Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
March
ANNA
The sweet aroma of butter and flour fills the kitchen as I check the pie crust through the oven window. Golden brown at the edges—no soggy bottom this time. A little surge of pride rushes through me as I set the timer for the last two minutes of blind baking.
"Perfect," I whisper to myself, feeling ridiculously pleased. Six attempts and I'm finally getting somewhere with my baking skills.
Domhnall's out of town for the night with work—a quick trip to talk to some investors in Austin—so I thought I'd try again so he could come home tomorrow to fresh baked pie.
Domhnall's kitchen—our kitchen now, I remind myself—is a baker's dream. Gleaming stainless steel appliances, marble countertops perfect for rolling out dough, and more gadgets than I could ever use. When I first moved in, I was intimidated by all of it. Now it feels like mine.
I run my fingers over the smooth countertop, smiling at the flour dusting everything.
Domhnall doesn't care about the mess. "Kitchens are for cooking, not looking at," he told me once when I apologized for the disaster I'd made attempting croissants.
He'd kissed the flour off my nose and told me he loved seeing me happy more than he cared about clean counters.
I'm not ashamed to admit I've been trying to be the perfect wife-to-be.
After all we've been through, Domhnall deserves that much—a normal life with someone who can make a decent pie, plan a beautiful wedding, and maybe even start a family soon.
Everything I never had growing up suddenly feels within reach.
Our wedding binder sits on the island, thick with fabric swatches, venue photos, and flower arrangements.
May seems both impossibly far away and rushing toward us.
I flip through it sometimes just to remind myself it's real.
I'm getting married. To Domhnall. The boy I loved who became the man who saved me, who held on when anyone else would have let go.
The timer beeps. I slide on the oven mitts—these adorable ruffled ones Domhnall bought me after my third baking disaster when I burned my fingers—and pull out the crust. I lift out the baking paper and beans for the blind bake and admire the crust. It's beautiful.
The pie will be magazine-worthy with its fluted edges.
"Just needs filling," I murmur, setting it on the cooling rack.
I already have the spices measured out—cinnamon, nutmeg, and a pinch of cardamom because Domhnall likes it that way.
It's the little things I'm learning about him, collecting like precious stones.
He likes cardamom in his apple pie and two sugars in his coffee.
He sleeps on his stomach with one arm always reaching for me.
He sings in the shower when he thinks I can't hear him.
I glance at my phone. My Instacart order with the fresh Honeycrisp apples I need should be here any minute. I've been experimenting with different varieties, and Domhnall seemed to really like the tartness of the Honeycrisps in last week's attempt (even though that crust was definitely underbaked).
I check my reflection in the hallway mirror—flour on my cheek, hair pulled back in a messy bun—and shrug. The delivery person won't care. Besides, there's something thrilling about being so comfortable in my own home, in my own skin.
Dr. Resnick worked a miracle in more ways than one.
Three sessions with him changed everything. I was desperate when I sought him out, tired of the constant switching, tired of sharing my body and feeling like a passenger in my own life. Dr. Ezra had been cautious, always urging patience. But patience wasn't getting me anywhere.
"Integration is possible," Dr. Resnick had told me during our first session, "but it requires you to accept all parts of yourself—even the parts you've been afraid to face."
The hypnotherapy was intense. Terrifying, at times.
He took me deep into my own mind, to the places where the fractures began.
He made me confront memories I'd buried, feelings I'd denied.
I met Mads there, not as an intruder but as a part of me that had been protecting me all along.
My anger. My survival instinct. My desire.
He told me I was supposed to talk to her and practice radical acceptance, face to face with all of myself.
I may have cheated a little. I simply didn't have time for that.
In the dark place was the box, like always. Somehow, I was in control and Mads was weaker—maybe because of the words Dr. Resnick had said when he put me under: "You are the primary and you are in control. You do not have to be afraid."
So I—
I shoved Mads in the box and locked it, then threw away the key.
And... it worked.
Now, for the first time in years, I feel whole. Not perfect—there are still moments when I feel the pull, the urge to slip away. But I stay present. I breathe through it. I remain.
And now, because I faced her and stayed in control, I have courage. I can be the strong one now.
I never told Domhnall why we would switch before—why Mads would take over whenever things got intimate. I couldn't put it into words then, but now I understand. It's that moment when I feel him—his cock—pressing against me.
And it is true terror. Like I can't even describe.
But it's also excitement.
The adrenaline response used to flip me over to Mads instantly. It's a similar feeling to being in danger. But it's not danger. Once I push past the terror, it's so...
I lean my hip against the back of the couch as memories of last night flood my mind: Domhnall's weight pressing me into the mattress, his hands pinning my wrists, the delicious burn as he stretched me open. The way he whispered in my ear, filthy promises that made me shiver and arch beneath him.
He'd taken me against the kitchen counter yesterday, rough and demanding in a way he never would have dared before.
I'd told him not to hold back, and God, he didn't. I touch my throat, feeling the tender spots where his fingers pressed, where his teeth marked me.
The bruises on my hips where he'd gripped me tight enough to leave impressions of his fingertips.
And most importantly, I was there for all of it. Present. Whole.
I was worried at first that pretending to be Mads was wrong somehow. But is it really pretending when she's a part of me? When those desires and needs are mine too, just buried deeper? Dr. Resnick helped me understand that. There's no more Anna or Mads—just me, complete at last.
After Domhnall's initial shock and worry that I'd done something dangerous by seeking treatment without telling him, he'd embraced it. Embraced me. All of me.
"I've loved every version of you," he'd said, holding my face in his hands. "But seeing you whole—it's like watching the sun come out after years of rain."
The doorbell rings, and I startle.
Right! The apples.
I fly to the door and whip it open, all smiles for my Instacarter, ready to take the bags.
Except it's not a harried gig worker waiting to hand over bags of apples.
It's a six-foot-five man dressed entirely in black.
My body reacts before my brain can catch up.
I try to slam the door in his face, but a beefy arm blocks it, pushing against the wood with frightening ease.
"Matilda Sheffield?" His voice is deep, his face emotionless.
The last name hits me like ice water. Sheffield. My father's name. Not the name on our mailbox or any of my current identification. Who is he, and how the hell did he find me?
"No," I gasp, shoving my weight against the door. "Wrong house!"
But he's so much stronger.
The door gives way under his pressure, sending me stumbling backward into the foyer.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I take in his massive form now fully inside our home—broad shoulders, muscled arms, closely cropped dark hair.
He's wearing some kind of tactical gear beneath his jacket.
Our security system should be blaring right now. Domhnall insisted on the best: motion sensors and door alerts, everything connected to a central monitoring station. But there's nothing. Just silence. But then again, I opened the door.
Oh god, I let him in.
"I know who you are," he says, his eyes cold as they scan me. "Let's not make this difficult."
Terror floods my system. I turn to run for the kitchen, where my phone is on the counter. I just need to reach it, call Domhnall, call nine-one-one, call anyone—
But the man moves with surprising speed for his size. His arms wrap around my waist from behind, lifting me off my feet as I kick and scream.
"Let me go!" I claw at his forearms, but it's like scratching at steel. "Help! Somebody help me!"
This can't be happening. Not now. Not when everything is finally right. Not when I'm whole and happy and planning a future with the man I love. The wedding, the pie in the kitchen, the family we're going to build—it can't end like this.
I fight harder, drawing on every ounce of strength in my body. I remember the self-defense classes Domhnall insisted I take. I angle my head back sharply, connecting with the man's nose. He grunts but doesn't loosen his grip.
"You little bitch," he hisses, one hand moving to cover my mouth. Something covering his palm smells of chemicals, something sweet and heavy that makes my head swim instantly. Chloroform. Oh God.
I bite down hard on his hand, tasting blood. He curses but keeps the cloth pressed to my face. I hold my breath as long as I can, thrashing wildly, but eventually my lungs burn for air.
The familiar sensation starts at the base of my skull—a lightness, a disconnection.
No, not now. I need to stay present, I need to fight—
I try to remember the techniques Dr. Resnick taught me. Grounding. Breathing. Staying in the body. But the chemicals and the panic are too strong.
The switch is coming, unstoppable as the tide. Darkness edges my vision, the kitchen ceiling spinning above me as the man's grip tightens.
My last coherent thought is of Domhnall—his smile this morning as he kissed me goodbye, his promise to be home early tomorrow. Will he walk in to find me gone? Will he know how to look for me? Will he blame himself?
The last thing I hear is the attacker's voice, low and clinical, "You and the Librarian can't just disappear like that right after you've fucked us over."
Then nothing.