Chapter 23 Sadie
Sadie
My fingers fumble with the keys. One, two, three locks. The ritual that usually steadies me now feels inadequate. What good are locks when Elliot already knows where we are? When he's been watching us, photographing us through these very windows?
I flip on the lights, my eyes scanning every corner of the café. Nothing's changed since yesterday, but everything feels different. Tainted. The safe haven I've built suddenly feels exposed, like a stage set where I've been performing normalcy while being watched.
The police came last night after Elliot left. Took statements, copies of the restraining order Rowan had on hand, the photograph. They promised extra patrols but made no guarantees.
"Civil matter" and "custody dispute" were phrases they kept using, as if this were just some disagreement over Christmas visitation instead of my entire life at stake.
I move through my opening routine on autopilot. Coffee grinders cleaned. Espresso machine warming up. Display case wiped down. Pastry trays arranged. My body knows the choreography even as my mind races, replaying last night's confrontation on endless loop.
The look on Axel's face when he finally pulled that envelope from his pocket. Guilt, yes, but something else too, a certainty that he'd done the right thing by hiding it from me. By deciding what I could and couldn't handle. Just like Elliot used to do.
The memory ambushes me, sharp and sudden—Axel’s hands pinning my wrists to cool sheets, his breath hot against my throat, the rough sound of his voice in my ear.
My skin prickles, nipples tightening under my shirt, thighs pressing together as if he’s still between them.
Fury simmers, but my body betrays me, aching for that heavy, unyielding weight.
I shouldn’t want him. I shouldn’t need anything from him.
I tell myself I don’t, but the ache lingers, stubborn and shameful.
"Stop it," I mutter to myself, slamming a bag of coffee beans onto the counter harder than necessary.
That's the worst part. Even furious at him, my traitorous body still wants him. Still remembers how it felt to surrender control, to be taken care of, to trust someone else completely.
I can't trust him. I can't trust anyone.
Trust is a bruise that aches deeper every time I touch it.
I let my guard down, let him close, and now all I have left is this hollow burn.
My mind knows better—no one gets close, not ever again.
That rule kept me alive. I broke it for him, and the price is still bleeding out inside me.
The back door opens, and I instinctively reach for the knife I've started keeping under the counter.
"Just me," Saul calls, hanging his jacket on the hook by the door. He pauses, eyeing me warily. "You okay, boss? You look like hell."
I force my hand away from the knife. "Fine. Just didn't sleep well."
He doesn't believe me, I can see it in the furrow of his brow, but he doesn't push.
Just ties on his apron and gets to work on the morning's baking.
The familiar sounds should comfort me: the clatter of baking sheets, the whir of the mixer, Saul's off-key humming.
Instead, every noise makes me flinch, my nerves raw and exposed.
I move to the front windows, wiping down the already-clean glass. My eyes scan the parking lot, the street beyond. No sign of Elliot's black sedan. No sign of Axel's truck either.
Not that I want to see him. I don't. I absolutely don't.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, heart racing, but it's not Axel. Not Elliot. Just a reminder about my flight to Oregon tomorrow.
The knot in my stomach tightens. Forty-eight hours from now, I'll be sitting in my lawyer's office, preparing for the hearing that could take Poppy away from me. And now Elliot knows exactly where to find us when we return.
If we return.
The thought slips in before I can stop it. I could run again. Take Poppy and disappear. Find another small town, another café to manage, build another life under another name.
But I'm tired of running. Tired of looking over my shoulder. And now that Elliot's found us once, he'd find us again.
Finn arrives next, bringing with him the smell of cold mountain air. "Morning," he says cheerfully, then stops when he sees my face. "Whoa. Rough night?"
"Something like that," I mutter, turning back to the espresso machine.
"Anything I can do?"
Yes. Go back in time. Make it so Elliot never found us. Make it so I never trusted Axel. Make it so I never left Oregon in the first place.
"I'm fine," I say instead. "Just focus on opening."
The first customers arrive at exactly six a.m., the usual early birds with their travel mugs and sleepy eyes. I serve them with mechanical efficiency, my smile feeling like a mask stretched too tight across my face.
Between orders, my eyes constantly drift to the windows, scanning for threats. Every car that pulls into the lot makes my pulse spike. Every time the bell above the door jingles, I brace myself to see Elliot's smug face. Or worse, Axel's guilty one.
"You're jumping at shadows," Finn observes during a brief lull. "What's going on?"
"Nothing," I snap, then soften at his hurt expression. "Sorry. Just stressed about my trip."
He nods, accepting the half-truth. "Axel stopping by today? He usually brings you coffee on Mondays."
The mention of his name sends a fresh wave of anger and longing through me. "No. He's not welcome here right now."
Finn's eyebrows shoot up, but he's smart enough not to ask. "Got it. I'll run interference if he shows."
"Thank you," I say, genuinely grateful for his loyalty, however confused he might be.
The morning rush builds, giving me blessed distraction. I lose myself in the rhythm of orders, in the precise measurements of espresso and milk, in the familiar dance behind the counter. For brief moments, I almost forget that my life is unraveling.
Then I catch sight of my reflection in the chrome of the espresso machine, dark circles under my eyes, tension in every line of my face, and reality crashes back.
The bell chimes, and Rowan walks in, scanning the café until she spots me. Her expression is a mix of concern and determination that I recognize all too well. She's here to check on me. To make me talk about feelings I'd rather ignore.
"Hey," she says, approaching the counter. "How are you holding up?"
"Fine," I say, not meeting her eyes as I wipe down the already-clean counter. "Busy."
"Sadie," she says, her voice dropping lower. "We need to talk about last night. About Elliot. About the photo."
"Not here." I glance pointedly at the customers nearby. "Not now."
"Then when? You're leaving for Oregon tomorrow."
"Later," I promise, though I have no intention of keeping it. "After closing."
She sighs, knowing she's being put off but unable to call me on it in public. "Fine. But I'm coming by your place tonight. No excuses."
I nod, already planning to be too busy packing to have any real conversation. She orders a latte, which I make with unnecessary focus, and leaves with one last worried look over her shoulder.
The hours drag by, each minute stretching like elastic ready to snap. By noon, I've checked my phone twenty times, no messages from Axel. Not that I want any. I don't. But the silence feels significant somehow, like confirmation that whatever was building between us is well and truly broken.
It's better this way. Cleaner. I have enough complications without adding a relationship to the mix. Especially with someone who thinks he knows better than me what I need, what I can handle.
But I miss him.
God, I hate myself for missing him. For wanting that rough palm at the back of my neck, that steady, unshakable stare that made me feel seen.
I crave the shape of his hands around my hips, the safety in his arms, even as I curse him for making me feel anything at all.
It’s a sickness, this need. I try to smother it, but it keeps burning through.
The bell chimes again, and Rowan returns, this time with a brown paper bag that I know contains lunch I won't eat.
"Don't start," I say as she approaches the counter.
"I didn't say anything," she protests, setting the bag down.
"You were thinking it loudly."
She sighs, leaning against the counter. "I'm worried about you, Sadie. You look like you haven't slept in days."
"I'm fine," I insist, the words so automatic I barely believe myself anymore.
Rowan crosses her arms. "You're not fine. Nobody would be fine after what happened. Elliot showing up, that photograph—"
"I said not here," I hiss, glancing at the customers nearby. An older couple looks up from their crossword puzzle, curious at my tone.
Rowan lowers her voice. "Fine. But you can't just pretend this isn't happening."
"Watch me," I mutter, turning back to the espresso machine.
I click each lock into place, then tug on the door to make sure it's secure. It's not enough. It never feels like enough anymore. I grab the chair from my small dining table and wedge it under the doorknob, something I haven't done since those first terrified weeks after fleeing Oregon.
"It's okay," I whisper to myself, though it's anything but. "We're safe."
The apartment is too quiet, too still. I move to the windows, checking each lock, adjusting the blinds so no one can see in, but I can still peek out. The parking lot is mostly empty. No black sedan. No sign of Elliot. No sign of Axel either.
My chest tightens at the thought of him. I push it away, focusing on the task at hand. The things I can manage.
I check Poppy's room next, my heart melting as I watch her sleeping peacefully in her crib, completely unaware of the chaos swirling around her. Her little chest rises and falls, one arm flung above her head in that way she always sleeps. My beautiful girl. My reason for everything.
"I won't let him take you," I promise, my voice barely audible. "I'll die first."
The baby monitor is fully charged, volume turned up high. I place it on my nightstand where I can hear every sound, then move to my closet where my suitcase sits half-packed for tomorrow's flight.
My hands shake as I fold another shirt, adding it to the neat piles. Practical clothes for court. My lawyer's voice echoes in my head: "Conservative and respectable. Like you're going to church."
I add the manila folder containing all my documentation, birth certificate, bank statements, proof of employment, character references. The restraining order. The police report from last night. My entire life reduced to papers in a folder, evidence that I'm worthy of keeping my own child.
A wave of exhaustion hits me, and I sink onto the edge of my bed. My body hums with anxiety, nerves firing in all directions. I haven't felt this way since the night I fled Oregon, pregnant and terrified, certain Elliot would find me before I could cross state lines.
My phone buzzes with a text, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
Rowan: You ok? Need me to come over?
Me: I'm fine. Just packing.
The lie comes easily. I'm not fine. I'm nowhere near fine. But I can't handle her concern right now, her questions, her well-meaning advice.
Rowan: Axel called me. He's worried about you.
I read it again, then stare at her message, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
He called Rowan? To check on me?
Me: I don't want to talk about him.
Rowan: He made a mistake, Sadie. A big one. But his heart was in the right place.
I toss the phone aside without responding. His heart doesn't matter. His intentions don't matter. What matters is that he kept something vital from me, something that directly impacted Poppy's safety. He made a choice about my life, my child, without consulting me.
Just like Elliot used to do.
But even as I think it, I know it's not the same. Elliot controlled me out of a need for power. Axel was trying to protect me, to give me one night of peace before reality came crashing back.
I pick up my phone again, opening a new text to Axel. My fingers hover over the keys.
What would I even say? That I'm still furious but also terrified? That I wish he were here, holding me, making me feel safe again? That Denver feels like another lifetime, another universe where happiness was briefly possible?
I start typing, then delete it. Type again. Delete again. Finally, I manage three words.
Me: I'm still angry.
I stare at the unsent message, my thumb hovering over the send button. Then I delete it completely. He doesn't deserve to know how I feel. He lost that right when he decided to filter my reality.
Missing him is a raw wound I can’t stitch shut.
I replay his arms locking around me, the heat of his body, the hard set of his jaw when he looked at me like I was worth the fight.
Even now, angry and hurt, I crave that safety, his dominance—the way he took control so I could finally let go.
The ache is constant, shameful. I want him.
I want to forget him. Both truths chew me raw from the inside.
Denver is a phantom under my skin, just like his mouth finding every secret ache, his body covering mine, relentless and gentle all at once.
For those stolen hours, I was wanted, possessed, claimed.
I let myself belong to him in the dark, let him map every inch of me until I forgot to be afraid.
Now that memory claws at me, raw and impossible to scrub away.
Now that feeling seems like a cruel joke. While I was letting my guard down, surrendering to happiness, Elliot was already here. Already watching. Already planning to destroy everything I've built.
The baby monitor crackles with Poppy's sleepy murmur. She's not awake, just dreaming. I watch the small green lights flicker with her sounds. She's all that matters. Not my feelings, not Axel, not anything but keeping her safe.
I cross to her room again, needing to see her, to remind myself why I'm fighting. She's rolled onto her side, one little hand curled near her face, lips parted slightly. Perfect. Innocent. Mine.
"I promise I'll keep you safe," I whisper, brushing my fingers lightly over her curls. "No matter what it takes."