Scarlett
The suitcase sits open on the bed like a mouth waiting to be fed.
Silk dresses folded too carefully. Linen. Jewellery chosen to look effortless. Shoes that cost more than my car and still somehow feel like shackles when I touch them.
Noah stands behind me, scrolling through his phone, calm and precise and already halfway gone, while I stare at the contents of my life and feel like I’m packing for my own execution.
“Pack light,” he says without looking up. “Everything we need is already there.”
Everything he needs.
I nod.
Because nodding is easier than explaining why my hands are shaking so badly I can’t fasten a bracelet.
Because nodding doesn’t require me to admit that every time I close my eyes, I see darkness and fabric and breath against my ear.
Because nodding is safer than asking questions.
The locket rests against my chest, hidden beneath the neckline of my dress, its weight a constant reminder that something is wrong with me — or maybe something has finally gone right and I’m too terrified to admit it.
I keep touching it.
Like if I let go, it’ll disappear.
Like if I don’t feel the metal, I’ll forget what it means.
Noah notices.
“You’re distracted,” he says mildly, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Is something on your mind?”
I swallow.
“No.”
A lie.
A bad one.
His eyes lift, slow and assessing, scanning my face like a man reading a document he intends to edit later.
“Hm,” he hums. “Try harder.”
I turn back to the suitcase.
Fold another dress.
My pulse hammers.
I shouldn’t feel like this.
I shouldn’t feel anything.
I should be relieved.
Engaged.
Secure.
Chosen.
Instead, my body reacts to memories it refuses to place neatly in the past — the way my skin still tingles when I remember being touched by someone who isn’t supposed to exist anymore.
I hate myself for it.
I hate him for it.
I hate Noah for pretending none of it matters.
I zip the suitcase closed with a decisive motion and step back.
“There,” I say quietly. “Done.”
Noah smiles.
It doesn’t reach his eyes.
The night before we leave, I don’t sleep.
I lie in bed listening to the house breathe — pipes ticking, the hum of distant traffic, the faint sound of Noah’s breathing beside me — and I feel like I’m trapped between two versions of my life, neither of which will let me go.
I keep thinking I hear something.
A floorboard.
A whisper.
A presence that presses in close even when there’s no one there.
I turn over.
Close my eyes.
Tell myself I’m being ridiculous.
Tell myself trauma makes ghosts.
Tell myself the blindfold was a stress dream.
Tell myself Kai is just a name, a memory, a scar I haven’t finished picking at.
Then my phone buzzes.
Once.
Soft.
Right beside my pillow.
My heart stutters.
Noah doesn’t stir.
I stare at the screen like it might explode.
No number.
Just a notification.
Unknown Sender
I don’t open it.
I can’t.
I stare until my eyes burn and my chest tightens and the room feels too small to hold me.
Another buzz.
This time the screen lights up with text.
You’re packing like you think you’re coming back.
My breath leaves me in a silent rush.
My fingers curl into the sheets.
I don’t type back.
I don’t need to.
A third message appears almost immediately, like he knows exactly how long it takes my pulse to spike.
You always did that.
Planned exits you never used.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Kai.
I don’t write his name.
I don’t want to give him that.
But the locket is heavy against my skin and my body remembers him in ways my mind doesn’t want to catalogue.
Another message.
Don’t go.
Two words.
Not a plea.
A statement.
My throat tightens painfully.
I don’t know what to feel.
Fear curls in my stomach, sharp and alive, but beneath it — deeper, more treacherous — is something that feels like relief.
Like someone finally sees the war inside me and isn’t asking me to smile through it.
My phone buzzes again.
If you get on that plane, everything changes.
I finally type.
My fingers shake so badly I have to erase the first attempt.
You can’t do this.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Reappear.
I already am.
I roll onto my side, turning my back to Noah, heart pounding so loudly I’m sure it’ll wake him.
You shouldn’t be talking to me.
Another lie.
Another weak boundary.
You shouldn’t be lying next to him.
My breath catches.
You don’t get to decide my life.
This time the typing bubble pauses longer.
Long enough for dread to creep in.
When the message finally arrives, it’s shorter.
Colder.
More dangerous.
You decided it when you said my name in the dark.
I clamp a hand over my mouth.
I don’t remember doing that.
Or maybe I remember too well and that’s the problem.
I hate you.
The lie trembles on the screen.
The response comes instantly.
No you don’t.
You just hate that you still feel me.
Tears burn behind my eyes.
I turn my face into the pillow, pressing it hard enough to muffle the sound that escapes me — a broken, furious breath that feels like it might split me in half.
This isn’t healthy.
Neither was prison.
But you survived that too.
My chest aches.
The room feels tilted, off-balance, like the world has shifted just enough that nothing lines up anymore.
I’m getting married.
The longest pause yet.
I can almost feel him on the other end, reading it, rereading it, jaw tightening, something dark and volatile coiling tighter in his chest.
When the reply finally comes, it’s not words.
It’s a photo.
A photo of my house.
Taken from across the street.
Taken tonight.
My blood turns cold.
The final message follows, slow and deliberate.
No.
You’re running.
And I don’t let things I love run from me.
I drop the phone.
It lands face-down on the mattress.
My whole body trembles.
This isn’t obsession anymore.
It’s possession.
And the most terrifying part?
I don’t know where my fear ends
and where my want begins.
Because even as dread knots in my stomach…
…somewhere deep inside me, something broken and aching whispers:
He came back.
And I don’t know whether that means I’m about to be saved—or completely destroyed.
I don’t sleep after that.
I lie there with my phone face-down on the mattress, the glow of it still burned into the backs of my eyelids, my pulse refusing to slow no matter how still I force myself to be.
Noah breathes beside me—deep, even, practiced—and every inhale feels like a reminder that I am supposed to belong here, that this is the life I chose, that nothing is wrong if I just keep my mouth shut and my spine straight.
The locket presses into my sternum.
Cold.
Unforgiving.
I curl my fingers around it beneath the covers and squeeze until the edge bites into my skin, until sensation grounds me enough to keep from spiralling completely apart.
My thoughts chase each other in frantic loops—memories spiking, fear blooming, want twisting itself into something sharp and shameful—and somewhere between midnight and dawn I realise the worst part isn’t that Kai knows I’m leaving.
It’s that he’s right.
I am packing like someone who plans to come back.
Morning arrives too cleanly.
Sunlight slides through the curtains in pale gold ribbons, touching everything with a softness that feels obscene after the night I’ve had.
Noah is already dressed when I open my eyes, cufflinks gleaming, hair perfect, the faint scent of expensive cologne filling the room like a declaration of control.
“Car’s downstairs,” he says without turning. “We’ll be late if you linger.”
I nod because nodding is easier than explaining why my stomach feels hollowed out, why my hands shake as I push myself upright, why the thought of stepping outside feels like stepping into a trap I can’t see.
In the bathroom mirror, I barely recognise myself.
My eyes are shadowed, pupils too dark, mouth still faintly tender in a way that makes heat curl low in my belly despite the panic clawing up my ribs. I touch my lip again, lightly, and flinch at the memory that surges up—teeth, breath, a voice telling me not to say his name.
I turn the tap on too hot.
Let the water scald my hands until sensation overwhelms thought.
By the time we leave the house, I’ve locked everything down so tightly inside myself that I feel brittle, like one wrong word could shatter me completely.
The drive to the airport is quiet.
Noah likes silence when he’s thinking, and I can feel it rolling off him in controlled waves, the kind of quiet that isn’t peaceful but imposed. I stare out the window at familiar streets sliding past, every corner suddenly heavy with the knowledge that I don’t know when—or if—I’ll see them again.
My phone vibrates in my bag.
Once.
I don’t reach for it.
I don’t have to.
I already know.
At the terminal, the world feels unreal—too bright, too loud, too full of people moving with purpose when I feel like I’m walking through water. Noah’s hand settles at the small of my back, firm enough to guide, gentle enough to look affectionate to anyone watching.
A warning disguised as care.
“Smile,” he murmurs under his breath as we pass security. “You look like someone’s taking you to a funeral.”
I force my mouth to curve upward.
It feels wrong on my face.
We move through the lounge like a photograph come to life—him confident and polished, me poised and hollow—and I can feel eyes on us, strangers clocking the expensive clothes, the easy authority with which Noah moves through the space.
This is the image he wants. This is the story he’s telling the world.
I sit when he tells me to sit.
Drink the champagne he orders without asking.
Let the bubbles numb my tongue and the alcohol take the edge off my nerves just enough to keep me functional.
My phone vibrates again.
Longer this time.
I excuse myself to the bathroom before Noah can stop me, the words “freshen up” falling from my mouth automatically, and lock myself into a stall like I’m sixteen and hiding from something I can’t name.
My hands are shaking when I pull the phone out.
Three messages.
All from the same unknown number.
You still have time.
My chest tightens.
Once you leave the ground, it gets harder to turn back.
I sink onto the closed toilet lid, breath coming shallow and fast, the hum of the airport muffled through the walls.
The third message appears slowly, deliberately.
He thinks this trip seals you to him.
It doesn’t.
My vision blurs.
I type back before I can stop myself, the words spilling out sharp and panicked.
Stop doing this.
The reply comes immediately.
I will.
When you stop lying to yourself.
I drop the phone into my lap and press my forehead to my knees, breathing through the surge of sensation tearing through me—fear and heat and something dangerously close to hope.
This isn’t safe. None of this is safe. And yet, the thought of him out there, watching, knowing, refusing to let me disappear into the life Noah is building around me like a cage—it does something to me.
It makes me feel seen.
I flush the toilet even though I don’t need to, splash cold water on my face, and straighten my spine until my back aches with the effort. When I leave the bathroom, Noah’s eyes flick up instantly, sharp and assessing.
“Everything alright?” he asks, voice smooth.
“Yes,” I say, because it’s what I’ve always said.
He studies me for a beat too long, then nods once. “Good. They’re boarding.”
As we walk down the jet bridge, my heart pounds so hard I feel it in my throat, each step forward a small, irreversible choice. I take my seat beside Noah, buckle in, fold my hands in my lap like a good girl.
The plane taxis.
The engines roar.
My phone vibrates one last time.
I don’t look.
I don’t need to.
The locket is heavy against my skin, a silent promise and a threat all at once, and as the plane lifts off the ground—my stomach dropping, the world tilting—I close my eyes and let the tears I’ve been holding back slide down my cheeks in silence.
Because I know, with a clarity that terrifies me, that I am not flying away from him.
I am flying straight into whatever he has planned.
And some twisted, broken part of me is already bracing—not to escape—but to meet him there.