Was Daniel just being possessive? Demanding she cut Dylan off? That sounds exactly like something he'd do—I remember how he tried to isolate me, how he hated my friends, my job, my independence.
But this feels different. Darker.
I can't get away from him.
Why can't she? What did he do to her?
My mind races through possibilities. Blackmail? Threats? Was he holding something over her? Or was it simpler—just his control, his manipulation, the way he makes you feel like you can't survive without him?
God, these texts are so cryptic. Why didn't she just tell Dylan what was happening? Why all the vagueness?
Maybe she was scared. Maybe Daniel was watching her phone.
Or maybe she couldn't even articulate it herself. I remember that feeling—being so deep in Daniel's web that I couldn't explain what was wrong, couldn't find the words to describe how he'd slowly stolen pieces of me.
"Liza."
Julian's voice startles me. He's standing in the doorway, expression somewhere between exhausted and furious.
"You promised."
"I found something." My voice sounds far away. "Julian, look at this. She said she couldn't get away from him. What does that mean?"
He crosses the room in three strides and plucks the phone from my hands.
"It means the police need to deal with this. Not you."
"But—"
"This is what you do, Liza," His tone leaves no room for argument. "You eat. You rest. You try to sleep. And you stop torturing yourself."
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Another week passes. Seven whole days without a single threat, letter, or black rose delivery.
I should feel relieved.
Instead, I find myself wound tighter than ever, my muscles coiled with a tension that refuses to dissipate. The quiet feels wrong somehow—ominous rather than peaceful.
My shoulders stay perpetually hunched, braced for impact. My stomach remains knotted with an anxiety that no amount of deep breathing can unravel. Every moment of silence feels like the universe holding its breath, waiting for something terrible to happen.
I know Daniel. I know his patterns, his cycles, the rhythm of his unraveling. When we were together, he'd be fine for weeks—charming, attentive, generous. The perfect boyfriend. Then, like clockwork, every two months or so, something would snap. A switch would flip, and suddenly I'd be walking on eggshells, waiting for the explosion.
It always started small. A snide comment about my outfit. A passive-aggressive remark about how I spent my time. Then the fights would escalate—he'd twist my words, gaslight me until Iquestioned my own memory, make me feel guilty for things I hadn't even done.
Sometimes he'd drink during those episodes. Whiskey, usually. Neat. He'd nurse it in his armchair, staring at me with those cold blue eyes, cataloging every one of my failures.
The breakdowns would last three, maybe four days. Then, just as suddenly as the darkness descended, it would lift. He'd emerge on the other side of those terrible days transformed—sweet again, tender, his voice soft with regret. The apologies would flow like honey, each one carefully crafted to sound spontaneous, heartfelt.
He'd shower me with affection, pull me close, stroke my hair, whisper how sorry he was, how he'd never meant any of it. He'd buy me flowers—always peonies, my favorites—and make elaborate dinners, setting the table with candles like we were celebrating something instead of recovering from his latest explosion. He'd act as though the previous days simply hadn't existed, as if those cruel words and cold silences had been figments of my imagination rather than brutal reality.
I'd learned to recognize the warning signs. The tension building in his jaw. The way his politeness would become too controlled, too precise. The stillness before the storm.
But this silence? This complete absence?
This is new.
I pour coffee into Julian's favorite mug—the chipped one with the piano keys printed around the rim—and stare out the kitchen window at the grey winter morning.
