Delia
One week of living with Axel Irving, and I was actively contemplating homicide.
Not because he was terrible—that would've been easier. No, Axel Irving was infuriatingly perfect at inserting himself into every corner of my life.
I woke up to find he'd cleaned my entire apartment. Not tidied. Cleaned.
As in dishes washed, floor swept, windows wiped, every surface gleaming like we were expecting a photo shoot for Better Homes and Gardens. But the real crime—the actual violation—was my art corner.
My beautiful, chaotic, perfectly-organized-in-my-own-way art corner had been transformed into something out of a Container Store catalog.
Every brush lined up by size. Every paint tube arranged by color family.
My reference photos sorted into neat stacks instead of the creative sprawl I'd cultivated.
I stood in the doorway staring at what used to be my space, now edited by Axel Irving’s thoroughness, and felt something hot and sharp rise in my chest.
“What did you do?” I tried to keep my voice level.
Axel looked up from his laptop at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, looking completely at ease. “Good morning. I had time between meetings so I tidied up.”
“I didn’t ask you to clean.”
“I know. But it needed doing.”
“I would have done it myself.”
“Would you have?” A simple question, but it sent my blood roaring.
“Yes! Eventually!” I grabbed my jacket, suddenly needing to be anywhere but here.
My ankle was healing—I’d graduated from crutches to just the walking boot yesterday, and the doctor had said I was recovering faster than expected.
Still not supposed to do anything strenuous, but at least I could move without looking like a wounded penguin.
“Where are you going?” He asked, observing my hasty movements.
“I’m an adult. Do I have to report my movements to you now?”
“No, but—”
I didn’t let him finish. Just grabbed my bag and walked out the door before I said something I’d regret. Or threw something. Both seemed equally likely.
The late afternoon air hit my face as I made it down. My ankle protested, but walking without crutches felt like freedom. Even if that freedom came with a dull ache that reminded me not to do anything stupid.
I needed space. Needed to breathe. Totally not to be in my apartment with Mr. Perfect and his color-coded paint tubes.
I ended up at one of Hector’s Valdez famous restaurants for dinner—this flagship location that had made him famous. Usually, eating here made everything better. The food was incredible, the atmosphere was warm, and I could always count on good service that didn’t feel intrusive.
Tonight, though, even the perfectly cooked risotto couldn’t touch the anger burning in my chest.
I paid, left a generous tip, and decided to walk for a while. The evening was cool, and anything was better than going back to my apartment where Axel Irving had probably alphabetized my books by now.
That’s when I heard it.
Raised voices from an alley. A man’s voice, aggressive. A woman’s, pleading.
I stopped, my legs going still against the pavement. Every horror story about getting involved flashed through my head—mind your business, call the police, stay safe.
But the woman’s voice got more desperate, and I was already moving.
The scene was exactly what I’d feared. A man had a woman pressed against the brick wall, his hand on her arm, his face too close to hers. She was crying, trying to pull away, and he was not letting go.
“Hey!” I called out. “Let her go!”
The man turned, and his expression went from anger to contempt in about two seconds. “Mind your own business.”
“I will once you let her go.”
“This is between me and my girlfriend. Walk away.”
The woman was still crying, still pressed against the wall, and I made a decision.
I’d taken taekwondo classes in college—three years of twice-weekly training that my dad had insisted on before he died. “The world’s not safe for women who can’t defend themselves,” he’d said. At the time I’d rolled my eyes. Now I was grateful.
“Last chance,” I said, positioning myself carefully. My ankle twinged in warning. I ignored it. “Let her go.”
He laughed—sharp and wild, like a hyena that’d had too much coffee.
Then he suddenly reached out in a blur. He shoved me.
I stumbled but didn’t fall. My ankle screamed in protest but adrenaline was a beautiful thing. Beautiful and incredibly stupid, as it turned out.
Okay, I’d thought about being cordial. I had even tried the peaceful route. But this guy had just forced my hand.
The first kick caught him in the knee. The second—thank you, muscle memory—caught him in the ribs as he doubled over.
Even when I used my good foot, my ankle was on fire.
But I kept moving. When he tried to grab me, I used his momentum against him, pivoting despite the pain shooting up my leg, and he hit the ground hard.
I turned to the woman, breathing hard, my ankle throbbing. “Don’t worry. You’re safe now.”
She was crying harder, pressed against the wall, and I felt like a superhero for about three seconds before she screamed.
“What did you do?”
I blinked. “I… saved you?”
“Saved me? You just attacked my boyfriend!”
Time stopped. “Your what?”
“He wasn’t hurting me! We were just arguing!” She dropped beside him, checking his face where he’d scraped it on the pavement. “Oh my god, Jake, are you okay?”
Jake. Of course his name was Jake. The universe was officially mocking me.
“But you were crying,” I said weakly. “He had you against the wall.”
“Because I was breaking up with him and he was upset! We were having a private conversation!”
“It looked like—”
“I don’t care what it looked like!” She pulled out her phone. “I’m calling the police.”
“Wait, you’re calling the police on me?”
“You attacked us!”
“I was helping you!”
“I DIDN’T NEED HELP!”
A police patrol car pulled up—because of course it did. Because my life wasn’t enough of a disaster already.
The woman ran to them, still crying, pointing at me like I was some kind of violent criminal. Jake was getting up, holding his ribs, looking simultaneously pathetic and vindictive.
I tried to explain, to tell the officers what I’d seen, what I’d thought was happening. But it came out garbled and defensive, and the woman kept crying that I’d attacked them for no reason, and Jake was showing off his scraped face like I’d tried to murder him.
My ankle was still throbbing. I’d risked my barely-healed leg, probably set back my recovery by weeks, to save a woman who didn’t want saving.
And now I was being arrested for assault.
The universe wasn’t just laughing. It was taking notes. “Ma’am, you’re going to need to come with us,” one officer said.
“Are you serious?”
“We need to sort this out at the station.”
And just like that, Delia Santoro—left at the altar, broken ankle, unknown artist—added “arrested for assault” to her resume.
The handcuffs were cold against my wrists. I looked down at my walking boot, at the ankle I’d just abused trying to be a hero, and thought about how this would look on a résumé.
Skills: Painting, Teaching Ballet, Assaulting Innocent Couples.
Perfect.
The police station smelled like coffee and disappointment.
They put me in a room with fluorescent lights that made everything look worse, took my statement, and left me sitting there thinking about all the life choices that had led to this moment. The list was long and depressing.
I’d been there maybe forty minutes when the door opened and Axel walked in.
He looked calm. Controlled. Wearing a grim expression, but the moment he spotted me, his eyes turned assessing, scanning like he was checking for damage.
I wanted to sink into the floor. To be literally anywhere else. Instead I lifted my chin and tried to project an aura of I-don’t-give-a-fuck.
“Ms. Santoro is free to go,” he said to the officer beside him.
“We still need to—”
“Her lawyer will be in touch tomorrow. Tonight she’s coming home.”
The officer nodded and left. Axel looked at me.
“Ready?”
That was it? He wasn’t asking questions?
I stood, testing my ankle gingerly. It hurt worse than before. Definitely worse.
“I can walk,” I said when he moved toward me.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
We made it to his car in silence. The drive home was equally quiet. Not the comfortable kind of silence—the kind where words sat between us like landmines, where anything either of us said would probably detonate into a fight.
So we said nothing.
Back at my apartment, Axel made pasta. I watched him move around my kitchen with that same irritating smoothness, and neither of us spoke. He set a plate in front of me and one at his own spot. We ate in hostile silence.
I picked at the food. It was good—everything Axel made was good. The space between us felt charged with mutual frustration, like we were both waiting for the other to make the first move—and neither of us trusted what would happen if we did.
He didn’t ask me to explain. I didn’t offer.
After dinner, I tried to paint. Set up in front of my canvas with brush in hand while Axel worked at the kitchen table, his laptop open, his focus apparently on whatever financial reports or museum budgets or world domination plans he was reading.
But I could feel him here. His attention—pretending not to watch but absolutely watching—was on me. It felt like I was carrying the weight of someone witnessing my failure in real time.
Fifteen minutes. That’s all I lasted before I threw the brush down hard enough that it bounced.
Axel glanced over. “Creativity doesn’t happen on command. Maybe you’re being too hard on yourself.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Probably not.” He closed his laptop. “But watching you beat yourself up seems counterproductive.”
Something in me snapped. “If you have a problem with how I handle things, then say it.”
“I don’t have a problem.”
“Right. Because showing up at a police station to bail out your charity case is totally normal behavior.”
“Delia—”
“If this is about what happened tonight—”
“I’m just glad you’re safe.” He said, meeting my gaze.