I pull into the underground parking garage beneath the loft building. The familiar concrete walls, the harsh fluorescent lighting—it all feels like a mockery of the sanctuary I tried to create. I kill the engine. The silence is immediate, absolute.
I push open the heavy door of the Challenger, the movement sending a fresh wave of agony through my broken hand. I stumble toward the elevator, my vision swimming. I need to get back. I need to make sure she’s still there. She must be. Where would she go? She has no one. No place.
The elevator ride up is agonizingly slow. Each floor that passes is a tick of a clock counting down to a confrontation I dread.
What will I say? How will I fix this? I broke her. I broke myself.
The doors slide open with a softding. The hallway is dark, silent.
I walk toward the loft door, my footsteps heavy on the concrete. My hand reaches for the handle.
It’s unlocked.
A cold dread, far worse than any punch I took tonight, washes over me. My blood runs to ice. My heart stops.
I push the door open.
The loft is dark. Silent. The faint scent of her perfume, of her presence still lingers in the air, a cruel, mocking whisper.
“Aria?” My voice is a raw, ragged whisper, barely audible in the vast space.
No answer.
I flick on the lights. The stark LEDs flood the room, revealing every detail. The sofa where she sat, still slightly indented. The phone, still lying forgotten on the cushion. The water bottle, still on the floor where I dropped it.
Everything is exactly as I left it. Except for one thing.
She is gone.
The cage is empty.
A guttural roar tears from my throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated anguish. It rips through the silence, echoing off the concrete walls. My failure is complete. I was supposed to protect her. I was supposed to keep her safe, and I let her go.
I stumble through the loft, my eyes scanning every corner, every shadow as if she might materialize from the air. The kitchen, the bedroom, the bathroom. Empty. All of it. The cold, hard truth slams into me with the force of a wrecking ball.
She’s gone.
And it’s my fault.
I sink to my knees in the center of the loft, the concrete cold against my bruised body. My broken hand throbs, a constant reminder of the physical pain I sought, the pain that did nothing to numb the hollowness inside.
She is out there. Alone. Unprotected. And she knows. She knows about Leo. She knows aboutme.
The city, which I once controlled, suddenly feels vast and hostile. She is a single, fragile thread, loose in a world that will chew her up and spit her out. A world I know intimately. A world I tried to shield her from.
I failed Leo. I failed her.
The rage, the grief, the self-loathing—it all coalesces into a single, burning purpose. I will find her. I have to. Not just to bring her back, but to save her from the consequences of my own monumental stupidity.
I push myself to my feet, my body screaming in protest. The pain is a dull roar now, a familiar companion. My vision is blurry, but my mind is clear.
I will find her. And when I do, I will lock her away so securely that no one, not even her, will ever find the key.
Thirty Three
Aria
Thecoldoftherooftop gravel bites into the soles of my bare feet, a sharp, grounding pain in a world that has dissolved into madness. I creep to the edge, my body low, and peer over. The street below is a distant, empty river of asphalt. I am free. For now. The words are a fragile prayer in my mind, a flickering candle flame in a hurricane.
