Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Henrietta (Blythe)
I listen to his footsteps fade down the stairwell, each one pulling the air from the room.
The moment Atlas is gone, the apartment feels smaller, the silence pressing in, thick and stifling.
I inhale deeply, trying to force the oxygen into my lungs, trying to tell myself this isn’t what it feels like—trapped, cornered.
But the walls feel too close.
The air too thin. It’s like I’ve slipped back into the nightmare I just woke up from.
It’s in my head. I know it is.
But knowing doesn’t help.
Anxiety feeds on the unknown, and right now, there’s too much of it.
I remind myself—calm down, breathe, stress isn’t good for the baby—but it’s almost impossible when I can still hear pieces of Atlas’s conversation with Sanford replaying in my mind.
They took down an agent.
They’re close. Too close.
My fingers clench into the fabric of Atlas’s pillow as I sink onto the edge of the bed.
The scent of him lingers, grounding me for a second before another thought claws its way in.
I should be used to this—waiting, hiding, staying out of sight while men decide what happens next.
But I don’t want to be used to it.
I don’t want to live like this, constantly looking over my shoulder, hoping this time won’t be as bad as the last. Hoping Winston won’t find me.
Won’t hurt me. Won’t take my baby away—or hurt her.
I press a hand over my stomach, swallowing against the fear, tightening my throat.
Three months. That’s how long I’ve been here, building something I never thought I’d have.
A life. A real one.
Atlas.
The little business he started, and we’re growing together—even when my ideas sometimes feel too over the top.
The baby I never expected but already love with everything in me.
I never dreamed of this before, but now I can’t imagine wanting anything else.
And yet, it still feels out of reach—like something fragile that could shatter with a single misstep.
Winston is trying to pull me back, to drag me into the nightmare I fought so hard to escape.
But this time, I’m not alone.
I have family now. Friends.
Well, I’m working on that part.
The Timberbridge brothers can be a lot, but their wives and girlfriends?
They’re incredible. Not that I’ve had much time with them.
Because I’m hiding.
Because I’m afraid.
Because if any of Winston’s people are running my face through facial recognition software, they’ll find me before we even see them coming.
How do they already know I’m here?
I grab my phone, my thumb hesitating over the screen.
I should call Atlas.
Tell him I love him.
Tell him that no matter what happens, I wouldn’t change any of this—not the fear, not the running, not the ache of wanting something I might not get to keep.
That if today is my last day, at least I can say I had it all.
Love, a man who cared for me, and a dream of a better life.
But I don’t.
Because I trust him.
Because he promised to protect me, and so far, he hasn’t broken a single promise.
Instead, I call Nysa.
She picks up on the third ring, her voice sharp with concern.
“Blythe? Are you okay?”
I exhale, gripping the phone tighter.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
There’s a long pause.
Then she adds, “You sound weird.”
I force a small laugh.
“Weird, how?”
“A little high-pitched, maybe? Why are you calling so late? Is Atlas okay?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t he be?”
“It’s past midnight. You’re calling me in a weird tone, and Mr. Protective isn’t on the other line telling you to go to sleep. Which means he’s not there.”
“You know him too well.”
“He was the only friend I had while I was on the run,” she says simply.
“Which brings me to my next question—what could possibly be so important that he left you alone?”
I hesitate, my pulse thrumming in my ears.
“I’m not sure.”
Not a lie.
Not really. He told me very little.
End this, baby . It doesn’t really give me much, does it?
“Something about my ex being close,” I say loosely.
The silence on the other end is immediate and heavy.
The girls know about Winston.
The ex. That’s what we call him now—never by name, never giving him that power.
They know he was abusive.
They know I escaped.
They know he’s still looking for me.
But Simone—she’s the one who knows the worst of it.
She saw the scars. She was the one who had to document them, the proof that Winston didn’t just leave marks on the past—he carved himself into my body, into the pieces of me that still ache when I let my guard down.
And now he’s close.
Too close.
I close my eyes, gripping the phone like it’s the only thing tethering me to this moment.
To the life, I refuse to lose.
I glance around the room, my gaze snagging on the ultrasound photo tucked between the pages of Atlas’s sketchpad.
A piece of our future hidden between his lines and ink.
My stomach knots.
“Everything is moving too fast,” I murmur.
“He had to step into some meeting—I think. He’s just downstairs, but still . . .”
Nysa doesn’t respond right away.
I hear the shift in her breathing, the subtle pause before she settles in, ready to listen, ready to hold space.
“Is it your ex really close?”
“I think so.” My voice barely makes it past my lips, the fear curling around it, dragging it down.
“Something happened. He might find me soon.”
Nysa swears under her breath.
“Atlas is close by. Nothing’s going to happen.” A beat.
Then, “The real question is, what’s your next move, Blythe?”
I turn toward the window.
Outside, the lights of Birchwood Springs shimmer in the distance.
My reflection stares back—eyes tired, face thinner than it was months ago as if parts of me have been carved away by the running, the waiting.
My hand drifts to my stomach, where our daughter is growing.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“But I won’t run. Even if it might be safer for Atlas.” My throat tightens.
“What if Winston hurts him?”
“Atlas is like a cockroach,” Nysa says, then lets out a short laugh.
“I mean that in a good way. He’d survive the apocalypse.”
I don’t smile.
“Not exactly reassuring.”
She sighs.
“Sorry. That was insensitive. It’s just—he’s like my brother. The thought of him getting hurt—” She exhales loudly, and I understand why she’s trying to add some humor to this.
We’re talking about Atlas and .
. . yeah, the thought of him getting hurt is jarring.
“Look, if you need to come here while he deals with your ex, you’re welcome.”
“I can’t do that,” I say instantly.
“I won’t put you, Maddy, or Hopper in danger.”
“You wouldn’t be,” she argues.
“We have security here—a lot of it. These Timberbridge men? They’re overprotective as fuck. After what happened to me, this place is basically a fortress. No one’s getting in.”
I should believe her and maybe accept her invitation.
Should let that ease some of the fear clawing at me.
But the only thing that feels certain right now is that Winston won’t stop until he finds me.
And Atlas . . .if I lost him .
. . “I should just go,” I whisper.
“Make sure none of you get caught in the crossfire. I care too much about you to let anything happen.”
“You’re not running anymore, Blythe,” she says, her voice gentler now.
“You’re not that girl who barely made it through an abusive marriage. You’re stronger now, and you have people now. A family. Atlas.” A pause.
Then, softer, “You have a baby on the way.”
My throat burns.
“I’m scared.”
“I know. But you don’t have to be,” she reminds me.
“You’re not alone. If you want to fight, we’ll fight with you.”
I press my palm against my stomach.
There’s a tiny movement beneath my touch—a flutter, a kick.
It steals my breath.
Our daughter. Our little person.
I don’t want to run.
I don’t want to hide.
I want to fight.
For her.
For Atlas. For myself.
The tremor in my pulse fades, my breathing settling into something calmer, surer.
“I think I know what I have to do.”
Nysa doesn’t ask what.
She just says, “Then do it, just be smart about it.”
A breath, long and steady.
“Thank you.”
She snorts.
“If you need more encouragement, I can go over and slap you into action.”
A laugh bursts out of me—real, unguarded.
It startles me. Feels foreign for a second.
Then good.
Like hope.