I whispered, “She wouldn’t have let this happen.”
He froze. Only for a breath. Then turned halfway. Not enough to face me. Just enough towarnme.
“Don’t,” he said. “Youdon’tget to say her name like that.”
I went still. Completely still. Because I knew I’d crossed something. Something invisible and final.
I thought about Camille. Her laugh. Her warmth. The way she made everything feel less sharp. I should’ve read the letter. I should’ve clung to what little of her I had left. Instead—I said something meant to wound.
And the worst part? It didn’t even land. Because Wolfe had already buried that part of himself. And I wasn’t allowed to dig it back up.
That one hit harder. Because it wasn’t a threat. It was a correction. And he meant every word. He didn’t wait for me to respond. Didn’t ask if I understood. He just walked down the hall.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was loaded. And I sat there like someone waiting for the sentence to fall.
I didn’t ask again.
Not until later. Not until I’d stared at the blank wall long enough to remember the way my phone had felt in my hand. The last thing that tethered me to anyone outside this place.
To Selene.
To fear.
To something I didn’t control.
I turned toward the kitchen. Wolfe was pouring something into a glass. Ice clicked. I spoke before I could stop myself. “My phone… what happened to it?”
He didn’t look up. Didn’t pause. Just said, “Gone.” Then he turned to face me fully. Set the glass down. “Broken. Smashed. You don’t need it.”
I swallowed. The way he said it—like it was obvious. Like it was handled. But something in me shifted. Because he didn’t say it was lost. He said I didn’t need it. And that wasn’t the same thing.
I didn’t ask again.
Because I was afraid of the answer. And afraid of what I might find if I went looking for it.
* * *
I didn’t mean to look for it. Not at first. I told myself I was thirsty. That I just needed water. That the hallway didn’t feel as dark as it used to. But my feet didn’t go to the kitchen. They went to the study. To the drawer in the desk. The one Wolfe never used when I lived here. The one I’d seen him open earlier. Briefly. Barely. But I remembered.
The drawer smelled faintly like cedar and cologne.
His.
It wasn’t just a place he kept things. It was a place he touched. And now I was touching it too.
The air felt thicker as I slid it open—like I was peeling back a wound he hadn’t let scab yet. My fingers brushed the edge of the charger.
The phone lay face down, screen black, case cracked. There were smudges on the glass.Mine.A fingerprint over the camera lens. One that had pressed there during a message I never got to send.
I didn’t touch it. Didn’t even breathe. Beside it was another device. Identical. Newer.His.Unlocked. The screen was open to my messages. Every conversation. Every file. Every thread.
Selene.
Me.
Wolfe.
Like a map of everything I’d thought I’d hidden. Everything I’d ever tried to protect.
