Phoebe's POV
The muffled sounds of their voices faded, and I heard the front door click shut. They had left us alone.
From the dining room came a symphony of crashes and shattering, punctuated by desperate pleas for mercy.
Obviously, I was the one creating the chaos, and Harold was doing the begging.
——
Back in the dining room, broken china littered the floor while I hurled silverware through the air, forcing Harold to dodge between tables and chairs.
"Honey, this isn't what you think..."
"Honey, that's a knife! You can't throw that..."
"Honey, I screwed up. Put the chair down."
"Honey..."
Between Harold's endless apologies and yelps of terror, I left the dining room looking like a war zone.
If Harold wasn't so damn quick on his feet, every plate, fork, chair, and decorative vase I launched would've connected with his skull.
Rage consumed me as I lunged at him like a wild animal, terrifying him into pure defensive mode.
