35. Azaria
AZARIA
The scream tears through me before I'm even fully conscious.
Raw. Primal. I bolt upright in the unfamiliar bed, chest heaving, sweat cooling against silk pajamas that cling to my skin like accusations.
"Why did you kill me, Azaria? Why? Why? Why?."
My mother's voice echoes in the darkness. The nightmare clings to my consciousness like smoke—fragments of the car accident, twisted metal, and her eyes in the rearview mirror, wide with terror and something that looked like regret.
I press my palms against my temples, trying to force the images back into whatever psychological vault they escaped from. My hands shake violently, tremors I can't control no matter how tightly I clench my fists.
The bedroom feels cavernous around me. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook manicured grounds that stretch into shadow, and the king-size bed drowns me in expensive linens that smell like lavender and loneliness.
I've been hiding in this pristine prison for six days, and the isolation is eating me alive.
I reach for the water glass on the nightstand, but my fingers won't cooperate. The glass slips, crashes against the hardwood floor, and shatters into pieces that catch moonlight like accusations.
"Shit."
My voice sounds hoarse, scraped raw by the scream. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet avoiding the glass shards, and that's when I hear footsteps in the hallway.
Security, probably. Coming to check on the disturbance.
The bedroom door opens without a knock.
Theo stands in the doorway.
My heart stops completely. Then restarts with a violent flutter that makes my chest ache.
He looks like he walked straight out of some dangerous fantasy—leather jacket hanging open over a black t-shirt, dark denim that fits him like a personal invitation, his hair just recently buzzed.
His grey eyes scan the room, taking in the broken glass, my shaking hands, the sweat-damp pajamas that suddenly feel inadequate.
"What—" I start. "How are you here?"
He steps into the room, closing the door behind him with deliberate care. "Your father gave me the address."
"My father doesn't—" I shake my head, trying to process this impossible development. "He wouldn't."
"He did."
Theo moves closer, avoiding the glass fragments with practiced awareness. The leather jacket creaks softly as he crouches beside the bed, close enough that I catch his scent—clean soap, expensive cologne, and something indefinably him that makes my stomach flip.
"You screamed."
"I didn't?—"
"Azaria. You screamed loud enough to wake security."
I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. The silk pajamas—emerald green with delicate lace trim—were chosen for comfort, not seduction, but under Theo's steady gaze, they feel transparent.
I stare at him in the darkness—at his impossible presence in this house I thought I'd hidden in, this room I thought was mine alone. The fight that usually rises in me, sharp and defensive, never comes. It dies somewhere between my throat and my chest, leaving me hollow.
"I can't—I can't stop seeing her face."
Theo doesn't ask who.
One moment he's crouched beside the bed, careful of the broken glass, and the next he's sitting on the edge of the mattress, pulling me against his chest without ceremony. His arms come around me, solid and warm, and I collapse into him completely.
The leather jacket is soft against my cheek. I breathe him in—soap and cologne and something indefinably safe—and cry harder.
"I sob into his shoulder.
His hand moves to my hair, fingers threading through the silk press I had done yesterday in some pathetic attempt to feel normal. He doesn't shush me or tell me it's okay or offer empty platitudes. He just holds me while I fall apart.
"She is in my head, Theo. She is in my head.”
Theo's other hand finds the small of my back, steady pressure that keeps me anchored.
"I ruin everything I touch." The confession tears out of me. "Everything. Everyone. You should have stayed away."
His arms tighten around me, but he still doesn't speak. He just lets me break against him, absorbing every tremor and sob and ragged breath.
The silk pajamas stick to my skin where tears and sweat have soaked through. My face burns with embarrassment, but I can't stop. Can't pull myself together. Can't be the polished, untouchable version of myself that everyone expects.
The sobs eventually quiet, leaving me hollow but strangely lighter. Theo's hand continues its steady rhythm through my hair, and I realize I've soaked his t-shirt completely through. The leather jacket lies discarded somewhere behind us.
"You already know what kind of child I was. You knew when we were teenagers."
His hand stills for a moment, then resumes. "Tell me."
"I'd graffitied the school wall. Again. Fifth time that month—" I swallow hard. "Mama was so angry. So tired of me. She was quiet in the car on the way home."
Theo's arms tighten around me, but he doesn't speak.
"She waited till we got home to tear into me. She told me she couldn't stand to look at me. That I was selfish. I mean she was right.” The words taste like acid. "She drove out to get groceries because she needed space from me. Needed to not be in the same house."
"Azaria—"
"You know what happened next." I pull back enough to meet his eyes. "Drunk driver ran a red light. T-boned her at the intersection by the market."
His eyes hold mine, steady and unflinching. "I was at the funeral."
"You sat with me when I stole one of Dad's cigarettes afterward. In the garden behind the church." A bitter laugh escapes. "I couldn't even smoke it properly. Just held it while everyone talked about how wonderful she was."
"You didn't say anything for two hours."
"Neither did you." I trace a pattern on his chest, avoiding his gaze. "But you stayed."
"I stayed."
The memory sits between us—fifteen-year-old versions of ourselves, him in an ill-fitting black suit, me in funeral attire that felt like a costume. The cigarette burning down to nothing between my fingers while mourners filtered past, offering condolences I couldn't hear over the roar in my head.
"The dreams started that night." My voice drops to barely a whisper. "She asks me why I killed her. Every time. 'Why did you kill me, Azaria? Why? Why? Why?' And I can never answer because I don't know how to explain that loving me is what put her in that car."
Theo's hand cups the back of my neck, thumb brushing the sensitive spot behind my ear.
"Well, eventually, my dad found out about the nightmare. He got me the best therapists, psychiatrists. Even though, I’d killed his wife—the love of his life.
I went through five years of therapy. Antidepressants that made me feel like I was watching my life through glass.
It took so long to make it stop the first time.
" Tears start again, quieter now. "It's back.
It's all back, and I don't know how to make it stop again.
I'm so tired, Theo. I'm so fucking tired of carrying this. "
He lets me cry against his chest, one hand in my hair, the other tracing slow circles on my back. Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Time feels elastic in the darkness.
"What happened to your mother was an accident," he says finally. "Fifteen-year-olds fight with their mothers. That's what they do. Your argument didn't put that drunk driver on the road."
"But if I hadn't?—"
"If you hadn't what? Been a teenager? Made mistakes? Been human?" His hand stills on my back. "Azaria, look at me."
I tilt my head up reluctantly.
"The accident was not your fault. The fight was not your fault. Your mother's death was not your fault. I will tell you every morning till the day I die if I have to. Azaria, you didn’t kill your mother. You need to go back to therapy."
"I can't?—"
"Yes, you can. And I'll be with you every step of the way if you'd like that."
"You'd do that?"
"I'd do anything for you."
We stay like that as the darkness outside slowly gives way to grey dawn. Theo shifts occasionally, adjusting his position but never letting go. My breathing evens out, matching his rhythm. For the first time in weeks, the chaos in my head quiets to something manageable.
My phone rings at seven sharp. He reaches for it with his free hand, keeping me anchored against him.
"Lane Silva," he murmurs, then answers. "Silva."
I can hear Lane's voice through the speaker, excited and rapid-fire. "Azaria, turn on the news. Any channel. The FBI moved on Massimo's network overnight—arrests in Milan, New York, Geneva. The whole thing's breaking everywhere."
My heart stops. "What?"
Theo reaches for the remote on the nightstand, clicking on the massive wall-mounted television. CNN appears, breaking news banner scrolling across the screen: INTERNATIONAL LUXURY CRIME RING EXPOSED - MULTIPLE ARRESTS
"Holy shit," I breathe, sitting up straighter against Theo's chest.
The anchor's voice fills the room: "...coordinated raids across three countries have resulted in the arrest of Italian businessman Massimo Lombardi and fourteen associates in connection with an elaborate scheme involving stolen luxury goods, money laundering, and the manipulation of high-profile events... "
My name flashes on screen—not as a suspect, but as a victim. A witness. Someone who was targeted and framed.
"They're saying I was set up. They're actually saying I was set up."
Theo's hand finds mine, fingers interlacing. "Keep watching."
The report continues, detailing how the Paris raid was orchestrated to implicate specific individuals while allowing the real criminals to escape. How guest lists were manipulated. How evidence was planted.
Every outlet that spent two months destroying me is now scrambling to correct the narrative. My phone, silenced on the nightstand, lights up with notifications—calls, texts, emails flooding in.
"Lane, are you seeing this?" Theo asks into the phone.
"Hey, hockey boy. Every network's running it. Your girl's about to be the most vindicated person in America."
Your girl.
I look up at Theo.
Justice.
His hand stays warm on my back as we watch my name get cleared in real time, and I let myself feel it—the vindication, the validation, the proof that I'm not the destructive force I've always believed myself to be.
For once, I'm not the one who ruined everything.