And slowly—so slowly I almost don't notice it happening, like ice melting or seasons changing—I start to heal.
Start to understand that I'm not broken.
Just changed.
Just different from who I was before, shaped by everything I've been through but not destroyed by it.
The girl who ran from the Sanctuary is gone.
The woman who was bought at the auction is gone.
The acquisition who was trained to submit is gone.
And in their place is someone new.
Someone I'm still getting to know.
Someone stronger than I thought possible.
Someone who survived the Sanctuary and the auction and the training and the hunt and came out the other side knowing exactly who she is and what she wants.
I want him. I want this. I want us.
Not because I'm conditioned or because I'm captive or because I have no choice or because my brain is playing tricks to make sense of trauma.
But because I do have a choice. Finally. Actually. Really.
And I choose him.
Every day. Every moment. Every time I wake up in his arms and decide to stay instead of leave.
Every time I cook dinner or take a walk or sit by the fire reading while he works.
Every time I look at him and feel that flutter in my chest that I'm learning to recognize as love instead of fear.
I choose him.
That's what makes this real.
Not the absence of conditioning—I'll probably never know for sure how much of what I feel is genuine love and how much is psychology's response to being captive.
But the presence of choice.
The fact that I'm staying because I want to, not because I have to.
EPILOGUE
Eden
18 Months Later…
The foundation opens on a Tuesday in spring.
It's nothing fancy—a renovated house in Missoula, Montana, about two hours from our place.
Three bedrooms converted to private spaces for women who need somewhere safe to land.
A communal kitchen and living room.
