Not a dream.
Not a trick of the dark.
A man-shaped shadow sitting on the far side of my mattress, too still, too calm, waiting for me to stir.
For a second, my brain didn’t understand what I was seeing.
The room was dim, morning gray bleeding in through the blinds.
Then he shifted—just a little—and everything froze inside me.
His eyes.
His breath.
His weight on the mattress.
He was inside my house.
Inside my bedroom.
Watching me sleep all night like he had the right.
My heart stuttered once—then survival instinct took over.
I bolted.
Fast. Panicked. Pure adrenaline.
I don’t remember opening the door.
I don’t remember hitting the staircase.
I don’t remember screaming.
I remember running, barefoot, shaking, clawing my way into the street before he could react, before he could touch me, before he could do what he came there to do.
And that was it.
That was the last day I ever had a home.
Because of him, I lost my home.
Because of him, I lived in penthouse hotels for seven years, surrounded by bodyguards and false names and noise machines so I could sleep without hearing phantom footsteps.
Because of him, I learned how to pretend safety was a luxury suite with a reinforced door.
The memory crashes over me so hard I can’t breathe. My lungs forget how to function.
“I—Banks, I can’t—” I grip my chest, fingers digging in. “I can’t go through that again.”
“You’re not. I’m on it. I swear to you, Lu.”
I want to believe him. I want to climb inside that promise and hide.
But fear is already eating me alive.
“Does he… does he know about Germany? About the tour hiatus?” The words scrape out of me. “My location’s been quiet for months, but—dammit—Banks—”
