Dariy
She is angry, but underneath it, she is hurt. And I don’t think it’s because I took the liberty of having her grandmother moved to a better care facility with nurses and doctors who give a shit.
I’d rang the facility in front of her last night, but didn’t notice I was speaking Russian so she had no idea.
Then, after she fell asleep, I did a quick search of York Bridgeway Care Facility and found less than favourable information.
They are lucky I don’t move all the patients out and lock the staff in before setting it on fire.
One short call later, and I confirmed everything was in motion. Juliet was being moved first thing this morning. I was hoping Callie would sleep through the time, but she must be hardwired to visiting times.
Now she is eating in silence, her shoulders rigid, and her eyes fixed on the food like if she looks at me too long, she’ll either shatter or explode.
And I hate that I put that look there, that aching mixture of betrayal and need.
I had her things sent up, so she is at least in her own clothes now, but that doesn’t make me feel any better, because she is right about one thing.
I don’t trust her.
Not yet.
When my phone rings, her head snaps up so fast I see the panic flash, like she thinks I’m about to announce her death sentence. I answer without looking away from her.
“Da?”
A pause.
Then: “She’s settled?” Relief slides under my sternum with a heat I almost don’t recognize. “Good. Keep eyes on her at all times until I arrive.”
I end the call.
Before I can speak, Callie is already on her feet.
“That was them,” she says. Voice tight. “The new place?”
“Yes.”
She swallows. Hard. “Can I… can we go?”
That flicker of hope, she tries to kill it, but I see it anyway. I feel it.
I nod.
Her breath leaves her like she’s been holding it since dawn. But before the relief can settle, I make my boundaries clear.
“You stay beside me. You don’t speak to anyone unless I say. You don’t run.”
Her jaw clenches. “You’re ridiculous,” she spits, then when my expression doesn’t change, she adds, “I won’t run.”
And she believes that. Right now, she believes she won’t. But panic turns hope into mistakes.
“I will hold you to your word,” I say, stepping closer, a silent warning.
Her chin lifts. “Fine.”
God, she tests me.
I gesture toward the elevator. “Let’s go.”
She moves stiffly, like her skin is too tight. I press the button for the private garage, watching her in the mirrored wall as the doors close.
She wraps her arms around herself. Protective. Fragile. But her eyes remain steady, terrified, yes, but also determined. Loyal.
Not to me. Not yet. To her grandmother.
The elevator opens and I guide her toward the car, matte black, windows smoked, engine silent as death. A machine built for disappearing in the night.
Today, in the bright light of day, I use it to take her to what matters most to her.
She slides into the passenger seat but keeps her hands fisted in her lap, as if touching anything of mine might make the situation sharper.
I slide in beside her and then we’re sealed off from the world.
The strip blurs past, neon dreams, artificial lights, everything loud and false. She watches it all as if she’s been gone for years instead of hours. Within a few minutes we’re in her neighbourhood, and then pulling up outside her small house.
I park the car on the short driveway and she jumps out. I’m out and around the car in seconds, standing right behind her, close enough she can feel me.
She opens the door and walks straight through to what is a bedroom. I stay alert, poised to move fast if I suspect she is climbing out of a window or making a call. After a couple of minutes she reappears, having changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a thin sweater the colour of honey.
“Ready?” I ask and she nods, heading back to the front door.
I don’t comment about how sparse the house is.
How the furniture is ancient and threadbare.
How it looks as though it hasn’t been decorated since before I was born.
How the yard looks sad and neglected even though there is evidence that there were once flower beds and maybe even a rockery.
I just follow her out, making sure to pull the door closed behind me.
We’re back in the car, heading out of the neighbourhood when she finally speaks again.
“She doesn’t have anyone else,” she says quietly, voice fraying. “Sometimes the confusion is worse in the mornings. If she thought I abandoned her—”
“She won’t,” I cut in. “They know to tell her you’re coming.”
She nods, but it doesn’t ease the shaking in her hands.
“You’ve been carrying this alone for too long,” I observe, but she doesn’t reply. Doesn’t make excuses or give any reasoning, because to her, this is exactly as it should be.
I grip the steering wheel harder than necessary, knuckles whitening.
I want to take her hand. To calm her. To say something that makes this easier.
I wanted to do something important for her.
Something right. I wanted to show her she shouldn’t have to kill herself to get the help she needs for her grandma.
The truth is, I can see I made everything harder in the way I went about it…
“The staff there,” I say, choosing the words carefully, “are highly trained and fully invested. She will be treated with dignity, care and respect.”
Her eyes flick to mine.
“Thank you,” she clips.
Two words. Quiet. Sharp. Hiding her heartbreak.
I have to look away for a moment. I don’t know what to do with this.
We pull into a gated entrance guarded by three men with weapons my brother trained them to use. The car glides to a stop, and one of them opens her door.
Callie falters when she steps out, not because she’s afraid, but because she’s overwhelmed.
The building is clean. Bright. Alive. Flowers line the walkway. Welcoming visitors and patients alike.
She presses her hands into her pockets and swallows.
“I didn’t know places like this existed for people like her,” she whispers.
“They don’t,” I say. “This is a place for people like me.”
Her head turns sharply.
“So why bring her here?”
I look down at her and try to ignore the way my heart shatters. Every thought and feeling she has is right there in those violet eyes. Pain and heartache and something that looks suspiciously close to betrayal.
She feels betrayed by me for not trusting her.
Only I don’t know how to make her understand the severity of it all.
That our worlds are two very different places.
That my need to claim her isn’t enough. That her willingness to be claimed by me could be self-preservation.
And in my desperation to have her, I could miss the signs that she is right there, ready to stab me in the back.
The truth is, I don’t know her and she doesn’t know me. So I say the only thing that I know to be true right now, “Because she matters to you, and you matter to me.”
Her breath catches, her eyes shine, and I feel the snap of another thread inside me, something that once kept me sane, gone.
I place a hand at the small of her back and lead her inside.
The nurse at the desk smiles, warm and genuine. She recognizes me for several reasons. She also knows better than to acknowledge it. Her smile falters when she tracks the placement of my hand, then turns tight when she takes Callie in.
“She’s awake,” she says, her voice a little tight. “Waiting for you.”
The words break whatever fragile restraint Callie had left.
She moves, and I stay close enough that if she falls apart, I’ll be the one to catch the pieces.