And she'll have to choose—the man who destroyed her life, or the freedom I've systematically taken from her.
I already know which one she'll choose. I've made sure of it.
The guilt that always follows these thoughts settles over me like a familiar coat. I've worn it so long I barely notice the weight anymore.
I watch her sleep for another hour, my split knuckles throbbing, my face aching, my chest hollow with the certainty of my own damnation.
Then I force myself to turn away and pull up different files. Financial records. Business plans. The intricate web of control I've been weaving around her life for five years.
But tonight, the satisfaction is missing. Tonight, I just feel tired.
I don't know what makes me open the old photos. Maybe it's the pain. Maybe it's the guilt. Maybe it's the desperate need to remember a time when I was someone else.
Someone better.
The files are buried deep in my system, password-protected, rarely accessed. Photos from before the accident. Alex and me at seventeen, grinning at a football game. The Sinclair family at their kitchen table, Alex's parents smiling, Eve laughing at something her brother said.
My eyes linger on my face staring back at me from the picture. I looked so different then. I wore my hair long, was dressed in baggy skater clothes, skinny to the bone. My hair is short now, my clothes are top-end designer suits, my body muscular. I've even changed my name, because I refused to have my father's.
In short, I'm unrecognizable.
I flip through the pictures. I was happy then. Genuinely, carelessly happy, in a way I haven't been since.
There's one of me and Alex in his garage, working on his dad's old Mustang. We're both covered in grease, laughing at something. Alex has his arm slung around my shoulders, and the look on my face is pure contentment.
I had a family then. Not by blood, but by choice. The Sinclairs took me in without question, fed me dinner three nights a week, and let me sleep on their couch when my father's rages got too bad.
They saved me. And I destroyed them.
Another photo: Alex's kitchen. Mrs. Sinclair at the stove, Mr. Sinclair reading the paper. Alex stealing a cookie. And there, at the table, Eve with paint on her fingers and a sketchbook in front of her.
She's looking up at the camera—at me, I realize. I must have been the one taking the picture. Her expression is open, curious, without the walls she has now.
I did this. I'm the reason those walls exist.
The weight in my chest becomes unbearable. I close the file and sit in the darkness, surrounded by screens showing the woman I've claimed and photographs of the boy I used to be.
I pull up the live feed again. Eve is still sleeping, peaceful and beautiful and utterly unaware of the monster in her life.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to the empty room.
But I'm not sorry enough to stop.
I never am.
Chapter 7 - Eve
The call comes at nine in the morning, just as I'm reviewing the final sketches for the modified collection. Mr. Chen's number flashes on my screen, and I answer with a smile, grateful for something normal in the chaos my life has become.
"Mr. Chen, perfect timing. I wanted to confirm the delivery schedule for—"
"Miss Sinclair." His voice is strained, apologetic, and my stomach immediately drops. "I am so sorry. I have... I have terrible news."
My smile freezes. My hand tightens around the phone. "What kind of news?"
"The order. Your order. I cannot fulfill it." The words come out in a rush, like he's forcing them. "There have been... complications. Unforeseen circumstances. I must cancel."
No. No, this can't be happening.
