Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Everly
The red dress hangs in my closet like a threat.
I stare at it from my bed, unable to move, unable to breathe properly.
The silk fabric catches what little morning light filters through my apartment blinds, blood-red and mocking.
Dylan bought it for me three months ago—told me it was the only thing that made my body look "acceptable."
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I already know who it is before I look:
Noon. Don't be late.
Then another:
Wear the dress.
My hands shake as I text back a simple:
OK
I should be getting ready for my shift at the fire station.
Should be putting on my EMT uniform, preparing to save lives, preparing to be useful.
Instead, I'm calling in sick for the third time in two weeks, lying to Gwen about a stomach bug that won't go away.
"Everly? Again?" Gwen's voice shows me how concerned she is, even through the phone. "Honey, are you sure you're okay? This isn't like you."
"I'm fine," I lie, hating how easily the words come now. "Just can't shake this bug. I don't want to get anyone else sick."
"Have you seen a doctor?"
The irony makes me want to laugh. Or cry.
"I have an appointment," I say instead. Another lie. "I'm sure it's nothing."
"Well, feel better. Vail says to try ginger tea for the nausea."
"Thanks. Tell her I said hi."
I hang up before Gwen can ask more questions.
Before her concern can break through the walls I've built to survive.
The shower is scalding hot, but I barely feel it.
I'm too focused on cataloging the damage—the bruise on my ribs from last week has faded to yellow-green, the fingerprints on my upper arms are barely visible now.
My jaw still aches where he grabbed it four days ago, though the mark has faded enough that makeup covers it.
I've become an expert at tracking the lifecycle of bruises.
Purple-black to blue to green to yellow to gone.
Until the next ones appear.
An endless cycle of damage and healing that never quite completes before starting again.
The water runs over my skin, and I wish it could wash away more than just the surface.
Wish it could cleanse the shame that lives in my bones, the fear that's taken up permanent residence in my chest.
"Just this once more," I whisper to myself, the same lie I always tell. "Keep Bjorn safe. Keep everyone safe. That's all that matters."
But somewhere deep down, I know it's never just once more with Dylan.
Each time I go back, he takes another piece of me.
Each time I think I've hit rock bottom, he shows me there's further to fall.
I turn off the water and step out, avoiding my reflection as I dry off.
I can't stand to see what I've become.
The hollow-eyed ghost of the woman who used to save lives, who used to laugh freely, who used to believe in love.
The makeup comes next.
Foundation first, thick enough to cover the shadow on my jaw but not so heavy it looks obvious.
Concealer under my eyes to hide the evidence of another sleepless night.
Blush to give the illusion of health to my pale cheeks.
Mascara to make my eyes look less dead.
Lipstick in the exact shade Dylan prefers—not too bright, not too pale, not too anything that might draw attention from the wrong kind of men.
Everything about my appearance is calculated now.
Designed to please him, to avoid his criticism, to minimize the chances of setting off his temper.
I've lost myself so gradually I didn't notice until I was completely gone.
I blow-dry my hair straight, the way he demands.
No waves, no curls, no personality.
Just long and straight and boring.
"Like a proper lady," he says, though there's nothing ladylike about what he does to me.
The dress slides over my skin like shame itself.
Red silk that clings in all the places he wants to show off, cut low enough to be inappropriate for November weather.
The length hits mid-thigh, shorter than anything I would choose for myself, but choice is a luxury I gave up months ago.
I add the jewelry he gave me—delicate gold chain that feels more like a collar, matching earrings that mark me as his.
The heels come last, strappy things that make my feet ache before I even put them on.
Four inches of instability that he insists make my legs look "less chunky."
I check the time: 11:30.
The drive takes twenty minutes, but he expects me early.
Being late means consequences I can't afford, not with his threats about Bjorn hanging over my head like a sword.
My period is five days late.
The thought hits me as I'm grabbing my keys, freezing me in place.
Five days. I'm never late. Never.
My cycle has been like clockwork since I was fifteen.
The nausea I've been blaming on stress suddenly takes on new meaning.
The exhaustion that goes bone-deep.
The way coffee—my lifeline—now makes me want to vomit.
The tenderness in my breasts I've been ignoring.
"No," I say aloud to my empty apartment. "It's just stress. Has to be."
But even as I say it, I know I'm lying to myself.
I'm on birth control, yes, but... when was the last time I actually checked the pills?
Really looked at them?
Dylan knows about them, is constantly asking me if I took them.
But he’s the kind of man who would fuck with my shit.
Why does he always ask if I take them?
It’s because he doesn’t want to be a father… right?
What if?—
I can't think about that now.
Can't let that possibility take root.
I have to get through today first.
Have to survive whatever he has planned.
Then I can deal with the maybe-baby situation.
The drive to Dylan's apartment passes in a blur of familiar streets and growing dread.
Each red light is both a reprieve and a delay of the inevitable.
Each mile brings me closer to the man who's slowly destroying me, one cruel word and violent touch at a time.
His building looms ahead, all glass and steel and modern architecture.
The kind of place that screams success and money.
The kind of place where neighbors mind their own business, where soundproofing ensures privacy, where security guards are paid to look the other way.
The perfect place for a monster to hide in plain sight.
I park in the visitor section, taking a moment to gather myself.
My hands grip the steering wheel hard enough to hurt, knuckles white with tension.
I could leave right now, turn the car around, drive to the clubhouse, throw myself on their mercy.
But then I picture Bjorn at physical therapy.
Tuesday, 2 PM, third floor. Dylan's "friend" who works security, who could make cameras malfunction at just the right moment.
My sixteen-year-old brother, who's already lost so much, vulnerable and defenseless against whatever "accident" Dylan might arrange.
And not just Bjorn.
The photos Dylan showed me flash through my mind.
Florencia playing in the clubhouse.
All the children who call that place home, who think they're safe behind those walls.
They don't know about the monster who's been watching.
Who's been planning.
Who uses my love for them as a weapon against me.
I get out of the car on unsteady legs, wind cutting through the thin dress immediately.
Goosebumps rise on my skin, but I don't hurry.
Each step is measured, careful in the ridiculous heels.
The last thing I need is to fall and give him something else to criticize.
The doorman nods as I enter, recognizing me.
I wonder what he thinks, seeing me arrive in clothes inappropriate for the weather, leaving hours later with dead eyes and careful movements.
Does he know?
Do any of them know what happens in 6B?
Or do they just not care?
The elevator ride feels endless.
My reflection in the mirrored walls shows a woman I don't recognize.
Styled and polished and empty.
A doll dressed up for someone else's pleasure.
Sixth floor.
The hallway stretches before me, plush carpet muffling my footsteps.
My heartbeat pounds in my ears as I approach his door.
I could still run.
Even now, I could?—
"It's open," his voice calls from inside before I can knock.
Of course. He knew exactly when I'd arrive.
Probably watched from his window as I parked, timed my journey up.
Everything is a game to him, and he always has to win.
I push open the door with trembling fingers.
His apartment is exactly as always—pristine, cold, more like a museum than a home.
White furniture that shows every stain, glass tables that show every fingerprint, nothing out of place.
The kind of perfection that requires constant vigilance to maintain.
The kind of perfection he demands from me.
Dylan stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, hands clasped behind his back like some movie villain surveying his domain.
He doesn't turn when I enter, doesn't acknowledge me at all for long moments that stretch like hours.
"Close the door," he says finally.
I obey, the click of the lock sealing my fate.
The sound always makes me flinch, though I try to hide it.
Trapped. Again.
"You're early," he observes, still facing the window. "Good. Though I shouldn't have to summon you like a disobedient child."
"I'm sorry." The words are automatic now, reflexive.
Sorry is my default state around him.
"Are you?" He turns finally, brown eyes scanning me from head to toe. Like I'm a purchase he's evaluating, checking for flaws. "You've gained weight."
The words land like blows, even though I expected them.
It's always something.
Too fat, too thin, too loud, too quiet.
I exist in a constant state of never being enough.
"I've been stressed," I offer carefully.
"From what?" He moves closer, circling me slowly.
I force myself to stay still, not to react as he inspects me. "Your joke of a job? That shitty apartment I graciously allow you to keep? What exactly is so stressful about your cushy little life?"
I want to scream.
You.
You're the stress.
You're the nightmare.
You're the reason I can't eat, can't sleep, can't breathe.
"The situation with my family," I say instead. "The lockdown has everyone on edge."