The rain had softened to a whisper against the penthouse windows, but inside Aria the memories refused to quiet.

She lay on her back, towel discarded on the floor, staring at the ceiling where city lights painted faint blue veins across the plaster. The phone rested dark on her chest. She didn't need to read Damien's messages again. One line had already dragged her back.

You couldn't finish a sentence.

She let the past rise... slow, unresisted.

It began gently.

After the funeral rain-kiss, after the first night in her bed where grief had turned to something raw and necessary, they found a rhythm that felt almost... normal.

Soft dates.

A quiet dinner at a small Italian place in the West Village... candlelight, no reservations, just a corner table where he listened while she talked about Reginald's old habits: how he always ordered the same Barolo, how he folded his napkin in perfect thirds. Damien never interrupted. He watched her mouth form the words, gray eyes steady, like he was memorizing the shape of her grief.

Walks along the Hudson at dusk... his coat over her shoulders when the wind turned sharp, his hand brushing hers without grabbing. Once he stopped at a street vendor, bought her a paper cup of hot cider, handed it to her without a word. She sipped. He watched the steam curl around her face. She smiled... real, unguarded. He smiled back... small, rare.

Nights in her penthouse where they didn't fuck immediately.

They sat on the living-room floor, backs against the sofa, her legs draped over his lap while she read acquisition reports aloud. He traced idle circles on her ankle with his thumb. Sometimes he'd lean over, kiss her temple, murmur, "You're doing better than you think." She believed him. The weight on her chest felt lighter when he said it.

Soft moments stacked like stones in a cairn.

Him cooking breakfast... simple eggs, toast, coffee exactly how she liked it... while she stood behind him in his shirt, chin on his shoulder, arms around his waist. Him brushing her hair after a shower, slow strokes with no agenda, just the quiet sound of bristles on wet strands. Her falling asleep on his chest while he read emails, his free hand stroking her back in long, soothing lines.

Endless happiness that justified every mood.

She laughed more. Slept deeper. Woke without the immediate knot of dread. For the first time since Reginald's diagnosis, the days didn't feel like walking on broken glass.

Until they did.

The boardroom became a pressure chamber.

Victor Kane's "suggestions" turned into veiled ultimatums. Shareholders whispered about "transitional risk." The waterfront parcel stalled in zoning limbo. Emails arrived at 3 a.m. from panicked directors. She juggled three conference calls before lunch, reviewed term sheets during dinner, answered investor questions while brushing her teeth.

She began to fray.

One Tuesday... six weeks after the funeral... she cracked.

The board had just ended a two-hour call where Victor calmly suggested a "temporary advisory committee" to "support" her decisions. The word temporary felt like a guillotine. She left the conference room shaking, palms clammy, vision narrowing.

She needed air.

Needed him.

Without much prolong thought... she texted Damien.

Can we talk? I'm drowning.

No reply.

She waited ten minutes... pacing the hallway, phone clutched like a lifeline.

Nothing.

She grabbed her coat, told her assistant she was stepping out, took the private elevator down.

The drive to his apartment in Tribeca felt endless... traffic snarling, rain starting again, her pulse hammering in her ears.

She parked crookedly, ran through the drizzle, rang his doorbell once, twice, three times.

The door creaked open.

Damien stood there... half-naked, low-slung black trousers clinging to his hips, bare chest glistening with a faint sheen of sweat. A cigarette dangled from his lips; smoke curled lazily upward.

His gray eyes were darker than usual... shadowed, almost hollow.

Aria blinked. "What's wrong with you? I texted you nine times."

He exhaled smoke slowly. "Nine times is countable."

She clasped her hands together... nails biting palms. "It was important. I needed you."

He shrugged one shoulder. "You're here. That's what you should have done in the first place." He stepped aside. "Come in."

She walked past him... immediately assaulted by the thick, acrid smell of cigarette smoke hanging in the air. She wrinkled her nose.

"Stop smoking that poison."

He looked at the cigarette like he'd forgotten it was there. After a slight hesitation, he crushed it in the ashtray on the side table.

They moved to the living room... sofa low and dark, city lights slanting through half-closed blinds.

He offered a drink.

"Water is good, for now" she said.

He brought it. Sat beside her... close enough that their thighs touched.

She started talking...voice cracking at first, then gaining speed.

"The board wants oversight. Victor's pushing. They don't trust me. I'm trying to hold everything together and I can't... I can't breathe..."

He listened or maybe he seemed to.

Then he moved closer.

Hand sliding to her neck... gentle at first... cupping the nape, thumb stroking the pulse point under her jaw.

She faltered. "Are you even listening?"

His eyes... predatory now... locked on hers.

"Yes."

His palm wrapped fully around her throat... not tight yet, just holding.

She swallowed... felt the pressure increase slightly.

"Damien..."

He choked her... just enough to make her gasp softly.

Before she could protest, his mouth claimed hers.

Soft for one heartbeat.

Then slowly weave into aggressive motion.

Teeth clashing, tongue invading, hand tightening on her throat until black spots danced at the edges of her vision.

She pushed at his chest... weak, panicked.

He didn't release.

Instead he stood... lifted her like she weighed nothing... carried her to the bedroom.

Threw her on the bed.

Tore her blouse open... buttons scattering.

Bra ripped aside.

Skirt shoved up.

Panties torn off.

He flipped her onto her stomach... face pressed into the mattress.

Yanked her hips up.

Slapped her ass... hard... once, twice, three times until skin burned red.

She cried out... muffled.

He slapped her cheek... open palm... sharp sting.

"Quiet," he growled.

Another slap to the face.

She tasted copper... lip split.

He entered her in one brutal thrust... no warning, no gentleness.

She screamed into the pillow.

He fucked her hard... relentless... hips slamming, one hand fisted in her hair yanking her head back, the other choking her throat from behind.

He bent her into impossible angles...legs forced wide, arms pinned, body folded until she could barely breathe.

Slapped her thighs.

Her breasts.

Her face again... harder.

Each impact drove him deeper.

She sobbed... tears streaming... body betraying her with unwanted pulses of pleasure even as panic clawed her chest.

He came with a guttural roar... spilling inside her... then collapsed over her back, still buried, breathing ragged.

After a long minute he rolled off.

Pulled her against him.

Held her while she shook.

Kissed her temple.

"I'm with you, baby" he whispered.

She believed him.

Even though something precious had cracked forever.

***

The memory snapped shut.

Aria opened her eyes.

She was still on the bed, facing the ceiling, tears drying on her temples.

Where had it gone wrong?

Why hadn't she left the first time he choked her too hard?

Why had she stayed when the slaps started, when the gentleness evaporated, when every soft date was paid for later in bruises and shame?

Why had she let herself get used to it... crave it... need the violence to feel seen?

Her phone lit up... an email notification.

Subject: Reminder: Fintech Summit Panel – Tomorrow 10 AM

She sighed... long, bone-deep.

Tomorrow she had to sit under lights, answer questions, pretend she was still in control.

She closed her eyes again.

The storm inside her hadn't ended.

It had only paused.

***

The Javits Center thrummed the next morning... bright white halls, camera crews bustling, chairs scraping as technicians arranged the panel table.

Coworkers whispered near the coffee station... gossiping about the waterfront stall, about Victor's latest "concerns," about whether Aria could hold it together.

Victor stood near a shareholder, his silver hair gleaming, voice low and confident.

"She'll falter. Watch. The audience will see it."

Marcus arrived... immaculate, silver-haired, expression unreadable.

He scanned the room... nodded to Victor once.

Damien was nowhere yet.

The room hushed when Aria entered.

Her scent arrived first... dark jasmine, expensive, irresistible... then the woman herself.

Black tailored dress... high neck, long sleeves, hem at the knee... but the way she moved was heavy, as though someone had dragged her out of bed.

Greetings came from left and right... quiet, careful.

She nodded... mechanical.

Marcus approached... hand light on her elbow.

"You look composed," he said. "Good. They need to see strength today. Not... distraction."

The word distraction carried weight.

She met his eyes... tired, defiant.

"I know what they need."

He smiled... thin.

"Good girl."

She looked around... searching for Damien.

Gone.

She sighed... small, defeated... and moved toward her seat.

Ethan appeared at her side... warm brown eyes, gentle smile.

He slipped a folded note into her hand.

"Some finance jargon you might want. Just in case."

She opened it... neat handwriting: key terms, quick ratios, regulatory shorthand.

She looked up... smiled... real, small.

"Thank you."

He nodded... no pressure.

Marcus and Victor shared a glance across the room... silent agreement.

Aria sat.

Panelists filed in... across from her... all eyes on the heiress.

The moderator smiled... cameras rolled.

Aria began... voice steady at first.

She read from her iPad, glanced at Ethan's note, wove data and vision together.

The audience leaned forward... engaged, nodding.

She was winning.

Then the side door opened.

Damien entered.

Charcoal suit, sleeves rolled, ink visible, eyes dangerous.

He walked straight to the seat beside her.

Sat.

Ordered quietly to the moderator: "I'm her motivation."

They let him.

Aria swallowed... continued.

Good... and strong.

Until his pen rolled off the table.

He bent to pick it up.

Stayed down for a bit.

Noticed her legs... slightly parted under the table, dress riding up just enough.

No underwear.

He smirked... small, lethal.

Rose slowly.

Adjusted his chair... closer.

Hand slid under the tablecloth.

Traced her inner thigh... slow, then higher.

Found bare skin... slick already.

One finger pushed inside... slow, deep.

She faltered... voice catching.

"...and with mitigated exposure..."

He added a second finger.

Thrust lazily... curling.

Thumb on her clit... slow circles.

Her flow crumbled... stammering, inconsistent.

Audience looking confused, sharing constant glances to guess what's going on.

Panelists frowned.

She came... silent... body locking, water dripping down her leg under the table.

She stood up to makeup an excuse to leave, noticed her leg, and sat back... gestured to her assistant.

"Napkin, please."

Assistant hurried over.

Aria bent... pretending to reach... wiped herself.

Threw the wet napkin at Damien's foot.

Stood.

Walked out... head high, legs trembling.

Victor and Marcus shared a smirk.

Ethan followed... polite, concerned.

"Aria... wait."

She ignored him.

"Later."

She stormed to her office, angrily threw her purse on the desk... pacing... heels clacking like gunfire.

Damien walked in.

She spun... grabbed his tie... yanked him close with all her strength.

"How dare you, asshole? Why do you get pleasure watching me go down? You're a fucking monster."

Tears came... hot, furious.

"I needed support. I'm fading. And you're amplifying it."

She listed every hurt... every slap, every choke, every time gentleness turned violent.

Damien said nothing. Yet.

Just stared... hot, bitter, regretful.

Then he spoke... low, raw.

"I'm addicted to you, Aria. Every time I see you... I want to fuck you back and forth, choke you hard, make sure you have nothing to say but my name..."

Her palm cracked across his face... hard.

"You son of a bitch. Fuck you."

She grabbed her purse... stormed out.

Anger boiled off her... visible, blazing... everyone saw it.

Marcus stepped into her path... calm, paternal.

"Relax. Let Damien calm you down."

She shoved past him... hard.

Out of the building.

Ethan was already outside... waiting.

He rushed up... pleading.

"Please, let me drive you home."

She shouted"Leave me alone!"

He didn't.

Caught her hand... gentle but firm. "Ms Voss, please"

She sobbed... collapsed against his shoulder... matching his height perfectly.

He wrapped arms around her waist, professionally... petted her back... soft murmurs.

They stood like that... one minute, two.

Ethan looked up... toward the entrance.

Damien stood there... watching.

Face carved from stone.

Ethan whispered against her hair.

"Let's get out of here Ms Voss."

He guided her to the car... opened the door... helped her in.

Started the engine and zoomed off almost immediately.

Behind them, Marcus walked slowly to Damien's side.

Leaned close... whispered low, deliberate.

"Don't let that happen, Damien... she's yours!"

Damien's jaw locked.

The car disappeared into traffic.

And in the silence that followed, something irrevocable shifted.

***

The penthouse felt colder than usual that night.

Aria stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, arms wrapped around herself, still wearing the black dress from the summit. Rain had started again... soft, persistent... streaking the glass like slow tears. She hadn't turned on any lights. The city glowed beyond the window in muted blues and golds, indifferent to the ache in her chest.

Her phone buzzed on the marble counter behind her.

She didn't look.

She already knew who it was.

The first text had come ten minutes after Ethan dropped her off.

Damien: We're not done.

Damien: Come back to the office.

Damien: Or I come to you.

Then silence... for thirty-seven minutes.

Then the flood began.

Damien: Your slap was nothing to me.

Damien: And crying on that commoner's shoulder?

Damien: You think that changes anything?

Damien: It doesn't.

Damien: You still taste like me.

Damien: You still come for me.

Damien: Talk to me, Aria.

Damien: I'm waiting baby.

She powered the phone off.

Set it face-down.

Walked to the bedroom and tried to sleep it off but couldn't.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his hand under the table... slow circles on her clit while the audience leaned forward, hanging on her words. She saw her own face on the live feed... composed at first, then cracking, stammering, flushing. She saw Ethan's note crumpled in her fist, useless now.

She saw Damien's eyes when she slapped him... burning, regretful, possessive.

She rolled onto her side.

Curled into herself.

The phone buzzed again... somehow, even powered off, the vibration seemed louder.

She ignored it.

Morning came gray and heavy.

Voss Tower felt like a trap.

The lobby security nodded too politely. The elevator ride was silent except for her breathing. When the doors opened on the executive floor, heads turned... quick glances, then away.

Victor Kane waited outside her office.

Silver hair gleaming under the fluorescents, suit immaculate, smile thin as a blade.

"Aria," he said warmly... too warmly. "A word?"

She didn't stop walking.

He fell into step beside her.

"Yesterday's panel was... illuminating," he continued. "The audience noticed the... inconsistency. Shareholders are asking questions. They wonder if you're fully focused."

She unlocked her office door.

"I'm focused."

"Are you?" Victor leaned against the frame...casual, blocking her escape. "The waterfront parcel is stalling. The board is restless. Perhaps a temporary advisory committee would help. Share the load. Ease the pressure."

She turned... slow... met his eyes.

"I don't need help carrying what's mine."

Victor's smile didn't waver.

"Of course not. But perception matters. And right now, perception is that you're distracted. Emotionally compromised. A united front would silence the whispers."

He stepped closer... lowered his voice.

"Marcus and I have discussed it. A stronger partnership. A clearer chain of command."

She felt the implication like ice water.

"Get out, now."

Victor raised both hands... mock surrendering.

"Just thinking of the company, Aria. Your father would want stability."

He walked away... unhurried... leaving the door open.

She slammed it.

Leaned against it and breathed. hard!

Her phone... now powered on... lit up with new messages.

Damien: I'm downstairs.

Damien: Come talk.

Damien: Or I come up.

Damien: You know I will.

She deleted the thread.

Blocked the number.

Tried to work as possible as she could but couldn't.

Every email felt like noise. Every spreadsheet looked like a trap. She paced... heels clacking... then sat, stared at the wall.

Lunch came and went.

She didn't eat.

At 3:17 p.m., the intercom buzzed.

Her assistant's voice... hesitant.

"Ms. Voss? Mr. Blackwood is here. He says it's urgent."

"Tell him I'm in a meeting."

A pause.

"He's... insisting."

"Tell him no."

Another pause.

"He's walking past me."

The door opened without knocking.

Damien filled the frame... charcoal suit rumpled now, sleeves rolled, gray eyes stormy.

She stood.

"Get out."

He closed the door behind him.

Locked it.

"We need to talk."

"No. We don't."

He stepped closer.

"You blocked me."

"Yes."

"You cried on his shoulder yesterday, you let him drive you home, Aria."

She lifted her chin.

"And?"

His jaw ticked.

"And you think that erases everything?"

She laughed... short, bitter.

"There's nothing to erase. You broke it. You broke us."

He moved faster than she expected... hand cupping her jaw, thumb pressing her lower lip.

"You're still mine."

She slapped his hand away.

"Touch me again and I'll scream."

He stepped back... hands raised... but eyes never left hers.

"You're running," he said quietly. "But you can't run from what's inside you."

She turned away... walked to the window.

"Leave."

He didn't.

"I'm not going anywhere."

She spun.

"Then I will."

She grabbed her coat, purse... stormed past him.

He caught her wrist... gentle this time.

"Aria... "

She yanked free.

"Don't."

She walked out... fast... heels echoing down the hallway.

Heads turned again.

She didn't care this time.

Elevator then, Lobby then... the Street.

Rain again... harder now.

She walked... fast... head down, ignoring the stares, the umbrellas, the honks.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket... new number, unknown.

She knew it was him.

She powered it off again.

Kept walking.

Blocks blurred.

Until she stopped... breathing hard... outside a small café she used to go to with him.

She stared at the window table.

Remembered those soft mornings.

Cider.

His thumb on her ankle.

She turned away... fast... almost running.

Back to the tower. Up the elevator. Into her office.

Locked the door.

Sat at her desk.

Head in her hands.

The phone... powered on again... lit with one final message.

Damien: You can run all day.

Damien: But you'll be right back.

Damien: You always do.

She stared at the screen.

Tears slipped free... silent.

Then she deleted it.

Blocked the new number.

Tried to breathe, pace by pace.

But the pull was there... deep, insistent... like a hook lodged in her ribs.

She stood.

Walked to the window.

Looked down at the street.

Saw his black SUV idling at the curb.

Saw him inside... watching up at her window.

She stepped back... out of sight.

Pressed her forehead to the glass.

Whispered to the empty room:

"I can't keep doing this."

But even as she said it, she felt the lie.

Downstairs, Damien sat in the driver's seat...engine off... eyes fixed on her floor.

His phone buzzed.

It was Marcus.

He answered.

Marcus's voice... low, calm.

"She's slipping further. Hale is circling. The board is moving. You need to lock this down."

Damien's grip tightened on the wheel.

"I will."

A pause.

Marcus's tone sharpened.

"Tonight. No more games. Remind her who owns her. Before she forgets."

Damien stared up at the darkened window.

His jaw locked.

"I won't let her forget, never."

He ended the call.

Started the engine.

But he didn't drive away.

He waited.

Because he knew... she would feel him down here.

And eventually... she would look.

And when she did...

He'd be ready.

 ***

The private jet lifted off from Teterboro just after dawn, the Hudson River shrinking beneath them until it was nothing more than a silver thread stitched into the gray morning. Aria sat by the window in a cream cashmere sweater and wide-leg trousers, bare feet tucked beneath her on the leather seat, a half-finished cup of chamomile tea cooling in her hands. Aria's friends, Lila and Maya were already laughing in the back... champagne flutes clinking, a playlist of old R&B filling the cabin with warmth. The flight attendant had dimmed the lights and drawn the shades on the opposite side so the sun wouldn't glare.

For the first time in weeks, Aria felt the knot in her chest loosen... just a fraction.

No board calls. No Victor's thin smiles. No Damien's texts lighting up her phone like accusations.

She had turned the device off the moment she stepped onto the tarmac and left it in the car. The SIM card was still in her purse... uninserted... because even the thought of powering it on made her stomach twist. She had told Ethan she was taking three days to breathe. He had calmly told her, said "Call me when you land," and let her go without a single question. That gentleness still felt foreign, almost fragile, like something she might break if she held too tightly.

The island waited in the Caribbean... small, private, rented through a friend of Maya's who owned half the coastline. No paparazzi. No board members. Just white sand, turquoise water, and a villa with glass walls that opened to the sea.

They landed in the late afternoon.

Palm fronds swayed in the salt breeze as the golf cart carried them from the airstrip to the house. Lila linked arms with Aria the moment their feet touched sand.

"Three days," she declared. "No work. No men. Just us, cocktails, and the kind of silence that actually heals."

Aria managed a smile... small, real.

"I can do that."

The villa was all open air and white linen... ceiling fans turning lazily, sheer curtains billowing, the ocean so close she could hear it breathing. They changed into swimsuits, poured rum over crushed ice, and walked barefoot down to the water. The sun was low and forgiving; it turned the sea into molten gold.

For two days, the world stayed small and kind.

They floated on their backs until their fingers pruned. They laughed until their stomachs hurt over stories from college they hadn't told in years. They ate grilled fish and mango salsa at dusk, bare legs dangling off the edge of the infinity pool. At night they lay on loungers under a blanket of stars, passing a joint back and forth, talking about nothing and everything.

Aria let herself breathe.

She let herself forget... for moments at a time... that there was a man back in New York who could make her body betray her mind with a single touch.

She almost believed the forgetting could last.

Meanwhile, in Lower Manhattan, the forty-fifth-floor boardroom of Voss Tower smelled of fresh espresso and old ambition.

Marcus Blackwood sat at the head of the long ebony table, sleeves rolled to the elbows, silver hair catching the late-afternoon light. Victor Kane occupied the chair to his right... legs crossed, fingers steepled, the faint smirk never quite leaving his lips. Two other board members... older men who had known Reginald since the early days... sat opposite, silent but attentive. The door was closed. The blinds were drawn.

Marcus spoke first, voice low and measured.

"She's gone quiet. Three days. No calls. No emails. No updates on the Singapore parcel."

Victor leaned forward slightly.

"Or on the regulatory filings that were due yesterday."

One of the older men cleared his throat.

"She sent a brief note saying she needed personal time. After the panel..."

"The panel," Victor interrupted smoothly, "where she unraveled in front of live cameras. Shareholders are asking questions. Quietly, for now. But they won't stay quiet long."

Marcus's gaze moved to the empty chair at the far end of the table.

"Where is my son?"

Victor's smile thinned.

"Downstairs. In his office. Staring at his phone like it owes him money."

Marcus exhaled through his nose.

"He's losing focus."

"He's losing her," Victor corrected. "And if he loses her, we lose the voting bloc we need to keep this company from being carved up by hedge funds next quarter."

Silence settled... thick, calculating.

Marcus tapped one finger against the table.

"Find out where she is," he said quietly. "Discreetly."

Victor inclined his head.

"Already in motion."

Downstairs, Damien sat alone in his office.

The room was dark except for the blue glow of his laptop screen. Spreadsheets open but untouched. A half-empty glass of bourbon beside his elbow.

His phone lay face-up on the desk.

No new messages.

He had texted her fourteen times since yesterday morning... different numbers each time, knowing she would block them one by one. The last one had been simple:

Unknown: You can't hide forever.

Unknown: I know where you are.

No reply.

He leaned back in the chair, rubbed a hand over his jaw.

The door opened without knocking.

Victor stepped inside... alone... closed it behind him.

Damien didn't look up.

"You're late."

Victor walked to the window, hands in his pockets.

"She's on St. Barthélemy. Private villa. Friends only. No security detail. No staff that can be bought."

Damien's eyes lifted slowly.

"How long?"

"Since yesterday morning."

Damien exhaled... long, controlled.

Victor turned.

"You're letting her run."

Damien's voice was quiet. Dangerous.

"She's not running from me. She's running from herself."

Victor's smile was thin.

"Poetic. But shareholders aren't moved by poetry. They're moved by stability. And right now she looks unstable."

Damien stood... slowly... walked to the window beside Victor.

Stared down at the glittering Financial District.

"I'll bring her back."

Victor studied him.

"How?"

Damien's reflection in the glass was carved from stone.

"The same way I always do."

Victor raised a brow.

"By doing exactly what?"

Damien didn't answer.

He didn't need to.

Victor lingered a moment longer, then walked to the door.

"Marcus wants results before the next board call. Don't disappoint him."

The door clicked shut.

Damien stayed at the window.

He pulled his phone from his pocket.

Typed one last message... to a new burner number he knew she hadn't blocked yet.

Unknown: Enjoy the island.

Unknown: I'll be waiting when you land.

Unknown: And you will land in my arms.

Unknown: Always do.

He hit send.

Then he opened his laptop.

Pulled up the flight manifests he'd already acquired.

Stared at the return itinerary.

Three days.

He had three days to plan.

And he had never needed more than one.

Back on the island, the third evening arrived soft and golden.

Aria stood ankle-deep in the surf, dress hiked to her thighs, salt water licking her calves. The sky was bruised with sunset... pink and violet bleeding into indigo. Lila and Maya were up at the villa, laughter drifting down on the breeze.

She felt almost peaceful.

Almost.

Then her purse... left on the lounger behind her... buzzed once.

She froze.

She had powered the phone on that morning... just to check messages from her assistant. She had told herself she wouldn't look at anything else.

She lied.

She walked back slowly... sand clinging to her feet... picked up the purse.

Pulled the phone out.

One message. Unknown number.

She opened it.

Read the four lines.

Her breath caught... sharp, painful.

She stared at the screen until the words blurred.

Then she looked up... toward the horizon.

Somewhere across the ocean, he was waiting.

And she knew... deep in the place she could no longer lie to herself... that when the plane touched down in New York, he would be there.

Not at the airport.

Not at her building.

But inside her head.

Inside her body.

Inside every breath she tried to take without him.

She closed her eyes.

The surf kept rolling in... slow, relentless.

And somewhere in the distance, the first stars began to appear.

***