded. Images flashed: Emily's distant eyes, Ryan's leering gaze, the dusty contraceptive pills on the nightstand... all coalescing into blood-red rage. I slammed the bedroom door open. Wood crashed against wall.
Into the Bedroom
The scene froze my blood. Emily, propped on pillows, illness-flushed cheeks burning brighter now, hair wild. Ryan stood inches from the bed, bending close enough that his taut chest muscles strained against his tee. He straightened slowly, unruffled, a hint of triumphant scorn twisting his mouth. Emily stared at me, terrified. "David..."
Ryan's Sneer
Ryan swept a dismissive glance over me, his eyes lingering on my stomach. A mocking curve lifted his lip. "Oh? Joining us, David?" He spread his hands in feigned helplessness. "Just stating facts. Emily's worked so hard to improve. She deserves appreciation from those who truly *get* it." His gaze scalpeled my body. "Not... to be anchored by a man who can't manage his own shape."
NEXT >> 
