CHAPTER 3
MIA
Reality is a strange thing —more like an abstract concept to me. It bends and shifts, slipping through my fingers when I try to hold onto it.
Some days, I think I’ve got a firm grasp on what’s real, and then the next, it unravels, revealing itself as just another illusion.
I swore what Zane and I had was real. I felt it in my bones, in the way his touch lingered, in the way his presence anchored me when everything else dissolved into static.
Maybe it was always there, buried beneath his quiet warmth, waiting for the right moment to surface.
Maybe I imagined it all—the softness, the safety, the way he once looked at me like I was something worth holding onto.
It doesn’t matter. In any reality, in any version of us, I would protect him.
Have you ever loved someone enough to let them hate you if it meant keeping them safe? If it meant keeping their hands clean, their soul intact? I have.
I tried to push him away. Tried to make him disappear, to make him hate me enough to leave. I was cruel, reckless, desperate.
That night, I know I was a bitch to him. I made it look like I’d been on my father’s side this whole time. Maybe because… if he’s doing what I think he’s doing, he’s going to get himself killed. And I can’t let that happen.
I know I’ve been manipulated. Twisted into knots until I didn’t know which way was out. But that doesn’t change the fact that I let myself end up here again—back in my father’s world. So no, it’s not as simple as escaping.
If I run, Katie suffers. And if Nico finds out the truth about Zane… he will too.
I need to make him leave. Before everything explodes.
I said things I can’t take back. And yet, he’s still here, threading himself into my story, pretending to be someone he’s not for reasons I don’t understand.
I can’t unwrite what’s already been written. My father will never stop hunting me, and by extension, he’ll never stop hunting Zane. That’s just how this works.
I’ve accepted my fate. I just didn’t want to drag him down with me.
I was happy in my bubble—no, not happy. Content. Safe in a way that made sense to me. Now, my reality has caught up to me, sinking its claws in, whispering in my ear that I’ll never escape it.
That I was a fool for thinking I ever could.
I’m losing it here. My thoughts scatter like broken glass, sharp and messy, cutting into my brain with every attempt to make sense of them. Voices that don’t belong to anyone tell me things I don’t want to hear.
Shadows linger where they shouldn’t. I know they’re not real, but that doesn’t make them any less there.
I made sure to take my old phone and hide it, stuffing it into a place where even my paranoia can’t convince me someone will find it. Then Zane got me a new one. So whatever tracking software my father tries to use, whatever invisible chains he thinks he still has wrapped around me, they’ll all lead to that phone.
Not to me. Not to the one that matters.
I make sure to answer everyone's messages—especially my brother's. If I ignore him, he'll get suspicious.
I feed him vague updates about my trip with Zane—just enough to buy myself a few months before I have to face him again.
A few months before I have to lie to him again.
Fate is cruel. I just got him back, and now I have to push him away.
Seth can’t know where I really am. If he finds out, he’ll come for me, and if he comes for me, my father will see him. If my father sees him, the entire Evermore will know who his son is.
And that will ruin everything.
I can’t let that happen.
Besides, a part of me still clings to the hope that my father will leave One alone when he finds out he’s alive. That he’ll consider him untainted, still salvageable. But deep down, I know better.
My father had only one true obsession in life: One.
He started an entire war over his death, but it wasn’t out of grief. It wasn’t out of love. No, Nico Riviera doesn’t have the capacity for love. He did it because he lost his greatest potential weapon.
The perfect heir to his legacy.
He never wanted a son. He wanted a successor. A machine crafted in his image, molded by his hands.
A mind he could break and rebuild as he saw fit.
And I was the failed experiment.
The cracked version. The mistake. The thing he tried to fix until I bled, until I screamed, until I learned to keep my mouth shut because nothing ever stopped him.
So he gave me way to another monster.
I still feel the phantom grip of James’s hand on the back of my neck. The way he would force me to kneel, to bow, to accept that my pain was just a lesson.
That I was weak. That he would make me stronger, better, more like One.
I was never supposed to survive him.
And yet, here I am. Running, hiding, lying.
Holding onto the fragile, fractured pieces of myself like they won’t slip through the cracks in my fingers.
Like they won’t disappear completely.
I look at my supposed fiancé, or rather, my husband with surprise in my eyes, my first instinct is to say his name but I realize he probably doesn't answer to that.
When Zane walked into the room, I was ready for a fight. I’d braced myself, prepared to push him away, to force myself to feel nothing at all. But as I looked down at the paper in front of me, all my efforts unraveled.
It was our divorce papers.
I should’ve expected them, but I didn’t expect this. Not the drawing.
It was us—captured in a way I thought only I would remember. The day we got married, the beach. Me, standing with a needle in my hand, carefully tattooing him like he was the canvas I never knew I needed.
Zane, sitting there with his sleeve rolled up, letting me do something I didn’t even realize was more than just a tattoo—it was us, opening up to each other in ways we couldn’t with words.
He had never asked for anything, never pushed me, and in that moment, I let myself be part of him, in a way no one else had been.
His lines are raw, but they’re so real. My eyes, his face, the ocean in the background—the kind of peace we found in each other, even without saying it. And beneath us, a dahlia—a flower of resilience, a flower that’s always been a symbol of us, our quiet strength.
Then, woven through the waves, the words:
Wherever you go, I will go.
He’s real. I can feel it in every line of the drawing, every curve of the ink. Paulina lied. All those doubts, all the things she tried to make me believe—none of it matters now. Everything that happened between us, every moment we shared, it was real.
I can see it in the way he captured me on that paper, the raw honesty of it.
The way he remembers the little details, the way he didn’t just walk away when it got hard—he stayed.
He’s real. There’s no more question. The love, the pain, the moments we thought we’d lost—everything.
It was real. And in a world full of lies and half-truths, that’s the one thing I can hold onto.
Zane didn’t give up on us. That’s something Paulina can never take away.
My heart skips a beat. My fingers trace the ink gently.
He didn’t give up. He didn’t give up.
He didn’t give up. He didn’t give up.
The words echo in my mind like shadows I seek in the dark, chasing after something I thought I lost. Despite everything, despite all my attempts to push him away, he stayed. He didn’t give up on me. On us.
And in that, I find something I didn’t expect to feel again: hope.
“I thought you didn’t remember much about that day.”
“I don’t remember, but I remember this.”
“We shouldn’t have done this in the first place.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
His voice cracks like he’s holding back more than words. It's almost like he's giving me the benefit of the doubt, but I don’t deserve it.
I swallow hard. No, but now he hates me.
“I never wanted your anger.”
He shakes his head, his frustration building, and I see the old version of him—distant, unreadable, but still trying to fight for something. I’m not sure what anymore.
“Are you going to tell me why you left?”
I didn’t.
But I won’t tell him that—because hiding the truth is the only chance I have at getting him out of here alive.
He’s too close, his words too sharp. They cut deeper than I want them to, but I know I can’t back down now. I need to make him angry. I need him to leave. I can’t drag him into this, not again.
I open my mouth but no words come out. What can I say? I can’t tell him the truth. He’d never forgive me. Paulina. Coercion. Trapped here like a doll in a glass case . I don’t want him to know. It would only make him stay—and I need him to walk away.
“You…” I breathe, struggling to keep it together. “What are you doing here, Little Angel?”
“Don’t call me that,” he snaps, his voice harsh. He looks at me like he wants to tear something apart, and I feel it—his anger radiating through the room. It tightens my chest, but I keep smiling, pushing his buttons, forcing him to stay mad.
“Do you want me to call you by your name? What should I use? The one promised to me or the one you were married to me?” He doesn’t flinch. The silence between us thickens, loaded with things we both refuse to say.
“I am.”
“What?”
“I’m married to you. You saw the paper. I didn’t sign that shit.”
The weight of his words hangs in the air.
I stare at him, not knowing how to respond. There’s something in his eyes now, something softer than before, and for a second I almost believe we can be the people we once were. Almost.
But I can’t let that happen. I can’t .
"I'm sorry about Carter," I mumble, my voice barely a whisper. The words feel too small, too weak for what he deserves to hear.
"Tell Lara that," Zane snaps, the venom in his tone sharper than I expect. "Look her in the eye and tell her you killed him—and that you're sorry."
His words pierce through me, and my chest tightens. I don’t know how to respond. The truth sits in my throat, heavy and bitter. It wasn’t me, I want to scream. I didn’t pull that trigger. But I can’t. Not now. Not when I’ve already let him believe it.
My eyes fill with tears because it’s true in a way, even if I didn’t directly kill him. I killed him. I didn’t stop it. I didn’t stop any of it, and that guilt claws at my insides like an animal I can’t shake.
"If I hadn't followed through... the what-ifs and the should-haves... they fuck with my mind every day, Zane."
His face hardens, jaw clenched. "You shouldn’t have done it. Should’ve come to me. You should’ve told me the truth. I would’ve protected you. We would’ve figured this out together."
I can feel his frustration, his anger. It's a living thing between us, hot and biting. But it’s also guilt, I realize. He doesn’t know the truth. He doesn’t know I wasn’t the one who killed Carter, and I can’t bring myself to say it. I feel like a coward, but I can't undo what’s been done.
"You should’ve come to me, Mia. You should’ve told me everything —about the spy shit. About all of it. You’re my wife. I had a right to know."
I snap. The words come out before I can stop them. "I was not a fucking spy, Zane!"
I feel the scream tear out of me, my voice raw with frustration, but there’s more behind it—more than just anger. It’s desperation. It’s the ache of everything between us unraveling in a way I can’t stop. I’ve never felt more exposed.
For a moment, the silence is suffocating.
Then, before I can breathe again, he’s there, stepping into my space, his chest almost touching mine. His hands come up to pin me to the wall, trapping me between his body and the cold surface. His breath is ragged, like he’s struggling to hold back the storm in his chest.
"Then what the hell were you doing?" he growls, voice low and tense, like a rope about to snap. His eyes are dark with anger and pain, his hands trembling with restraint.
I can’t think straight. His closeness is making it hard to breathe. No. This isn’t about us. This isn’t about me.
But his face is so close, so close I can feel the heat radiating off of him.
For a second, I swear I can see the rawness in his eyes—the longing that still hangs there, despite everything.
And I want to reach for him. I want to feel that warmth again, to feel something other than this hole in my chest. But I can’t.
And then, just as quickly as it all started, the moment snaps, like a rubber band pulled too tight. Zane pulls back, his hands falling to his sides, fists clenched. The tension crackles between us like static.
“Why didn’t you just come to me?” he mutters, more to himself than to me. His voice is rough, defeated. “You could’ve trusted me, Mia.”
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. I don’t have the words. I don’t have a way to explain the chaos that’s been my life—why I kept so much from him.
Zane’s words sting, but they cut too deep for me to ignore. "I don’t know who the hell you are anymore," he says, his voice hoarse with frustration.
I flinch at that. I should flinch. Because he’s right.
But the truth is—maybe I don’t know who I am anymore either. Not in this mess. Not with the weight of everything crushing down on me. Not with the guilt and the lies that hang like chains between us.
I let out a shaky breath, and my eyes stay locked on his. “Makes the two of us,” I murmur, barely above a whisper. It’s not a deflection. It’s not an apology either. It’s just… truth. He doesn’t know me, not really. And I’m not sure I know him, either.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to focus, trying to anchor my thoughts before they scatter into a thousand directions.
The world feels too loud right now, everything pressing in on me like it’s just too much, too fast. I can feel the weight of it all—Zane, Carter, the truth I’m trying to bury—pushing me into a corner. It’s like the air itself is thick with tension, and I can’t breathe. But I fight it, fighting the urge to collapse into the chaos inside me.
I push the thoughts aside, but they slip through the cracks, like trying to hold water in my hands. Was I supposed to lie to him? Did I do the right thing? My heart races, but I tell myself to stay calm.
Focus.
I need to keep my feet on the ground, even if everything around me feels like it's shifting, spinning. The walls close in, but I won’t let myself fall into it.
The echoes in my mind, he knows the truth, he doesn’t know the truth —the confusion twists inside me, pulling at my mind. It feels like I can’t trust anything— anything —anymore. My hands shake slightly, but I force them to stay steady, refusing to let anyone see how bad it’s getting inside.
I glance at Zane, and for a moment, he’s not really there. It’s like I’m looking through him, into something else, something I can’t quite touch but feel pressing on my chest. My vision flickers for a moment, like a blur, and the corners of the room darken, just for a second. But then it’s gone. I blink hard, trying to clear the dizziness, but the feeling lingers.
A memory strikes me, sharp, brutal, like a knife slashing through my mind. I can’t tell if it’s real or just another twisted manifestation of my fractured mind. James’s voice echoes, harsh and unforgiving, drilling into me.
“You’re not allowed to forget what you’re meant to be.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block it out, but his words linger like a poison, seeping into my very soul.
“You will always be my monster, Mia. You were made to be loved by me, cared for by me, punished by me.” James’s voice becomes a jagged whisper, seeping through the cracks of my memories as his hands touch me, violating me, as if he owned me, as if my body was nothing more than his possession.
When the first tear falls, he tightens his grip around my throat, his fingers pressing into my skin, the pressure suffocating but strangely comforting in its cruelty. “Monsters don’t cry,” he growls, the words like acid to my raw, exposed heart.
I take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to pull myself away from the storm of memories crashing through me. I disconnect from the moment, force myself to drift somewhere—anywhere—else. Because it doesn’t matter, does it? He said he loved me, didn’t he? He said that’s how love is shown—through control, through pain. But why does love feel like it’s breaking me? Why does it hurt so damn much?
The panic rises again, my thoughts racing, twisting, and I feel my grip on reality slipping. I want to scream, but I swallow it down.
No. I can’t fall apart. Not here. Not now.
I shake my head, just once, to try and clear the fog. Stay in control. Stay present.
But it’s harder than I thought. The sound of my own breath is too loud, and the silence around Zane feels like it's closing in on me. I need to say something, I think, but the words get tangled in my throat. It’s like I’m not fully in control of myself, and that’s the worst part.
But I refuse to break down. Not in front of him. I have to hold it together. I can’t let Zane see how close I am to unraveling, how the world feels like it's slipping between my fingers, like I'm not really here.
I force myself to look at him, to speak, to hold onto something real. Anything.
But it’s too late—he sees me. Zane always sees me.
The moment our eyes lock again, I brace myself for the usual coldness, the anger that’s been simmering between us. But that’s not what I see. Instead, there’s fear—raw, desperate fear.
Not the kind of fear that expects me to hurt him, but the kind that tells me he’s scared for me.
I flinch, my breath still shallow, and his hands move instinctively, his fingers gentle as they grip my arms, trying to anchor me, trying to pull me out of the whirlwind. I let him, letting his touch guide me back to some semblance of reality.
I stay there for what feels like hours, a silence stretching between us, heavy and thick with unspoken things. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, drowning out everything else.
He doesn't let go. I feel his thumbs brushing small, slow circles against my skin, calming, grounding, until I finally exhale, the panic releasing just enough to let me think clearly.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, the words trembling as they leave my lips.
Zane doesn’t speak for a moment, but I feel his grip tighten, just a little. He’s not letting me pull away, not now, not when I'm barely holding it together. “You don’t need to apologize,” he says, his voice strained but soft, full of something I can’t quite name. "Just breathe, Mia. I’m not going anywhere."
I want to tell him that it’s not about that. It’s about the weight in my chest, the memories of James, the things he drilled into my head—things that don’t go away, no matter how far I run. But I can’t find the words. Instead, the panic claws its way back up my throat, and I shake my head in frustration.
“I can’t... I can’t stop thinking about him. About what he did—what he made me think... I can’t... I can’t shake it off, Zane. I don’t know what is wrong with me.” My voice cracks, a sob rising in my chest before I swallow it down.
His grip doesn’t falter. He pulls me closer, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself lean into him, my forehead resting against his chest.
His heart beats under my ear, steady, grounding.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says quietly, his voice almost a whisper. “Not anymore.”
I close my eyes, the tears still threatening, and I want to believe him. I want to believe that even with everything—everything we’ve been through, all the damage and the anger—that he’s still here for me, that we’re still here for each other.
“But I... I’m so broken, Zane. I... I don’t know how to fix it.”
“You don’t have to,” he says, and there’s a tenderness in his words, like he’s finally seeing me for the first time in a long time, really seeing me—not as someone to be fixed, but as someone who’s just trying to survive.
For a moment, everything is quiet. No anger, no guilt, just the two of us standing on the edge of something fragile but real.
“Even if we’re broken,” I say quietly, my voice barely above a whisper, “I still... I still need you.”
He looks down at me, his face softening. “I need you too, Mia. Always have.”
The words hang between us, heavy but comforting, and for a moment, the tension lifts—just a little. Even with all the chaos, all the mistakes, I know, deep down, that we’re not as lost as we feel.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
I want to tell him everything. But I can’t. Not now. Not like this.
I turn away, breaking the tension, feeling the cold, unspoken distance grow between us. “You need to leave, Zane.”
“I’m not leaving until you do something for me.”
I look back at him, confused, “What?”
“I need you to train me.”
I blink, not sure if I heard him right. “Train you?”
He steps closer, his jaw clenched tight, like this is something he’s had to swallow for too long. “You heard me. I need you to teach me how to fight. I’m not gonna let you—”
“Wait,” I interrupt, my heart suddenly pounding harder. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious,” he mutters, his eyes not leaving mine. “I don’t care if you don’t want to. You’re gonna teach me. You’re gonna train me. And if you’re smart, you’ll teach me well.”
I hesitate, unsure of what to say. There’s still so much between us, so much anger, so much brokenness. But there’s also something I can’t ignore—a flicker of hope. And as much as I hate it, I need that hope to keep us both moving forward.
“I’ll teach you,” I say finally, the words coming out slower than I intend. “But don’t expect me to go easy on you.”
He smiles, just a little. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
And in that moment, everything feels like it's spiraling into something I can’t control, but maybe that’s the point.
Maybe this is what we both need—this mess, this chaos, this fight.
Because somehow, somewhere between the anger and the silence, I think we still have something to fight for.