"Liza!"
Julian rushes in, eyes wide, surveying the damage.
"They can't touch him." My voice cracks. "They questioned him and just let him walk away."
"Okay, but destroying the kitchen won't—"
"Don't." I point at him, hands shaking. "Don't tell me to calm down."
"I'm not. I'm just saying we need to think rationally—"
"Rationally?" I laugh, sharp and bitter. "Daniel broke your hand, Julian. He terrorized me for months. He might've done something to Claudia, and the cops just shrug and say their hands are tied?"
He reaches for me with his good hand. "I know you're frustrated—"
"Frustrated?" I step back from him, my whole body trembling with a volatile mix of rage and fear that threatens to consume me entirely. "You think that's what this is? Just me being frustrated?" My voice rises despite my best efforts to control it. "Julian, ourlivesare at stake here. Our actual lives. Don't you understand that? Don't you see what's happening?"
I press my palm against my chest, feeling my heart hammering wildly beneath my ribs. "This isn't over—not even close. Daniel isn't going to just disappear because the police asked him a few questions. He's not done with us. He's never going to be done."
"So what do you want to do? Track him down yourself? Confront him?"
"Maybe I should!"
"That's insane, Liza. You're not thinking—"
"Stop it!" I whirl on him, my voice cracking as I shout. "Just stop telling me how I'm supposed to think, how I should feel! You don't get to do that!"
The words catch in my throat as the realization crashes over me like a wave of ice water. This is exactly what Daniel wants, isn't it?
He wants to wedge himself between Julian and me, to create this distance, this discord. He wants to tear us apart from the inside out, to make us turn on each other when we should be united against him. That's his game, his twisted method of maintaining control even from afar. But I won't give him the satisfaction—I refuse to let him win that way, refuse to let him destroy what Julian and I have built together.
I snatch my jacket off the back of the chair with shaking hands, my movements jerky and uncoordinated as adrenaline courses through my veins. My fingers fumble with the fabric for a moment before I manage to pull it on, the familiar weight of it settling across my shoulders like armor. Then I'm dropping to my knees, shoving my feet into my boots without bothering to untie the laces first, forcing them on with urgency.
"Where are you going?"
"Out. I need air."
"Liza, wait—"
But I'm already slamming the door, leaving him standing in the wreckage.
I go out and walk for an hour, daring Daniel to come at me, the cold air stinging my face. By the time I come back, my anger's dulled to exhaustion.
Julian's on the couch when I finally return, sitting in the same spot where I left him, waiting. The broken bowl has been cleaned up—every single shard removed—and the flooris spotless, gleaming under the apartment lights as if nothing violent had happened at all.
"I'm sorry," I say before he can speak.
He stands, crosses to me. "No. You were right."
I blink. "What?"
"I've been downplaying it. Trying to stay calm, be rational." His jaw tightens. "But you're right. This isn't over. And I hate that you're living like this—looking over your shoulder, afraid."
My throat closes up.
"I should've listened to you from the beginning," he says, his voice low and earnest. "Instead of trying to fix everything, trying to smooth it all over like it would just go away on its own." He reaches up and cups my face in both hands—one warm and strong, the other awkward with the cast—his thumbs brushing gently across my cheekbones in a gesture so tender it makes my chest ache. "I'm so sorry, Liza. I really am."
I kiss him. Hard. Desperate.
