Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
-Thalia-
Xander moves around my apartment as if he belongs here, as though this is just any other day in our shared lives.
I stand here for a moment, just listening to him move about the kitchen.
Drawers opening. The click of the fridge.
The quiet scrape of the spoon against the mug.
It’s domestic, soft edges instead of sharp ones, and yet, there’s a tremor underneath it.
Because beneath all of this… I am waiting for the next hit of fear.
Trauma rewires you. Teaches you that silence means danger. Teaches you to look for exits even when you’re safe. And now, even coffee feels like a countdown.
Bella noses at my leg, grounding me, and I sink into a chair, pressing my palms flat against the cool surface of the table.
My therapist once told me the body remembers danger even when the mind insists we’re safe.
That’s trauma. A leftover survival instinct, buried like shrapnel beneath skin and memory.
My body remembers Damian. The way I used to flinch before I consciously knew why. The way every sound became a warning.
I used to think healing meant erasing the past.
Turns out, healing is learning how to live even when the past still echoes.
Bella nudges my hand again. Her presence pulls me out of the spiral—warm, steady, real.
I focus on the details grounding me.
The soft thump of her tail against the floor, the scent of coffee drifting from the kitchen, the sunlight stretching across the table like a fragile promise.
For a moment, a single breath, I exhale without fear.
Maybe this is what recovery feels like.
Not freedom from the memories, but power in spite of them.
I let Bella crawl into my lap, burying my face in her fur.
“I’m trying,” I whisper, voice breaking.
Trying to believe safety isn’t temporary.
Trying to believe I deserve it.
Xander appears in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame, watching me like I’m something fragile and untouchable.
“You’re thinking too loud,” he murmurs.
“I don’t know how to stop,” I admit.
His expression softens, not in pity, but in recognition. “Then I’ll think for both of us.”
He crosses the room and presses a kiss to my temple.
I close my eyes. Try to believe him. Try to believe normal exists outside the gravity of fear.
I want desperately to pretend that it truly is, to convince myself that things are normal.
I smile when he leans down to press a gentle kiss to the top of my head before heading off to work.
The playful banter flows easily between us as I teasingly admonish him about being late if he doesn’t stop lingering in the doorway.
He chuckles, that effortless grin stretching across his face, but I catch the brief flicker of tension in his eyes before he turns to leave, a silent acknowledgment of the lingering threat from the lighter. We are both ensnared by thoughts of it.
As the door clicks shut, an oppressive silence envelops the room, heavy and suffocating.
I find myself slumped on the couch, fingers tightly gripping my coffee mug as I stare unenthusiastically at the television, where a mindless morning show babbles on about celebrity scandals that barely register in my mind.
Everything appears normal. Everything is normal.
Yet my chest feels as though it’s been electrified, a raw, tingling energy coursing through me, heightening my awareness of every sound and movement around me.
I attempt to distract myself with mundane tasks, like sorting the laundry, washing the dishes, and losing myself in the pages of a book. Just as I start to sink into the ordinary, my phone buzzes violently against the table. I nearly jump out of my skin, adrenaline surging through me.
It’s just a text from Isla, checking in about dinner plans later this week. But even typing back feels like a monumental task, my hands shaking with residual unease.
By the afternoon, I’ve retreated back to the couch, cocooned in a soft blanket, the familiar weight of my Bella pressing against my leg. My phone buzzes with another message.
Isla sending me TikToks.
Meme. Meme. Reminder to drink water.
Normal girl things.
I want to reply the way I used to, with sarcasm and emojis and rapid-fire thoughts, but typing feels like moving through wet cement. The words exist in my head; they just refuse to travel into the world.
I hate this part of trauma, the parts of you that grief steals without asking.
I swallow the hard lump in my throat.
My eyes drift to the door again.
Locked.
Double-locked.
Checked three times.
Logic whispers, ‘You’re safe.’
Fear whispers louder, ‘You were safe last time, too.’
I reach over to the coffee table and grab Xander’s hoodie, pulling it over me like armor. He once told me that his hoodie looked better on me.
I didn’t believe him then.
Now, wrapped in it, I feel untouchable.
Bella’s steady breathing offers a sense of calm, and for a fleeting moment, I can almost convince myself that the chaotic world outside has faded away, that I am safe here.
But then I glance at the counter, my eyes landing on the empty space where the lighter had been before Xander carefully tucked it away in a drawer.
It may have vanished from sight, but it hasn’t left my mind.
Its absence presses against my ribs, an invisible weight that feels suffocating.
I pull the blanket tighter around me, my whisper barely audible as I reassure Bella. “We’re okay. We’re fine.” The comforting thump of her tail against the cushion becomes my lifeline, a small solace amid the turmoil.
Deep down, I understand that this is merely the calm before the storm, and I can’t shake the creeping dread that looms over us.
-Xander-
Work feels impossible today. I try to lose myself in routine.
Tighten the bolts. Replace the gasket. Adjust the torque.
My hands know the movements; my head doesn’t.
Every sound becomes a threat.
The slam of a toolbox. The hiss of the air compressor. The grinder’s whine.
Each one sounds like her scream replaying in different frequencies.
I rub the back of my neck, trying to shake the image.
Thalia never screams in real life. Even when she’s terrified, she goes silent, something Damian conditioned into her.
The moment I realized that, I understood how deeply he poisoned her.
That’s why the silence today terrifies me more than any scream ever could.
The familiar roar of the shop surrounds me, the jarring clatter of metal hitting metal, the grease-stained rags strewn carelessly over the benches, and the thick, intoxicating smell of oil and gasoline that hangs in the air like a heavy fog.
Yet despite the usual chaos, none of it manages to penetrate the relentless buzzing in my skull.
I’ve rebuilt engines in various states of distress—hungover, half-asleep, even once with a broken wrist—but today is different.
Today, I can hardly keep track of the socket wrench gripping my hand.
Instead, all I can think of is that lighter.
It shouldn’t mean anything to me. Just a cheap, unremarkable lighter.
But the way it appeared, silent, calculated, and completely anonymous, sends a chill down my spine.
It’s a stark reminder that Damian isn’t gone.
He’s not letting go of the grip he has on Thalia, and he wants me to know that he can step into her life at any moment, shattering the fragile walls she’s erected around herself.
I slam the wrench down harder than intended, the metal striking the concrete floor with a violent crack that echoes through the shop. Eyes turn toward me, a few of the guys raising their brows in concern, but they’ve learned by now to stay quiet. They know better than to poke the bear.
My phone lies silently on the edge of the workbench, its screen dark as if mocking me.
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve checked it, anxiously waiting for the familiar buzz that would signal Thalia’s name lighting up the screen.
I told her to reach out, text me, call me, do anything if she ever feels uneasy. She promised she would.
But the silence gnaws at me, a pit of dread expanding in my chest as I picture her alone in that apartment.
My mind drifts to thoughts of her small frame curled up on the couch, her eyes darting nervously at the slightest sound, the way she flinched the last time I raised my voice in frustration.
The idea that Damian, the man who has already broken her, could do so again makes my blood boil.
And alongside that rage, there’s a darker fear, a fear that I might shatter her too, with my anger, my obsession, my inability to keep it all under control.
I drag a hand over my face, leaving greasy streaks across my skin, and let out a breath that doesn’t alleviate the tight knot in my gut.
Every time I close my eyes, I can conjure an image of Damian, smirking, smug, relishing in the thought that he’s already won.
He’s infiltrated our lives, tauntingly positioning himself in her mind and mine.
“Not a chance,” I mutter to myself, forcing my hands to unclench, yet the tension is so intense that the grease rag I’ve been holding tears in half.
I try distracting myself by working, forcing my hands to move through muscle-memory motions.
Oil, wrench, torque, simple math.
But nothing sticks.
Every noise becomes a threat. The slam of a toolbox. The passing shout of a coworker. The hiss of compressed air.
All of it fragments into one thought. Is Thalia scared right now?
I picture her curled on the couch, hands shaking, trying to pretend she’s okay so she doesn’t worry me. I hate that she’s learned to minimize her fear.
Damian taught her that.
He conditioned her to swallow panic.
To stay quiet.
To freeze.
My jaw clenches so tight I taste blood.