I pull up the feeds.
Three screens bloom to life. Three angles inside her apartment—kitchen, living room, and front entry.
This isn’t about Rinaldi. It isn’t about the press conference that detonated across every screen earlier today, where her name was left unsaid but hovering just beneath the headlines like a threat. This isn’t even about control.
It’s about seeing her breathe.
I should turn it off. I know that. I tell myself I’m done watching, that she isn’t mine yet, and this is already too much.
My thumb hits rewind instead.
Hours blur past. Violet folding laundry with mechanical precision. Boiling water for tea she barely touches. Standing too long at the sink, palms braced on porcelain like it’s the only thing holding her upright. She checks her phone too often. Flinches when it lights up. Sets it down like it might bite.
Then the kitchen feed sharpens my focus.
Her phone is pressed to her ear. She’s pacing now, barefoot, the floor creaking beneath her steps. Her shoulders draw tight, breath shallow.
“I saw,” she says quietly.
A pause. She nods, once. Slow. Controlled.
“I know. But I don’t have anywhere to go.”
Her gaze flicks toward the door. Then the window. Calculation layered over fear.
“Cami, I can’t take your—” She cuts herself off, frustration rolling through her body like a tremor. Her jaw tightens. She exhales through her nose. “I hate this.”
The call ends. She doesn’t move right away. Just stands there, fingers curling into the counter like she might crack it if she grips hard enough.
I freeze the frame.
My pulse kicks harder, heavier.
She’s thinking about leaving.
I rub a hand over my face, tension coiled so tight it hurts. I’ve already decided what comes next—once Ella is out, Violet stops pretending she can outrun this. But if she bolts before then? Before I close the distance?
No.
That can’t happen.
The feed jumps forward again. She’s asleep now, curled on the couch, and a blanket tangled around her legs. The television casts flickering light across her face. One loose strand of hair has fallen free, brushing her cheek.
She looks smaller like this. Breakable in a way that has nothing to do with weakness.
I don’t check the door cam. I don’t check the stairwell. I don’t check the street.
I watch her chest rise and fall instead.
Motion snaps across the screen.
Front door. 2:47 a.m.
My blood goes cold.
A figure slips inside—quiet, practiced, and without hesitation. Not Violet.
I zoom in, breath shallow.
