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.

The hallway light flickered as I unlocked the apartment door.

I stepped inside quietly, shutting it behind me with practiced care. The air felt warmer than usual. Not in temperature, but in weight, less thick, less ready to strangle. No music playing. No boots kicked across the living room floor. No smell of alcohol or aftershave hanging heavy in the air.

Just quiet.

The kind of quiet that didn't press against your skin like a warning.

I dropped my bag beside the coat rack, careful not to make a sound. My ribs still ached from days ago, but the pain had settled into something duller, something background. I could move without gasping. That was new.

Marcus wasn't home yet.

And that... that felt like a small mercy.

I walked into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water, fingers still trembling faintly from the way Sebastian had looked at me. From the heat behind his words.

I didn't want to be seen. Not like that.

But I also hadn't stopped thinking about the way he stepped back. The way he didn't force anything. The way his voice cracked, just a little, like he hated the silence too.

I leaned against the counter and took a long drink, letting the water ground me.

A key turned in the front door.

I tensed.

Old habit.

But when Marcus walked in, he didn't slam the door. Didn't shout my name.

He looked...normal.

If such a word could still apply.

He wore a dark blue dress shirt, unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled to his elbows. No tie. His hair was mussed like he'd driven with the windows down. He looked at me, eyes pausing just a moment on the glass in my hand, but didn't comment.

Then, surprisingly, he smiled.

Not wide. Not warm. But not cruel either.

"Hey," he said.

Just that. Simple.

"Hey," I answered softly.

I didn't move.

He walked to the kitchen slowly, pulled something small from his pocket. A box. Velvet. Black.

I stared at it.

He held it out like it wasn't strange. Like this was normal.

"What's that?"

Marcus didn't answer right away. Just opened it.

Inside was a necklace, gold, thin, delicate. A single pendant shaped like a teardrop. Clean, expensive-looking.

"It reminded me of you," he said.

I didn't know what to say to that. My thoughts snagged on the word reminded. On the strange softness in his voice.

"I thought you'd like it."

He stepped forward, still holding the box.

Then, without asking, he reached behind my neck and clasped it on.

His fingers brushed my skin, lightly. Not possessively. Not in anger. Just contact.

I froze anyway.

But it didn't come. The blow. The snap. The turn.

He stepped back.

"There," he said. "Looks better on you."

I touched the pendant. It was cool against my collarbone, unfamiliar and strange.

"Thank you," I said, though the words felt paper-thin in my mouth.

Marcus didn't press for more.

He walked to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and sat on the couch like this was just a Thursday evening in a perfectly ordinary home. Like he hadn't shattered me three nights ago. Like he hadn't pinned me against the floor, rage in his hands and eyes.

I stood in the kitchen a while longer, not sure if I was allowed to breathe yet.

But he didn't call me over.

Didn't raise his voice.

Didn't even glance at his phone.

For once, the apartment didn't feel like a place waiting to punish me.

I took the risk and slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. The mirror caught my reflection. Pale, hollow-eyed. But the necklace caught the light, shimmering like it belonged on someone else's neck entirely.

I ran a thumb over it, slowly.

This was a peace offering.

Or a warning.

I wasn't sure which.

But it told me something all the same.

Marcus wasn't stupid. He'd seen the tension lately. Maybe even sensed that something was pulling my attention elsewhere. And this, this necklace, this sudden strange kindness, was his version of a leash.

Not a chain. A thread.

One he could tighten the moment he wanted.

I stared at my reflection and made a decision.

I would keep my distance from Damian.

I had to.

Even if I couldn't fully avoid him at work, I could limit it. No lingering. No private meetings. No conversations that strayed past data and reports. I wouldn't give Marcus a reason. Wouldn't let the thread snap.

Because Sebastian didn't deserve to be caught in the storm I lived in.

And for now, just for tonight, I wasn't being hit.

That had to be enough.

I left the bathroom quietly and walked to the bedroom. Marcus was still in the living room, watching a show with the volume low. He didn't follow. Didn't ask for anything.

That was rare.

I curled up on the far side of the bed, fingers brushing the pendant again. It still felt foreign, like it didn't belong to me. But it was proof, twisted, strange proof, that Marcus thought he still had control.

And if I could keep that illusion alive, maybe I could buy more nights like this.

Nights where I wasn't broken.

Nights where I didn't bleed.

I closed my eyes.

And for the first time in what felt like years, I fell asleep before midnight.

No crying.

No flinching at shadows.

Just a faint pulse of silver against my chest and the knowledge that, for now, I was safe.

Not free.

But safe.

And that was enough to breathe. Even the heavens saw me smile in my sleep.