Chapter 1: Blood on the Marble
The marble was colder than she expected.
It bit into the soles of her bare feet with every step, a shock of ice that traveled up her legs and settled somewhere in her chest. She'd lost her heels somewhere between the car and the front door—one had snapped when Christian yanked her from the passenger seat, the other she'd kicked off herself, a small rebellion that had earned her a backhand across the face.
Her lip was split. She could taste the copper tang of blood mixing with the salt of tears she refused to shed.
The zip ties around her wrists had gone from tight to unbearable sometime in the last twenty minutes. Every movement sent a fresh sting of pain shooting up her arms, and she could feel something warm and wet trickling down her fingers. Blood. Her blood. Dripping onto the polished obsidian floor in a trail that looked like breadcrumbs leading nowhere good.
Christian's hand clamped around her upper arm like a vice, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise. She stumbled, and he didn't slow down. Didn't even look back.
"Keep up," he muttered, his voice low and tight. The same voice he used when he was losing at poker—controlled, but barely.
She wanted to laugh. She wanted to scream. Instead, she just stared at the back of his head, at the perfectly styled dark hair and the expensive suit jacket that probably cost more than her monthly rent. This was the man who'd proposed to her six months ago on a rooftop restaurant, who'd promised her forever with a diamond ring and a smile that made her believe in things she'd stopped believing in years ago.
"I fucking hate you," she hissed through her split lip.
The words came out wet and mangled, but they landed like a punch. Christian's jaw tightened. He didn't respond.
The foyer stretched endlessly, a cathedral of cold stone and bad intentions. The chandelier above them cast everything in shades of blood—shattered light that fractured across the marble and painted the walls in crimson. It looked like something out of a nightmare, the kind of place where rich men made poor decisions and called it business.
Her dress was ruined. The black lace had torn in a dozen places during the struggle—when Christian had grabbed her at the apartment, when she'd tried to run, when he'd thrown her into the car and told her to shut up or he'd make her. One strap hung loose, exposing the dark purple lace of her bra beneath. The satin underskirt had ripped clean up the side, revealing the curve of her hip and the octopus tattoo that curled out from under the hem—tentacles inked in shades of gray and blue, reaching toward her thigh like they were trying to escape her skin.
She'd gotten that tattoo when she turned twenty-one, drunk on cheap vodka and the thrill of doing something permanent. Christian had hated it. Said it was trashy. Said it didn't fit the image he wanted for his future wife.
Fuck his image.
The Phoenix across her shoulder blades burned with every movement, the wings stretching from one shoulder to the other in a riot of orange and gold and deep purple. She'd always thought of it as a symbol of rebirth, of rising from ashes. Right now, she felt more like the ashes.
"Where are we?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. The words scraped against her throat, raw from the screaming she'd done in the car.
Christian finally glanced back at her. His face was pale, his gray-blue eyes darting nervously toward the grand staircase at the far end of the foyer. He looked like a rat trapped in a corner, and for the first time since she'd met him, she saw him clearly.
Not the charming man who'd swept her off her feet. Not the successful businessman with the corner office and the confident smile. Just a coward. A desperate, pathetic coward who'd dragged her into something she didn't understand.
"Just... just be quiet," he said. "Let me handle this."
"Handle what?" She yanked against his grip, and the zip ties bit deeper into her wrists. Fresh blood welled up, sliding between her fingers. "Christian, what the fuck is going on? You said—you said this was about a promotion. You said your boss wanted to meet me."
His laugh was hollow, almost hysterical. "Yeah. Something like that."
Her stomach dropped.
She'd believed him. That was the worst part. When he'd shown up at her apartment two hours ago, wild-eyed and breathless, saying he needed her to come with him, that his boss was considering him for a huge promotion, that he needed to make a good impression—she'd believed him. She'd put on her best dress, the black lace one that made her feel powerful, and she'd gotten in his car without a second thought.
And then he'd driven past the restaurant. Past the office building. Past every place a business meeting might reasonably happen.
He'd driven into the hills, to a neighborhood she'd never seen before, to a house that looked less like a home and more like a fortress. And when she'd asked him where they were going, he'd told her to shut up.
When she'd tried to open the car door at a red light, he'd grabbed her hair and slammed her head against the window.
The bruises were already forming—she could feel them blooming across her ribs, her stomach, her ass, her back. He'd kicked her when she fell, when she tried to crawl away, when she screamed for help that never came. She'd never seen this side of him before. Hadn't known it existed.
Now she knew.
Now she understood exactly who she'd agreed to marry.
"Christian." Her voice cracked. "Please. Just tell me what's happening."
He stopped walking.
For a moment, she thought he might actually answer her. Might actually show her a shred of the humanity she'd once believed he possessed. But when he turned to face her, his expression wasn't apologetic or guilty or even remotely conflicted.
It was calculating.
"He's going to take you," Christian said, and the words landed like a knife between her ribs. "That's the deal. I fucked up, and this is how I fix it."
She stared at him.
The chandelier's red light flickered, casting his handsome face in shadows that made him look like a stranger. She'd kissed that face. She'd whispered "I love you" against that neck. She'd let him inside her body, let him promise her a future, let him convince her that she was safe.
"I don't understand," she whispered.
"He caught me." Christian's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. Like he was explaining a business deal gone wrong. "Stealing from him. And fucking his wife. So I made him an offer."
The words didn't make sense at first.
They bounced around her skull like pinballs, crashing into each other, refusing to form a coherent picture. Stealing. Fucking his wife. An offer.
"What offer?" she asked, even though some part of her already knew.
Christian's jaw tightened. He looked away.
"You," he said.
The floor seemed to tilt beneath her. She swayed, and Christian's grip on her arm was the only thing keeping her upright. The curtains of her mind parted, and she saw the canvas of her recent weeks with stark, terrible clarity.
Her bank account had been drained two weeks ago. Christian had said it was a glitch, that he'd fix it. She'd trusted him.
The lingerie she'd bought for their anniversary—she'd packed it in a suitcase when Christian told her they needed to "get away for a while." She thought it was for him. She thought it was for a romantic trip.
She thought.
She was such an idiot.
"Is she pretty?" The voice came from somewhere above them, low and smooth and laced with something that might have been amusement.
Her head snapped up.
He stood at the top of the staircase like a king surveying his domain. Tall—impossibly tall, it seemed from her position on the floor—with shoulders that filled the width of the stairwell, not with the beefy, over-inflated bulk of a bodybuilder but with a natural, powerful frame honed by genetics and a lifetime of something she couldn't name. His dark hair was threaded with silver at the temples, the strands catching the red light like woven metal. His face was sharp, angular, with the kind of bone structure that belonged in classical art or on the cover of magazines.
His eyes were the color of storm clouds, gray and endless, and they were fixed on her with an intensity that made her feel like she was being dissected.
He was dressed simply—black on black, no tie, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with lean muscle. Scarred knuckles caught the light. His face was clean-shaven, and the long, straight nose and high cheekbones made him look almost aristocratic, a sharp contrast to the raw, earthy power that surrounded him.
He was older than her by at least fifteen years—or at least, he looked it. It was a rugged, handsome face, weathered by years of violence, aged like a polished stone. But the confidence that radiated off him made it seem less an age gap than a force of nature.
He was beautiful in the way a storm was beautiful. In the way a lion was beautiful.
In the way a loaded gun was beautiful.
The Alpha King.
She didn't know his real name. No one did—not really. But she'd heard whispers, the kind of stories people told in hushed tones after too many drinks. Stories about a man who controlled territory, who controlled money, who controlled people the way a puppeteer controlled strings.
He was the head of a cartel. The expression "mafioso" didn't even begin to cover it—he was a kingpin, a shadow ruler, a man whose name was spoken only in whispers and even then, only when absolutely necessary.
And Christian had promised her to him.
She swallowed hard.
The floor was cold beneath her feet, and she felt suddenly, acutely aware of every scrape and bruise on her body. The lace dress hung off her frame in tatters. Her hair—she could only imagine what it looked like, wild and tangled and stained with tears she hadn't been allowed to wipe away.
She was bleeding.
She was broken.
And this man was looking at her like she was something precious forged from a fire he engineered.
"S-stay back," she stammered. She tried to step backward, but Christian's grip held her in place. "Don't touch me—I'll kill you, I'll—"
The laugh that escaped the Alpha King wasn't mocking. It was soft, almost wondering.
"I didn't say I was going to touch you," he said. His voice was a low baritone, easy and unhurried. "I haven't decided whether you're worth keeping yet."
He descended the stairs slowly, each step deliberate, each step drawing another layer of air from her lungs. She could feel the weight of his presence pressing down on her, a physical thing, a force that made her feel small and fragile and utterly exposed.
When he reached the bottom step, he paused. Close enough that she could smell him—clean, sharp, like cedar and something metallic underneath. His eyes traveled the length of her body, taking in the torn dress, the purple lace beneath, the octopus tattoo curling out from under the hem.
Something flickered in his gaze.
Not desire.
Not cruelty.
Something else. Something she didn't have a name for.
"You're bleeding," he said.
She stared at him.
"You noticed?" The words came out sharp, sarcastic. A defense mechanism, the same one she'd used all her life to keep people at arm's length.
His lips twitched. Almost a smile.
"Christian," he said, without looking away from her. "Untie her."
Christian stiffened. "But—"
"I said untie her."
The command was soft. Quiet. And absolutely undeniable.
Christian's hands trembled as he pulled a pocketknife from his jacket. The blade clicked open, and he sawed at the zip ties around her wrists. The plastic bit into her skin one last time before snapping, and she gasped as blood rushed back into her hands, the pain so sharp it made her vision blur.
She stumbled forward, catching herself before she fell. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to cover what she could, trying to hide the evidence of her fear and her humiliation.
"Better," the Alpha King said.
She looked up at him through the tangled curtain of her hair. He was studying her with those gray eyes, unreadable and piercing.
"What do you want?" she asked. Her voice was hoarse. "Why am I here?"
"Your fiancé offered you up as payment for a debt." He clasped his hands behind his back, the movement casual, almost relaxed. "I accepted. So technically, you're mine."
"I'm not a thing," she spat. "You can't just—"
"Can't I?"
He said it simply, without malice, without threat. Just a statement of fact. And somehow that was worse. The words didn't come from cruelty. They came from a place of absolute certainty. He believed it. He believed he could own her, by sheer will alone if necessary.
She wanted to argue. Wanted to fight. But standing in front of him, her body aching, her dress shredded, her feet bleeding on his marble floor, the truth was harder to ignore.
She was entirely at his mercy.
"I want to go home," she said. The words came out weak. Pleading. She hated herself for it.
"Then your fiancé shouldn't have stolen from me." The Alpha King's eyes flicked to Christian—to the man she'd once loved, to the man she'd once trusted. "Should you, Christian?"
"N-no," Christian stammered. "No, sir."
The silence stretched between the three of them, long and uncomfortable.
The chandelier above them flickered, casting shifting shadows across the marble floor. In the distance, she thought she heard a clock ticking. Time moving forward, whether she wanted it to or not.
"Look at me," the Alpha King said.
She didn't want to. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to run, to hide, to cover her face and scream until someone saved her.
But no one was coming to save her.
There was no white knight in this story. There never had been—not in the years she'd spent trying to build herself up, not in the months she'd spent falling for Christian's lies. She was alone. She'd always been alone.
And she was the only person who could save herself.
She lifted her head.
The Alpha King's eyes met hers, and for a moment, she felt entirely seen. Not the wreckage of her dress. Not the wounds on her body. Not the fear she was drowning in.
Him.
And she held his gaze, despite everything.
"There it is," he murmured, almost to himself. A flicker of something crossed his face—intrigue, maybe. Something like hunger, but it wasn't the kind of hunger she'd expected. She couldn't put words to it. "I was wondering when you'd show up."
Christian shifted behind her. "Sir, I—the deal—"
"Shut up." The Alpha King didn't raise his voice. Didn't even look at him. But Christian's mouth snapped shut like a lock had been turned. "You'll get what we agreed upon. You'll walk out of here with your life. But she stays."
"What?" The word tore from her throat. "No—no, you can't just—"
"I can." He stepped closer to her. His voice was low enough that only she could hear it. "You don't get a choice in this. Not tonight. But I'm going to offer you something better than what you've had before."
"What could you possibly give me?"
He smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was a promise and a threat wrapped in one, a thing of sharp teeth and barely leashed control. He looked at her with an understanding that was almost gentle.
"A reason to stop hating yourself for surviving."
The words hit her harder than any of Christian's blows. Her breath caught in her throat. She stared at him, frozen, unable to speak.
Because he was right. She had spent years hating herself—for her past, for her choices, for the way she always ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. She had spent years pretending to be strong when she was slowly drowning.
And somehow, this stranger, this monster who held her entire future in his scarred hands, had seen what no one else had.
"You don't know me," she whispered. But even to her own ears, the protest sounded weak.
"I know enough." He reached out and caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger. His touch was warm. Not gentle, exactly. But not cruel, either. "I know you're a fighter. I know you don't break easy. I know you're wearing cheap underwear under an expensive dress, which means you don't know who you are or what you want yet."
Her face burned. "That's—"
"And I know you've been pretending to be okay for so long that you've forgotten what okay even feels like."
Her legs shook. She willed them to be strong. The floor was cold under her feet, but it was solid. It would hold her up, even if he wouldn't.
"You don't know anything about me," she managed.
His thumb brushed across her jawline.
"I know you think that." He released her chin and stepped back. "For now, I'll give you privacy. A room. A bath. Something to eat."
He gestured toward the staircase, and a woman appeared from the shadows, moving silent as a ghost. She was older—fifty, maybe sixty—with gray hair pulled back in a severe bun and eyes that had seen everything and were impressed by nothing.
"Take her to the east wing," he said. "And find her something to wear that isn't ripped."
The woman nodded and moved toward her, her steps silent on the marble. She gently took her by the arm—not forcefully, but not kindly either.
"I don't..." The words escaped, half-formed. Her teeth wanted to chatter, but she refused to let them. Not in front of him. "I don't want your charity."
The Alpha King's gray eyes settled on her again. He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"This isn't charity," he said. "It's an investment."
"And if I run?"
"You'll try." He shrugged, unbothered. "But you won't get far. Not without money, not without shoes. And not with him still out there."
Christian flinched at the mention.
She caught the implication. The threat. The reminder that Christian had already proven he would sacrifice her without a second thought. If she ran, he would find her. And if he found her, he would bring her back.
Or worse.
She swallowed the lump in her throat.
The woman tugged at her arm, gentle but insistent.
She had no choice. Not tonight.
She let herself be led toward the stairs, past the Alpha King, past Christian, who stared at the floor like it might open up and swallow him. Her feet left bloody prints on the marble—a trail of evidence marking where she'd been, where she was going, where she might never return from.
At the base of the staircase, she paused.
She turned back, one last time, and met the Alpha King's eyes.
"This isn't over," she said.
The corner of his mouth curled.
"I hope not," he said.
It sounded like a promise.
The east wing was a study in controlled excess—heavy drapes the color of dried blood, furniture carved from dark wood and upholstered in velvet, a four-poster bed that belonged in a museum or a mausoleum. Everything smelled like cedar and old money and something floral she couldn't name.
The woman—Mrs. Alma, she'd introduced herself with a voice like gravel and honey—led her through the labyrinth of hallways without a word. Past oil paintings of strangers with cruel mouths. Past marble statues whose eyes seemed to follow her. Past doors that were closed and locked and none of her business.
The bathroom was bigger than her entire apartment.
Marble everywhere. Gold fixtures. A tub that could fit four people and a shower stall lined with glass and stone. Mrs. Alma turned on the water, tested the temperature with her wrist, and laid out towels so white they hurt to look at.
"There's clothes on the bed," she said. "Eat something. Sleep."
"Wait—" The word came out desperate. She hated how desperate it sounded. "What happens tomorrow?"
Mrs. Alma paused at the doorway. Her face didn't change—that same impassive mask she'd worn since the moment she'd materialized from the shadows. But something in her eyes softened. Just a fraction. Just enough.
"Tomorrow," she said, "you figure out what you're willing to become."
And then she was gone.
The door clicked shut behind her. The lock didn't turn—small mercies—but the silence that followed was its own kind of prison.
She stood there for a long moment, alone in that cavernous bathroom, listening to the water run. Steam began to curl through the air, fogging the mirrors, softening the edges of everything. She caught a glimpse of herself in the glass—a ghost, a stranger, a woman she didn't recognize.
The dress was ruined. She peeled it off piece by piece, wincing as the torn lace caught on her wounds. The fabric was stiff with dried blood in places, and when she finally stepped out of it, she realized just how much she'd been bleeding. Not enough to be dangerous. Enough to be angry.
Her hands shook as she unclasped her bra. The purple lace—expensive, something she'd bought for a night that never happened—fell to the floor. Her underwear followed.
She didn't look at herself in the mirror. Didn't want to see the bruises blooming across her ribs, the red marks where the zip ties had cut into her wrists, the swollen split in her lip. She didn't need to see it to know it was there. She could feel every inch of it.
The shower was hot. Scalding. Exactly what she needed.
Steam rose around her as she stepped under the spray, and for a moment, she just stood there. Let the water run over her face. Let it wash away the tears she refused to acknowledge. Let it sting against her open wounds like a punishment she hadn't earned.
She looked down at her hands.
Her wrists were ringed with raw, angry flesh—a bracelet of violence she hadn't asked for. The water ran pink where it touched her skin, blood diluting and swirling down the drain in ribbons of color that looked almost beautiful. Almost.
She watched it disappear.
Something else began to disappear too—some last, ragged piece of the girl who had believed in Christian Mercer. The girl who had said yes to his proposal with tears in her eyes. The girl who had trusted him with her body, her heart, her future.
That girl was dead now. She had drowned in blood on a marble floor while a man with storm-gray eyes watched her struggle.
Good fucking riddance.
She reached for the soap—something expensive, something that smelled like jasmine and sandalwood—and began to scrub. Not gentle. She didn't want gentle. She wanted to peel away the last six months of her life, scrape off the residue of every lie he'd ever told her, scour herself clean of the memory of his hands on her skin.
He'd never loved her.
The realization hit her like a physical blow, and she had to brace herself against the shower wall to stay upright.
He'd never loved her.
He'd wanted her body. Wanted her money, what little she had of it. Wanted someone to warm his bed and stroke his ego and believe his lies. Wanted a place to crash when his schemes fell apart. Wanted someone to sacrifice when the stakes got high enough.
She'd been a pawn in his game from the very beginning. A piece to be moved, traded, discarded when she was no longer useful. And she'd been too blind to see it.
Her father's voice echoed in her skull, sharp and clear despite the years since she'd last heard it. He'd been a hard man—a hunter, a survivalist, a man who believed in self-reliance above all else. He'd taught her to shoot when she was seven years old. Taught her to track when she was ten. Taught her that the world was full of predators, and the only way to survive was to become one yourself.
"You see a snake, you don't negotiate," he'd told her once. "You put a bullet in its head. Clean. Quick. Before it sinks its fangs into you."
She should have shot Christian in his smug face.
The thought was so vivid, so visceral, that she almost laughed. She could picture it—Christian's gray eyes wide with shock, blood spreading across his pristine white shirt, his body crumpling to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. She could almost feel the recoil of the pistol in her hands, the satisfying weight of it, the smell of gunpowder and justice.
She'd never lost her marksmanship. Not once. Even after years of living in the city, years of letting that part of herself gather dust, her hands still remembered. Her eyes still knew how to line up a shot.
Christian was lucky he was still breathing.
She finished washing herself with military precision—face, arms, torso, legs, feet. Her feet were a mess, cut in a dozen places from the jagged asphalt of the parking lot and the unforgiving marble of the foyer. She cleaned each cut like her father had taught her, methodical and thorough, refusing to linger on the pain.
When she stepped out of the shower, the water was cold.
She wrapped herself in one of the towels and padded into the bedroom. The clothes Mrs. Alma had left were simple—a plain white t-shirt and a pair of black boy shorts. They were soft, well-worn, and probably not hers. But they fit. Barely.
Her legs were a little shaky, her thighs a bit thicker than the shorts anticipated, but they held. She was built for function, not fashion. Too many years of living rough, too many meals eaten standing up. It was a wonder Christian had even looked at her twice.
She shook her head. No more thinking about Christian.
A tray of food sat on the nightstand—bread, cheese, grapes, a slice of cake she couldn't identify. For one moment, the absurdity of it struck her. She'd been offered up as collateral, dragged across the cold marble of a stranger's home, and now she was being provided with a five-star snack platter. The juxtaposition was almost funny. Almost.
She flicked on the TV. Some news channel, muted, talking heads gesturing at charts. She grabbed the remote and turned the volume up.
"—continuing coverage of the investigation into the Whitmore financial scandal. Authorities are asking anyone with information to come forward."
She tuned it out.
She picked at the food, breaking off pieces of cheese and rolling grapes between her fingers without eating them. Her stomach churned at the thought of food, her appetite as absent as her trust in other human beings.
The cake she ignored entirely.
She pulled her legs up, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the massive bed. The sheets were silk, cool against her skin, and she hated how comfortable they were. Hated how safe she felt in this stranger's home, after everything she'd just been through.
She wondered if it hurt him.
The Alpha King. The man with the gray eyes and the scarred knuckles and the wife who apparently fucked other people.
Christian had slept with her. With the Alpha King's wife. That was part of why they were here, part of what had set all of this in motion. Christian had stuck his dick where it didn't belong, and now he was paying the price.
But what about the Alpha King? Did he care? Did it wound him, find some soft spot under all that granite?
She imagined it would. The wife's betrayal wasn't just an affair—it was a challenge. It was a threat to the order of things, to the carefully constructed world he had built for himself. So much of the other woman's power was wrapped up in who she was tied to, in the legitimacy of being his. An affair undermined that. It made him look weak. It made him a target.
Men like him didn't take that lightly.
Men like her father didn't take that lightly.
She bit her lip. Hard enough to taste copper again, to feel the sting of the split reopening. She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and stared at the television without seeing it.
The wound from Christian's betrayal was still fresh, still bleeding somewhere deep inside her. She'd loved him. She'd trusted him. And he'd sold her like she was nothing more than a debt to be settled.
She wondered if it hurt the Alpha King the same way. If the betrayal cut just as deep, if the wound was just as raw. Or if he was too far gone, too hardened by years of violence and power, to feel anything at all.
Maybe he'd never loved his wife. Maybe the marriage was just a transaction, a strategic alliance like all the other moves in his empire.
The thought should have been comforting. Instead, it just made her sad.
She picked at the food again—a grape this time, rolling it between her fingers, watching the way the light caught the skin. She wasn't hungry. She couldn't remember the last time she'd actually been hungry. Before Christian, maybe. Before she'd started shrinking herself to fit into the space he'd allowed her.
She popped the grape into her mouth and chewed mechanically. It tasted like nothing.
She swallowed it anyway.
The news anchor droned on. Something about a merger. Something about the stock market. She didn't care.
She set the tray aside and lay back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. The silk rustled beneath her, soft and luxurious and completely alien. She shouldn't be here. She should be home, in her cramped apartment with the leaky faucet and the noisy neighbors—those things are the last threads of a gone world. She should be applying for jobs, paying off her credit card debt, planning a future that didn't involve being sold to a cartel kingpin by the man who was supposed to love her.
But home didn't exist anymore. Christian would go there, probably, once he was done licking his wounds and counting his blessings. He'd probably bring another woman back. Probably bring the Alpha King's wife.
She hoped the apartment burned down.
She closed her eyes.
Sleep wouldn't come. She knew that. Her mind was too loud, too chaotic, too full of questions she couldn't answer. But she could lie here, at least. She could rest her body even if her mind refused to rest.
And tomorrow—tomorrow, she would figure out what to do.
What she was willing to become.
Mrs. Alma's words echoed in her skull, and she knew the older woman hadn't meant them as a threat. She meant them as a warning. A reminder, maybe, that survival wasn't about keeping your hands clean. It was about being willing to get them dirty. Whatever it took.
Whatever it took.
She let out a slow breath through her nose. A soft, controlled exhale, like her father had taught her when he'd shown her how to use a scope. Steady. Controlled. Squeeze the trigger, don't pull it.
She was going to survive this.
She was going to make Christian regret ever crossing her.
She was going to make the Alpha King see that she wasn't just a piece of collateral.
And if the wife—the nameless, faceless other woman—was still out there, still breathing, still fucking her way through the city, then she was going to have to answer for what she'd done, too.
That was a problem for another day, though.
Tonight, she was a woman in a borrowed t-shirt and boy shorts, sitting in a bed that wasn't hers, picking at food she couldn't eat, watching a TV she wasn't seeing.
Tonight, she was figuring out how to breathe again.
She reached for the remote and turned the volume down, letting the anchor's voice fade to a murmur. The room felt too quiet without it—too still, too hollow, too much like a tomb.
She turned it back up.
She wasn't ready for silence. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
She took another bite of cheese and stared at the wall.
Tomorrow, everything changes.
Tomorrow, she'd figure it out.