"That's a nasty bruise," I say, keeping my voice casual. "What happened?"
Her hand flies to her cheek. "I fell. Tripped on the stairs at my apartment. Stupid, right?"
"Right." I don't push. Don't challenge the obvious lie. "I used to fall a lot too. Walked into doors, slipped in the shower. Funny how clumsy I got for a few years there."
Jade's eyes snap to mine.
For a moment, we just look at each other—two women who know exactly what the other is hiding.
"It's not like that," she says, but her voice wavers.
"Okay."
"He just—sometimes he gets angry. But it's not—he doesn't mean to?—"
"Jade." I lean forward, keeping my voice soft. "You don't have to explain. Not to me. But I want you to know something."
She waits, barely breathing.
"Three months ago, I was you. Making excuses. Covering bruises. Telling myself it wasn't that bad, that he didn't mean it, that I probably deserved it anyway." I pause, letting the words sink in. "It took me three years to get out. Three years of being too scared, too beaten down, too convinced that I was worthless without him."
Jade's eyes are shining with unshed tears. "How did you?—"
"Someone helped me. Gave me a safe place to go when I finally found the courage to leave." I reach across the desk, offering my hand. After a moment, she takes it. "I'm not going to tell you what to do. That's your choice. But if you ever need help—if you ever need somewhere safe—you come to me. Okay?"
She nods, tears spilling down her cheeks now, cutting tracks through the heavy makeup.
"I don't know if I can," she whispers. "He said he'd kill me if I ever tried to leave."
"They always say that." My grip tightens on her hand. "But you're stronger than you think. And you don't have to do it alone."
We sit there for a long moment, hands clasped across the desk, two survivors of the same war.
I don't know if Jade will ever find the courage to leave.
I hope she does. I hope she doesn't wait three years like I did.
But even if she's not ready, at least she knows she's not alone.
At least she knows there's someone who understands.
Sometimes that's enough to plant a seed.
That night, I tell Levi about Jade.
We're in his room—our room—lying in bed after a long day.
He listens without interrupting, his hand tracing lazy patterns on my back.
"You want to help her," he says when I finish.
It's not a question.
"I want to give her options. The same way you gave me options." I prop myself up on one elbow, looking down at him. "Is that okay? I know she's just a dancer at the club, but?—"
"She's not just anything." His voice is firm. "If she's being hurt, she deserves help. Same as anyone."
"Even if it causes problems? Her boyfriend might not take kindly to anyone getting involved."
