One of Benedict's friends stepped forward, a tall man with graying temples who I vaguely remembered from years ago. His expression was apologetic, almost pleading.

"Fiona, please," he said, his voice carrying that false gentleness people use when they think you're being unreasonable. "You have to understand. Benedict went crazy when you left six years ago. He couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. He was hospitalized twice. The man loves you so much he couldn't function without you."

Love. That word coming from his mouth made my stomach turn. I tightened my grip on John's shoulder, feeling him shake against my leg.

"That's not love," I managed, my voice breaking. "That's—"

But Benedict cut me off, reaching toward me with one hand. The movement made me flinch instinctively, my body remembering what my mind tried to forget. "Stop playing these games, Fiona. You know where you belong. You know who you belong to."

His fingers were inches from my face when a voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"She is my wife."

Edmund.

I turned my head so fast I felt dizzy. He stood ten feet away, flanked by two bodyguards in dark suits, his presence commanding every eye in the corridor. Relief flooded through me so powerfully my knees nearly buckled. Edmund's gaze swept over the scene, taking in Benedict's outstretched hand, John's tears, my trembling stance. His jaw tightened, but when he spoke, his voice remained steady, controlled.

"Your behavior has hurt my wife and frightened my child," he continued, moving forward with measured steps until he stood between Benedict and me. His back was straight, his shoulders squared, and there was something in his posture that made even the crowd step back. "This ends now."

The words carried absolute authority, the kind that came from someone who'd never needed to raise his voice to be heard.

Benedict's face went through a series of rapid changes—confusion, disbelief, then something dark and twisted. "Wife?" The word came out strangled. "No. No, that's not—she wouldn't—"

"Daddy!" John broke free from my grip and ran to Edmund, who scooped him up without taking his eyes off Benedict.

"You're lying," Benedict said, but there was desperation creeping into his voice now. "She couldn't have married someone else. She's mine. She's always been mine."

Then he lunged.

It happened so fast. One moment Benedict was standing with his friends, the next he was reaching for me, trying to grab my arm, shouting words I couldn't process through the roaring in my ears. "You belong with me! You can't just—"

Edmund's bodyguards moved like shadows, intercepting Benedict before his fingers could touch me. They restrained him professionally, their hands firm on his shoulders and arms, but Benedict thrashed against them, his face contorted with rage.

"Let me go! Fiona! Fiona, tell them! Tell them we belong together!"

Edmund turned to me, John still in his arms, and extended his free hand. "Come here."

I took it. His palm was warm, steady, real. The moment our fingers connected, something in my chest unclenched just enough to let me breathe.

"You're making a mistake!" Benedict's voice cracked as Edmund guided us away, his bodyguards maintaining their hold. "She'll come back to me! She always comes back!"

Mall security was rushing toward the commotion now, radios crackling. The crowd parted for us as Edmund led us through, his hand never leaving mine. Behind us, Benedict's screams grew louder, more incoherent.

"Sir," one of the bodyguards said quietly, "we'll ensure he doesn't follow."

Edmund nodded once, his expression unreadable.

The parking garage felt like a different world—quieter, darker, the holiday music reduced to a distant hum. Edmund unlocked the car and settled John in his booster seat before opening the passenger door for me. My hands were still shaking so badly I couldn't manage the seatbelt. Edmund reached over and clicked it into place, his movements gentle, patient.

The drive home started in heavy silence. John's sniffles from the back seat were the only sound until his small voice broke through.

"Mommy? Who was that scary man?"

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. How could I possibly explain?

"Why was he so angry?" John continued, his voice wobbling. "Did we do something bad?"

"No, sweetheart," Edmund said, his tone calm and reassuring in a way I couldn't manage. "Sometimes grown-ups have complicated problems. But the important thing is that you're safe. We're all safe."

"But he said Mommy belonged to him." John's words were so innocent, so confused. "But Mommy belongs with us. Right?"

"Right," Edmund confirmed, squeezing my hand. "Your mother is exactly where she belongs."

I stared out the window, watching the city lights blur past. Edmund's hand remained locked with mine, his thumb tracing small circles on my palm. But I couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel anything except the echo of Benedict's voice, the ghost of his reaching hand, the terror in John's crying.

Six years. I'd had six years of peace, of building a life, of almost believing I could forget.

But seeing Benedict's face again, hearing that voice—it was like no time had passed at all.

And somewhere in the depths of my mind, where nightmares lived, I heard another voice. Younger, colder, feminine.

Claire.

If Benedict was back, how long until she followed?

The house was quiet when we got home. Too quiet. Edmund carried John upstairs, the boy's head resting on his shoulder, his earlier tears dried into streaks on his flushed cheeks. I followed behind, my legs moving on autopilot, each step feeling like I was walking through water.

"I'll put him to bed," Edmund said softly, pausing at John's bedroom door. His eyes searched mine. "Will you be alright?"

I nodded. Lying. But what else could I do?

In our bedroom, I stripped off my clothes mechanically and stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as I could stand. Steam filled the bathroom, but I couldn't stop shivering. I scrubbed at my skin until it hurt, trying to wash away the memory of Benedict's reaching hand, his voice claiming ownership over me like I was some object he'd misplaced.

When I finally emerged, Edmund was sitting on the edge of our bed, still fully dressed. He looked up as I entered.

"John's asleep," he said. "I checked twice."

"Thank you." My voice sounded hollow even to my own ears.

He stood and came to me, his hands settling gently on my shoulders. "Do you want to talk about it?"

I shook my head. Talking meant remembering. Remembering meant feeling. And I couldn't—I just couldn't.

"Okay," he said simply, and kissed my forehead. "I'm here."

We climbed into bed. Edmund pulled me close, my back against his chest, his arm wrapped protectively around my waist. His steady breathing usually lulled me to sleep, but tonight, every time I closed my eyes, I saw Benedict's face.

Eventually, exhaustion won.

---

The nightmare came like it always did—swift and merciless.

I was walking down the hallway of the Flood mansion, my hand pressed against the wall for balance. Six months pregnant. My feet ached. The house was too quiet, and something felt wrong, but I couldn't name what.

Then I heard it. A sound. A laugh. Claire's laugh, coming from Benedict's bedroom.

I pushed open the door.

They were tangled together on the bed, Claire's hair spilling across Benedict's chest, her lips curved in satisfaction. Benedict's hand was stroking her back, tender in a way he'd never touched me.

The world tilted.

"Fiona," Benedict said, not even bothering to look guilty. "We need to talk."

But Claire moved faster. She lunged at me, her face twisted with rage. "You don't belong here! You never did!"

Her nails raked across my arm. I stumbled backward, trying to protect my stomach, but she kept coming. The pain was sharp, immediate. Blood bloomed through my sleeve.

"Stop!" I screamed. "The baby—"

Then the cramping started. Deep, wrenching pain that stole my breath. I collapsed, my hands clutching at my belly, feeling the wrongness spreading through my body.

Claire stood over me, her expression triumphant.

Benedict finally moved, but not to help me. He stood between us, his face cold. "This is your fault, Fiona. You caused this drama. You always cause drama."

"Benedict, please," I begged, blood pooling beneath me on the hardwood floor. "The baby—help me—"

"Get out," Claire said, her voice calm now, victorious. "Get out of our house."

And Benedict said nothing. Nothing. He just watched as they threw me out, still bleeding, still losing my baby, into the cold night.

The stitches in my arm pulled. The fever burned. And I was alone.

Alone.

Alone.

---

"Fiona! Fiona, wake up!"

I was screaming. I realized it distantly, as if the sound was coming from someone else's throat. My body was tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, my limbs thrashing against invisible attackers.

"You're safe. You're safe. I've got you."

Edmund's arms locked around me, pulling me against his chest. His heart thundered beneath my ear, his voice steady even as his hands shook slightly.

"Breathe," he murmured. "Just breathe. You're here. You're with me. John's down the hall. We're all safe."

But I couldn't breathe. My lungs wouldn't work. The images were still there—Claire's triumphant smirk, Benedict's cold dismissal, the blood, so much blood—

"I know," Edmund said, rocking me gently. "I know. Let it out."

A sound tore from my throat, something between a sob and a wail. Edmund just held me tighter, his hand stroking my hair, his lips pressing against my temple again and again.

We sat like that in the darkness. Minutes. Hours. I didn't know. Time had lost meaning. Edmund didn't ask me to explain. Didn't demand words I couldn't form. He just held me while I shook, while the panic slowly, agonizingly slowly, began to recede.

"I'm here," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere. Never."

I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him.

But Benedict's voice still echoed in my head: *You know where you belong.*

And somewhere in the darkness, I could almost hear Claire laughing.