My breath caught. He didn’t need to say a word. I saw it. The glow of the screen. The lock pattern I used to trace without thinking.
The drive was matte black. Unlabeled. But I knew. I didn’t know how. I just knew. He reached inside and pulled out the phone. Set it on the desk between us. Still cracked. Still familiar. And suddenly, I felt like I was watching a version of myself I hadn’t met yet. The one who broke something and didn’t remember how deep the crack ran.
He tapped the screen. The display lit. No sound. No drama. Just a photo. My photo. The mirror. The angle. The bruises I didn’t cover because I hadn’t thought he’d ever see them.
I didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. I couldn’t. Because I remembered that moment. Not because I wanted to. Because I had to. Because no one else was looking at me. Because silence was worse than shame.
Because if I didn’t show someone that I still had a body?—
I was afraid I’d stop existing in it.
I remembered the way I held my breath. The way I didn’t look at the camera. The way I thought—this is what surviving looks like.But Wolfe wasn’t looking at the photo like it hurt him. He was looking at it like it belonged to him. And someone else touched it first.
He didn’t show me the next photo. He didn’t have to. I already felt it breaking under my ribs.
“You gave them this,” he said.
Not loud.
Not cruel.
Just final.
“I know,” I whispered.
It was the truth.
And it wasn’t enough.
He didn’t speak right away. Just looked at me. Long enough that I felt the shame crawl under my skin and settle there like it belonged. He turned the phone off. Set it beside the flash drive. Then reached for the ring. The same one I’d left behind in a panic. Polished. Still perfect.
He held it up between two fingers. Let it dangle. I stared at it like it might say something first. “You don’t get to have everything,” he said.
Not unkind. Just real. His voice stripped of decoration.
“You want this?” he asked, and nodded to the ring.“Or this?”
He tapped the phone once. The screen didn’t light. But I didn’t need it to. I swallowed. The room tilted. I didn’t ask what the right answer was. Because I knew there wasn’t one.
“I want—” My voice cracked. I stopped. Started again. “I want the chance to fix it.”
He leaned back in the chair. No reaction. No grace. Just stillness. The kind that judged you harder than words ever could.
He set both down on the desk. And then he watched me like I was walking barefoot toward a noose of my own choosing. Not rushing. Not warning. Just waiting to see if I’d tighten it myself. Equal distance from my hands.
And said?—
“Pick one.”
I didn’t reach. Not right away. Because I was afraid of what it meant. Choosing the phone meant I wanted to run again. Choosing the ring meant I wanted to stay—chained, claimed, owned.
Choosing neither?
Cowardice.
So I reached. Fingers shaking. And I took the ring. It was heavier than I remembered. The metal warm against my fingers, like it had been waiting. Like it knew.
I stared at it in my palm. Didn’t put it on right away. Didn’t speak. Just let it sit there like a verdict I hadn’t earned. It still fit me. That was the worst part.
