“And you still walk away?”
“I walk forward,” she corrects. “Whether you come with me or not.”
The silence stretches until it feels like it might split us down the middle. I see it then—the thing River wanted me to see all along. She didn’t leave me tonight. She outgrew the version of me that needed her afraid to feel powerful. And I don’t know how to exist without that.
“You can lock every door,” she says quietly. “You can watch me sleep. You can pretend this house is a fortress instead of a prison.” She steps back, giving me space I don’t want. “But you can’t unlearn what I learned.”
She turns away. Not running. Not fleeing. Choosing. The door opens. Light spills in from the hall, painting her in a way that feels like a goodbye even though she hasn’t said it. She looks back once. Not pleading. Not angry. Free.
“I’m not yours to lose,” she says. “I’m just done being found.”
The door closes behind her. And for the first time, the quiet doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to the part of my mind that’s splintering under the weight of realising the truth: I didn’t lose control tonight. I lost the lie that control was love. And somewhere in the dark space that follows her absence, something inside me sharpens instead of heals. Because if she doesn’t need me to survive… then I’ll have to decide what I become without her fear holding me together.
Chapter 43
RAVEN
The bathroom looks normal.
That is the first thing that feels wrong. Nothing is shattered. There is no blood staining the porcelain, no cracks spidering through the mirror to reflect the fractured thing I’ve become. There is just the soft, flattering light, the clean surfaces, and the quiet, industrious hum of the extractor fan doing its job as if the world hasn’t tilted violently off its axis in the last hour.
I turn the tap.
Milk clouds the water as it fills the tub, turning the liquid opaque and pale, hiding the bottom from view. I add a few drops of oil—lavender, with something sharp and citrus underneath—and the scent blooms warm and sweet. It is far too gentle for the way my hands are shaking. Candles line the edge of the sink, already lit, their flames steady and obedient.
Domestic. Safe. A lie.
I lean my palms on the cool porcelain and stare at my reflection. My face looks calm. Almost serene. My lips are stillfaintly curved, as if I simply forgot to put them back where they belong after the performance. There is a smear of mascara under my left eye that I hadn’t noticed. I wipe at it, watching the black ink blur and then disappear.
Good. I don’t want evidence. I don’t want to be a map of what just happened.
The water rises. Steam curls toward the ceiling in lazy white ribbons. I undress without looking at myself again, letting my clothes fall where they land, stepping out of them like I’m shedding a skin that no longer fits. When I lower myself into the tub, the heat wraps around me so tightly it steals my breath. It leaves my body in a sound that is half relief, half surrender.
I sink until the water kisses my collarbones.
The room goes quiet in that specific way bathrooms do—sealed, insulated, private. My heartbeat slows. The noise in my head begins to thin. This is the part I rehearsed. This is the part where I look like a woman who knows exactly what she is doing.
I close my eyes. And immediately, doubt slips in.
It isn’t loud or panicked. It’s soft. Like a cool hand on the back of my neck.
You smiled.
The thought surfaces uninvited. I swallow it down and focus on the warmth of the water, the scent of the lavender. The candle flames flicker, reflecting in the mirror like a row of watchful, golden eyes.
You laughed.
My chest tightens. I adjust my position, letting the water lap higher, letting the milk-white surface hold me up. I tell myself it was a performance. Armour. A tactical manoeuvre to survive men who mistake fear for truth. But the doubt doesn’t leave. It multiplies.
Damien’s face flashes behind my eyelids—wild, furious, and undone in a way that felt… gratifying. Then River’s voice follows, steadier, the way he never rushes, never tells me what to do.
Standing changes everything.
I open my eyes. The bathroom is still normal. Too normal.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I flinch, water sloshing over the side. It’s just a vibration. No sound. No urgency. I stare at it for a long moment, my heart thudding against my ribs, before reaching for it with wet, trembling fingers.
One message. From River.
