14. Phantom in the Flesh
Phantom in the Flesh
Maddox
The night is quiet, except for the distant crash of waves against the shore. From my seat on the patio, I watch the water stretch out toward the horizon, the moonlight fractured across its surface like shattered glass. Ari’s been avoiding me all day—which is cute. Like she really thinks ignoring me will change anything. Like she thinks it’ll rewrite last night.
What’s already been set in motion.
The cigarette between my fingers is unlit. I don’t smoke, not really. But I like the feel of it. The reminder that I could if I wanted to. Freedom feels unsteady, like I’ve spent so long drowning that I forgot how to breathe air.
I could’ve gone anywhere after San Quentin. Any city, any direction. Left it all behind. But I didn’t. I came here.
To her.
I pull the picture out of my pocket, the edges soft from over a year of constant handling. Ari . Her smile in the photo is small, unsure, her fingers curled in like she doesn’t know what to do with them. My mom sent it over a year ago, tucked in with a few others. A casual update. She said Ari was the girlfriend Asher never really talked about. In the original picture, she was standing next to my brother, but I ripped him out a long time ago.
I bet Asher never noticed the way her eyes crinkle when she forces a smile. The way she looks like she’s trying to take up less space. But I did.
For over a year, locked in a cell, I traced the lines of her face. Memorized every shadow, every soft curve. I built her in my head, piece by piece, until she became more than an image.
She became my reason. A reason to stay sharp. A reason to get out. A reason to win.
And then I did.
I walked out of prison, and the first thing I did was find her. I watched her move, watched the way she carried herself, watched the way Asher didn’t see her at all. Didn’t see what I saw.
Ari spent her whole life holding the world together. Carrying a weight no one else can see. I saw it the first time I looked at her picture—that tension in her shoulders, the way she stood like she was bracing for something. Like she’s always preparing for the next expectation, the next demand, the next thing she has to fix. That’s not something you learn overnight. It’s something ingrained, beaten into you over years.
I know it because I’ve seen that look before.
Every time I looked in a mirror.
And once before—on someone I loved.
Someone I lost .
Someone who used to smile just like that—bright, but a little too careful. Someone who never put herself first, who gave and gave until there was nothing left.
Ari’s never been allowed to put the weight down. And when I take her, when I peel her apart piece by piece, she’ll finally understand what it’s like to be free.
And fuck—last night…
The way she broke apart for me…
The way she whimpered a plea in the dark, thinking I was my brother…
A slow breath leaves my lungs as I drag my thumb over the worn edges of the photo.
Of course she’ll fight it. She’ll push. She’ll tell herself she’s loyal, that she’s in love with Asher, that she doesn’t want this.
And maybe she’ll even believe it. But I don’t need her belief.
I need her surrender .
And that? That’s only a matter of time.
She’s not like Asher. She’s not polished, predictable, or boring. She’s a warrior. And Asher? He’s just another thing she’s been carrying. Another weight she’s been told to hold. He doesn’t appreciate her. Doesn’t deserve her. He thinks he can keep her tucked into his perfect, polished life without ever noticing that she’s slipping through his fingers.
But I see it.
I’ve been watching it happen.
The last month since I got out of prison has been a blur of surveillance feeds and silent tailing—tracking her through alleys, watching when she thought she was alone. Her security system was laughably easy to breach. Disabling it at night? Child’s play.
I started in the Marine Corps, then moved into private security—contractor work that paid better and asked fewer questions. By 25, I was in deeper than most ever get. Encryption, black hat networks, corporate espionage. Some thought I was a criminal. Others saw me as a ghost in the machine, taking down corrupt suits and helping out veterans and families left behind.
They never proved I had anything to do with Whittaker’s death. But I was there. I got into his building the night he died, no question. The charges didn’t stick for murder, but twenty years for conspiracy and obstruction? That held. They said I was part of a coordinated effort to intimidate corporate leaders. Maybe I was.
Prison didn’t slow me down. I ran my operation from the inside, kept my team sharp, the money flowing. Now I’m out—and richer than ever. Slid right back into the role like I never left.
And Ari’s defenses?
They never stood a chance.
I know her schedule better than she does. I know when she gets her coffee, how she taps her fingers against the counter when she’s impatient, the way she worries her bottom lip between her teeth when she’s deep in thought.
I know how she sleeps—curled on her side, arms wrapped around a pillow like she’s holding herself together.
I know the way she moves through the world, careful but unaware of how many eyes are on her. Of how mine have never left.
Ari’s tired. She’s been holding everything up for so long, she doesn’t even realize she can let go.
That’s what I’ll do. I’ll make her let go. I’ll show her she doesn’t have to make the decisions, or be the strong one, or take care of everyone else.
She’s mine to take care of now.
Even if she doesn’t realize it yet.