He was there.
Wolfe stepped into the alcove light, not rushing, not glaring. Justarriving.Like judgment itself. He didn’t look at the ring. His gaze pinned my hand. Then my face. Then my hand again.
“That doesn’t belong to you,” he said.
His voice was soft. Even. Cold in the way silk is cold when it slips down your back before it tightens into a knot.
“Not anymore.”
The breath I’d been holding fractured in my chest.
I pulled my hand back like I’d touched flame. My mouth opened. I had nothing to offer. Not words. Not apology. Not even hope.
He didn’t move closer. Didn’t raise his voice. He just stood there like the god of some older myth.
And said, “You’ll earn it back.”
A pause.
A breath.
“If I let you.”
Then he turned. And left me standing in the glow of something I used to call mine. Now? It was a symbol. Of failure. Of consequence. Of something too sacred to be given back without penance.
I stared at the ring for one more heartbeat. Then turned away. Back toward the room he’d assigned me. Every step stretched long.
Slow.
Painful.
The hallway felt longer than it should have, like I was walking further from something I’d never
I walked back to the room he gave me. The hallway felt longer now. Each footstep slower. The weight behind my ribs wasn’t fear. It was gravity. Shame has a mass. And mine pulled me down with every step.
The door was still open. The light flickered once as I crossed the threshold—like it was warning me. Like it didn’t want to light this space for me.
I didn’t turn it off. I didn’t touch the boxes. I didn’t run my fingers along the shelf, or pretend this room had ever belonged to anyone real. I sat on the edge of the twin bed, the blanket still folded tight like no one was expected to use it.
Quakes ran through my body. I curled my shoulders and held on. I didn’t cry. Because the crying had already happened—silently, somewhere between the car and the ring. What I felt now was different. It was a quiet collapse. A submission to stillness.
There was a water bottle on the nightstand. Unopened. Room temperature. No glass. No gesture of comfort. Just hydration. Becausesurvival wasn’t the point.
Endurance was.
I pulled the blanket back. Slid beneath it fully clothed. The fabric was stiff. Starched. It didn’t drape—itheld.
Every part of me ached. Not just the bruises. Not just the ribs or the shoulder or the deep throbbing in my thigh. But the pieces of me he hadn’t touched. The places he’d carved open without ever laying a hand on my skin. This wasn’t punishment. It was exile.
He hadn’t screamed. He hadn’t broken things. He hadn’t locked the door or tied my hands or forced me to kneel. But I had never felt smaller.
The air in the room didn’t want me. The silence feltearned.One of the boxes in the corner was slightly open. A photo frame peeked out—silver edge, the corner of a picture inside.
I didn’t look closer. Didn’t want to know what memory Wolfe thought belonged boxed up beside me. Whatever it was—It was more valuable than I was now.
I lay there for a long time. I don’t know how long. Maybe minutes. Maybe an hour. Time didn’t exist in a room like this. It justwaited.
I don’t know what time it was. The light in the hallway hadn’t changed. The house was silent. Too silent. But the bed felt smaller now. The walls closer. The quiet louder. I couldn’t stay in that room. Not another second.
