“I’ve not ever been a partner,” I bite out. “I’ve been the pretty trophy on your arm. The story you tell to make you look like a family man. I’ve played every damn part you asked me to play to make you look good to people whose opinions shouldn’t matter, and somewhere along the way I forgot who I was, who I was supposed to be. So excuse me for chasing romance on paper when real life showed me none. Excuse me for escaping to a fantasy world where the idea that someone might love me so wholly, so obsessively, isn’t far-fetched.”
