The apartment was too quiet.

No television. No music. Not even the soft hum of the refrigerator I used to notice when everything else was still. Just silence, and the unmistakable weight of it pressing against my chest.

Marcus was home.

I knew it the second I stepped into the building. The doorman wouldn't meet my eyes. The elevator attendant gave me a clipped nod and nothing else. Those were signs I'd learned to read long ago. Like the way our door creaked louder when my hands shook unlocking it.

I stepped inside and gently shut the door behind me. The rose was gone. So was the photo. The spot where they'd lain was clean now, too clean, like someone had scrubbed the memory away.

I took a breath.

Maybe he was asleep. Maybe I could shower, eat something small, and slip quietly into bed before...

"Where were you?"

His voice came from the living room. Steady. Calm. The kind of calm that was worse than rage.

I turned slowly.

Marcus stood near the window, one hand holding a glass of something amber-colored. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled up. And he was smiling. That cold, polished smile that made my stomach churn.

"I stayed late at work," I said, as neutrally as I could manage. "There was a meeting."

He nodded like that explained everything. "Of course. A meeting. And then, what? Naptime in your boss's office?"

I froze.

He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine.

"I didn't sleep last night," I offered. "I was exhausted. He told me to rest."

"He told you."

"Yes."

The silence between us crackled.

"And you just... did what he said?"

I didn't respond. My heart was already hammering too loud. I should've lied better. I should've said I was in the archives. Or the restroom. Or literally anywhere else.

But I was tired of lying.

"He didn't do anything inappropriate," I added quickly. "He just wanted to help."

That was the wrong thing to say.

Marcus's smile sharpened.

"Help?" He set the glass down, too gently. "Do you think I don't know what this is?"

"What what is?"

He stepped closer. "The way you talk about him. The way you flinch when I come near you now. Like you think someone else will protect you. Like you've forgotten who takes care of you."

"No one takes care of me," I said, too quietly.

"What was that?"

I shook my head, backing up a step.

He grabbed my wrist.

Not hard. Not yet. But it was enough to make the fresh bandage sting.

"I saw your hand," he said. " You let him touch you, didn't you?"

"It was first aid, Marcus."

He twisted my wrist, slow and deliberate. I gasped.

"That's how it starts. The boss giving orders. The girl obeying. Don't play stupid with me, Isla."

"I'm not playing anything!" My voice cracked. "He doesn't even know..."

"Know what? That you're mine?" His face was closer now, breath hot and bitter. "That everything you are belongs to me?"

I yanked my arm back. "I'm not property!"

Something in his face changed.

His hand came across my cheek so fast I barely saw it.

The sound cracked through the room like thunder.

I stumbled back, crashing into the edge of the kitchen counter. My vision blurred. My cheek burned.

"I warned you," he said quietly. "I told you not to embarrass me."

I tasted blood.

"I didn't..."

The second hit came harder. My head snapped to the side, and I felt something pop in my lip. Warmth trickled down my chin.

"You think he's going to save you?" Marcus sneered. "Your precious boss? Think he'll come storming in to rescue you like some pathetic white knight?"

He grabbed my arm again and dragged me through the kitchen. I fought him, tried to pull away, but his grip tightened.

He shoved me onto the floor near the dining table. My knees hit tile.

"You don't sleep in another man's office," he snarled. "You don't take drinks from him. You don't let him see you."

My ribs screamed as his foot connected with my side.

I curled in, arms instinctively covering my head, too stunned to scream, too used to staying quiet.

"You listen to me," he growled, towering above me. "You don't forget who you belong to. You don't ever...ever...make me look weak."

I didn't reply.

There was nothing I could say.

So I stayed there, shaking. Bleeding. Silent.

Eventually, his breathing slowed. The rage seeped out of him like a fire dying without oxygen.

He stepped back, adjusted his cuff, and wiped his hands like I was something he needed to clean off.

"I'm going out," he said, like nothing happened. "By the time I get back, you better have remembered who you are."

The door slammed behind him a moment later.

I didn't move.

Couldn't.

I just lay there, cheek pressed to the cold tile, the copper taste of blood heavy in my mouth.

Something inside me cracked that night.

Not loudly. Not all at once.

But enough.

I must've fallen asleep on the floor.

Or maybe I just blacked out for a while. Time passed differently when you were hurt, like your body no longer trusted the clock. When I opened my eyes, the light from the hallway had shifted. The apartment was dimmer, quieter. Still.

My ribs ached when I moved. My cheek throbbed in time with my pulse. I pulled myself up with shaky arms, crawled to the bathroom, and rinsed the blood from my lip with trembling hands.

I didn't cry.

I hadn't in hours.

There were small cuts along my arm, bruises blooming like ink stains across my skin. I dabbed antiseptic over them with what little was left in the cabinet and pressed gauze to my side where the bruise would turn deep purple by morning.

I was still holding the cloth when the door opened.

The slam was lighter this time.

No fury. No yelling. Just the heavy rhythm of his shoes against hardwood, the familiar sound of keys tossed on the table, and the soft clink of a half-empty glass being poured again.

He was calm now.

That was worse.

I didn't move from the bathroom doorway. Just stood there, one hand gripping the counter, the other pressing the cloth to my ribs. The mirror caught my reflection, smeared mascara, split lip, a cheek that was beginning to swell. I looked like someone else. Someone smaller.

His footsteps stopped behind me.

I didn't turn around.

"I shouldn't have done that," Marcus said softly. Not apologetically. Just like he was stating a fact.

I waited.

He came closer.

"You know how I get when I'm pushed." His voice was smooth now, almost gentle. "You shouldn't have lied to me, Isla."

I nodded once.

Not because I agreed. But because I wanted it to be over.

His hands came around my waist, fingers pressing lightly at first, then firmer. My body flinched under his touch, but he didn't notice. Or maybe he did and just didn't care.

"You're so quiet," he murmured, his mouth near my ear. "You used to talk to me."

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

"I'm tired," I said.

"You can rest after," he whispered, his hands sliding under the hem of my shirt. "I need you tonight."

I didn't move. Didn't resist.

Because fighting never made it better.

Because silence was safer.

He turned me slowly, ignoring the hiss I couldn't hold back as my ribs protested. His fingers found the edge of the bandage on my wrist, peeled it back with lazy interest.

"You let him do this?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

"He was helping."

Marcus didn't respond. He kissed the spot, softly, like that made it better, instead it made my skin crawl.

I didn't kiss him back.

I didn't meet his eyes.

I just let him touch me, mechanically, methodically, like I was something owed to him. Something he'd paid for and now expected to use. His lips trailed down my neck, his breath warm against skin that felt cold from the inside out.

When he lifted me onto the bathroom counter, I bit down on my lip to keep from crying out. My side flared in pain. He didn't notice. Or didn't care.

His fingers gripped my hips. His mouth pressed against mine with a hunger I didn't share. I closed my eyes and went somewhere else, somewhere distant and far away where my name didn't belong to him.

"Look at me," he said at one point, voice tight.

I did.

Because it was easier than what would happen if I didn't.

The counter was hard. My body screamed with every motion. My wrists trembled where he pinned them above my head. And still, I said nothing. Gave nothing. Not a sound. Not a plea. Just silence.

When it was over, he kissed my cheek like we were lovers.

Like it was love.

He didn't see the blood that smeared onto his collar.

He didn't ask if I was okay.

He zipped up, poured another drink, and wandered into the bedroom like.

Slowly the hours dragged by...the next day soon came and Marcus was out without even checking if I was fine or not.

I wore black.

Long sleeves. High collar. Slacks instead of a skirt because tights would cling too much to the cuts on my thighs. My blouse was loose, draped just enough to conceal the stiffness in my posture.

It took me twice as long to get dressed. My ribs flared every time I lifted my arms, and the bruises along my hips screamed with every step. But I moved like I was fine. I moved like nothing happened.

That was the trick, wasn't it?

Pretend long enough and it almost looked real.

I didn't look in the mirror before I left the apartment. I didn't need to. I could feel the way my body ached. I could still feel his breath against my skin. His hands. The weight of silence between us.

The ride to work blurred past me. I stared out the car window like the streets were unfamiliar, like I didn't walk this same path every weekday morning. People moved with purpose, talking, laughing, holding coffee cups like weapons of routine.

I envied them.

When I stepped into the building, I held my breath.

The lobby smelled like lemon polish and wealth. The floors gleamed, the glass elevators hummed quietly, and the security guard gave me the same polite nod he always did.

I nodded back.

The elevator ride was short. Too short.

By the time I stepped into the executive floor, I'd braced every part of myself. Shoulders squared. Eyes forward. Hands tucked into the sleeves of my blouse so no one would see the fresh bandage on my wrist or the blooming bruise just beneath it.

Sebastian's door was open.

He was inside, standing near the window, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a folder. He didn't look at me right away, but I felt it the second he did.

His eyes were like a scalpel, quiet, sharp, dangerous when they lingered too long. And they lingered now.

"You're late," he said without turning around fully.

"Traffic," I replied smoothly, my voice steady.

He set the folder down on the edge of his desk, then finally turned to face me.

His gaze swept over me once.

I stood still, arms crossed lightly over my stomach, hiding the way my body leaned too heavily on one leg. I didn't flinch when his eyes narrowed. Didn't shift when he took a slow step forward.

"You look pale."

"I didn't sleep much."

"You never do."

There was a pause. Tension curled in the space between us, unspoken, taut.

Then his eyes flicked to my sleeves.

And stayed there.

"New blouse?" he asked.

"Old one. Just buried in the back of my closet."

"Strange choice for July."

I forced a soft smile. "It's cold in here."

Sebastian didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Just watched me like he was unraveling something thread by thread. I shifted slightly, turning toward my desk, hoping he'd let it go. But his voice followed me, low and quiet.

"Isla."

I stopped.

His tone wasn't sharp. It wasn't even cold. But it cut through me like glass anyway.

I turned just enough to look over my shoulder.

"Yes?"

He studied me for a long moment. Then, without warning, he said, "Tell me the truth."

My stomach twisted.

"About what?"

His jaw ticked. "Why you look like you've been running from something."

I blinked once. Twice.

"I'm not."

His eyes darkened. "You're a terrible liar."

I didn't answer.

Because he was right.

Sebastian stepped closer. Not invading, just... narrowing the space. His eyes flicked to my hands again. I resisted the urge to pull my sleeves down further.

"You weren't like this yesterday," he said.

"I was tired yesterday too."

"No. You were tired." His voice dropped slightly. "But not like this."

There was something in his tone that unsettled me, curiosity, yes, but more than that. Restraint. Controlled concern, like he wanted to ask more but knew I'd shut him out.

Because I would.

Because I had to.

"I'm fine," I said softly, the words like smoke. "Really."

Sebastian didn't believe me. I could tell.

But he didn't push.

Instead, he walked back to his desk, picked up the folder, and handed it to me. Our fingers brushed, brief, but enough to send a jolt through my chest. I pulled away quickly.

"Review the financials on page five," he said, voice neutral again. "Then schedule a meeting with Parsons before noon."

I nodded, clutching the folder like it might anchor me.

And I left his office.

Because I couldn't afford to fall apart under that gaze. Not here. Not where silence had to be my armor.

Not when the bruises were still fresh beneath my sleeves.

Not when my body still remembered everything I didn't want it to.

I stared at the numbers on the screen without really seeing them.

The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, a sound I usually tuned out. Today, it scraped against my nerves. The pressure in my skull throbbed in time with the bruises along my ribs, sharp and steady. Every breath felt shallow, like my lungs had forgotten how to expand properly.

The folder Sebastian handed me earlier lay open beside the keyboard. I'd read it three times and still hadn't absorbed a word.

I shifted in my chair, and pain lit up my side.

I didn't react.

Not outwardly.

I was good at that anyways, wearing the stillness like armor, masking the tight tremble in my hands with controlled movements, silence.

The only sound in my cubicle was the soft click of the mouse.

I hadn't spoken to anyone all morning.

No one tried.

And that was a relief.

Because even a glance, a wrong glance, felt like it might undo me.

When the intercom on my desk crackled, I jumped.

"Isla," Sebastian's voice came through, clipped but low. "My office. Now."

I swallowed once. Then stood.

I walked stiffly to his door, keeping my hands hidden in my sleeves, spine straight despite the pain. The office looked the same as always,too polished, too wide, too cold. But Sebastian wasn't behind the desk.

He stood by the window again.

I shut the door quietly behind me.

"You asked for me."

He turned.

His eyes swept over me, slower this time. More deliberate.

I didn't meet them. I kept my gaze on the floor.

"I read the Parsons report," he said, "but I need your input on the changes in the vendor statements. There's a discrepancy in Q2 projections."

I nodded. "I'll take another look."

He didn't move.

Didn't speak again for a long moment.

Then: "Come here."

I hesitated.

Something in his voice wasn't just business...it just made my stomach flutter.

I walked to the edge of his desk, folder tucked against my chest like a shield. I stood still, waiting for the numbers, the corrections, the email instructions.

But Sebastian didn't speak.

Not right away.

He was watching me too closely again.

"You're hiding something."

Aint that the second time he's saying that today?

The words were soft. Intentional.

I looked up at him, but only for a second.

"I told you. I'm just tired."

He moved then, just a step, but it shifted the air in the room. Close enough to reach me. His hand lifted slightly, hesitating in the space between us. He didn't touch me, not yet, just hovered like he was trying to decide whether I'd break if he did.

I didn't breathe.

And when his fingertips brushed the edge of my sleeve, barely, softly, a whisper of contact, I flinched.

It wasn't dramatic. Not a jump. Not a gasp. Just a tightening of my shoulders, a sharp step back, the sound of breath catching in my throat. Something about his touch made me melt.

But it was enough.

Enough for Sebastian to notice.

Enough to make his hand drop instantly, as if he'd touched a flame and been burned.

His jaw hardened.

He didn't say anything. Didn't try again.

Something shifted behind his eyes, frustration, maybe. Or regret.

Or both.

The silence between us stretched.

I hated it. Hated that I made him pull back. Hated that my body reacted before my mind could stop it. That fear had become instinct.

That Marcus had rewired me this way.

"I didn't mean..."Sebastian started, but didn't finish.

He turned from me, walked back to his desk, and sat down with slow precision. Like he was forcing himself to return to business. Like the moment didn't matter.

But it did.

I stayed where I was, frozen in place.

"Forget it," he said, flipping the folder open. "We'll discuss the projections later."

My voice came out thinner than I meant. "I can fix them now."

"No," he said sharply, then softer, "no. Later's fine."

I nodded once. But didn't move.

Sebastian didn't look at me.

His shoulders were tight. His jaw locked.

I saw the effort in the way he held himself still, how much he was not saying.

I knew that silence well.

It was the same one I lived in.

After a moment, I turned toward the door.

But before I could leave, his voice stopped me again.

"I won't ask you again," he said quietly. "But I see it, Isla."

My fingers tightened on the folder.

"You don't have to be afraid of me."

I didn't answer.

Because I wasn't afraid of him.

I was afraid of what touching felt like now, how it could turn a body into a battlefield. How even kindness could feel dangerous when you were used to cruelty wearing the same face.

"I just want to work," I said.

He nodded once.

I left the office without another word.

But his gaze stayed with me all the way back to my desk.

Burning in the quiet places I tried to keep untouched.