Chapter Seven
Dahlia
Ilie in bed watching the rising sun chase away the shadows until I finally get up and shuffle into the kitchen, bleary-eyed but brimming with restless energy, and make myself a French press coffee—probably the last good cup I’ll have for quite some time.
The rich aroma fills the air, grounding me for a moment, but not enough to ease the knot in my chest.
I sip it slowly, savoring the rich brew while also anticipating the switch to the sweet scalding chai of India.
Cup in hand, I head to the garage where Ben’s pathologically organized storage containers line the shelves, each neatly labeled in his precise block handwriting.
For a moment, I just stare at them, their rigid perfection grating against the chaos he’s stirred within me and my life.
“What’s good for the goose,” I say aloud to the garage as I dump several of them onto the floor, sending tools, cords, and who-knows-what scattering into a haphazard pile, “is good for the gander.”
A petty thrill zips through me, imagining his reaction to the mess. Welcome to my world, Benny boy. Grabbing the empty tubs, I walk through the house and start packing up my own things—what little I actually care to keep.
Maybe I’m numb, a robot going through the motions, or maybe I truly don’t care anymore, but the small pile I end up with feels unimpressive.
A few of my favorite kitchen gadgets, most of my clothes, a couple of sentimental keepsakes.
One box of academia—copies of my published works, a handful of notes.
And several boxes of books, too many to justify but too precious to leave behind.
Packing my car to the brim takes effort, but it means only two trips to the storage shed to get everything moved. Despite renting the smallest one, my belongings barely take up half the space.
Pride at my lack of consumerism wars with disappointment as I stare at the shoebox unit.
Is this really it? Is this all I have to represent my life?
The thought stings, and not because I care about material things, but because of what it says about me.
If I’d met my academic goals, maybe my lack of achievement wouldn’t burn quite so much.
What do I have to show for my thirty-odd years on this planet?
A few tubs of random belongings. A failed relationship. No family. No doctorate. An unsuccessful research expedition. A bruised ego. A broken heart. And no cure.
When I think about my life in these terms, it’s not just bleak. It’s downright depressing.
But then, as I lean against the car, staring at the mess Ben has made of my life—the pieces he left me to pick up, the years I can’t get back—another saying of my mom’s rises unbidden in my mind.
Sometimes, honey, the only place left to go is up.
The words settle over me, their warmth a stark contrast to the emptiness within.
I close my eyes, letting them wrap around me.
Maybe she was right. Maybe this is rock bottom.
But rock bottom, for all its jagged edges and shadows, is also a starting point.
And that means there’s only one direction left to go.
With that comes a freedom as I realize I have nothing to lose, and the weight of a thousand expectations lifts off my shoulders.
Endless possibility unfurls in front of me.
The entire world is open to me now. I can go anywhere, do anything.
I am free. Free to forge my own path, free to return to my hunt for the plant, free to do whatever I want.
I vow I’m not going to let this disease take my life before it takes my life. I am going to go live. I am free. And it feels incredible. I close the door and step back, staring at the padlock like it’s sealing away not just my things, but my old life. My old thought patterns that held me hostage.
“I am fucking free,” I yell, pumping my fist in the air.
“I beg your pardon,” comes a haughty voice behind me.
A startled gasp escapes me as I spin around to the parking lot. An elderly woman clings to her husband's arm, shrinking into him. I’d been so lost in thought, I hadn’t even heard their footsteps approach. Her face is frozen in horror, while her husband barely hides a smirk.
“I said what I said.” I shrug and walk away, leaving the storage unit, and my old life, locked away behind me. I’m done caring about the judgement of others. I head back to the house for one last pass—one last goodbye—before I chase down the Silene vitalis and whatever time I have left to live.
My mood is short lived, the burst of euphoria curdling into a pool of disgust in my gut as I round the bend to see Ben’s car in the driveway. I grip the steering wheel, pulse hammering with irritation as I pull in next to it. I should have known he wouldn’t just slink off quietly.
Guarded, I step inside to find him sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, head bowed. The perfect picture of shame and remorse. But I know it’s all just an illusion now. His head snaps up at the sound of the door.
“Dolly, please,” he whines. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
A week ago, those words would have found purchase in my heart. But now? They barely graze the surface. There’s no anger, no sadness in me—just a quiet, eerie nothingness. I’ve already chartered a new course, one that has no place for regret, especially about him.
Ben stands and crosses the room, arms outstretched like I’m supposed to fall into them. When he reaches for my hands, I step back, voice sharp as a blade.
“Don’t call me Dolly. And don’t fucking touch me,” I bark.
“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands like I’m the unreasonable one.
“Dahlia,” he amends, offering the name like a peace offering. He exhales shakily, as if this is hard for him. Him!
“It was one night. I was weak and lonely without you. We’d never been apart for so long before.” His voice trembles—just slightly. The perfect balance of remorse and vulnerability.
But now I know, it’s a performance. Our years together have taught me to read his micro expressions. I watch him closely, and there it is—the tell. His fingers spin his ring on his right hand. His left eyebrow twitches upward.
I’ve seen this exact expression before. When he schmoozed trustees for funding. When he convinced donors to cut a check. When he humored students who weren’t pretty enough to warrant his real attention. And now, he’s doing it to me.
Curious, I play along. “Why, Ben?” I whisper, tilting my head just slightly. Widening my eyes in feigned wonder. “Why should I forgive you?”
He relaxes, thinking he’s won me over, and I use the moment to edge back toward the door. There’s nothing here I need. Nothing worth fighting over. And the hair on the back of my neck is standing on end, prickling with the instinct to run.
Ben’s voice softens, taking on that coaxing tone he uses when he wants something, as he steps toward me. “Dahlia, we’ve been together for years. We have too much history to throw it all away over a silly mistake that meant nothing.”
The word silly sinks into my stomach like a stone, leaving emotions rippling in its wake. Incredulity. Hurt. Betrayal. All my logical thoughts about putting myself first collapse in on themselves, a house of cards knocked down by a tsunami of emotion.
He gestures between us, narrowing his eyes. “It’s you I love. You I’ve devoted my life to.” His lips press into a thin line, voice lowering. “I’ve sacrificed so much for you. For us. Think of our work. Think of the lab. The department.”
I retreat another step, feeling the transition from carpet to linoleum as my back nears the entryway at the door.
Think of what? I gave him years of my love, and he’s making it sound like our relationship was some kind of contractual agreement.
As if we were business partners and our love was nothing more than a footnote.
Like I owe him something. Like I owe the freaking university something.
What about me? What am I owed?
He must see my hesitation because his mask drops, face hardening. “We’re so close, Dahlia. So close to everything we wanted. Let’s go back—together. I know I can help you find the plant. You just needed me. I should have gone with you from the beginning.”
My blood chills. Help me find the plant?
He hadn’t wanted to go. He dismissed my theories as wishful thinking, suggesting I was allowing my bias and grief over my mother’s death to color my research. He had no interest in trekking through the Himalayas, sleeping in guesthouses, or bathing with buckets of cold water.
So why does he suddenly care now?
His voice drops, turning smooth. “The university funding wasn’t enough for your expedition. If you really want to find your plant, help other people like your mom, we need investors. There are far bigger players out there. People who pay for innovation.”
Foreboding skates down my spine as his words echo in my mind.
I think back to the hushed conversations at the university, the ones Ben always brushed off when I tried to ask him about them.
The rumors that pharmaceutical companies had been sniffing around, quietly pressuring researchers to sell early findings before they became public knowledge.
I remember the way Ben used to roll his eyes at the idea, scoffing that real scientists didn’t chase corporate money. That staying in academia kept the research pure.
But now when there’s money on the table for him? Suddenly, he cares. The nausea in my gut has nothing to do with last night’s tequila. This was never about us. Never about me.
Ben isn’t here because he lost me—he’s here because he wants in.
I’m piecing it together, but I don’t have all the information yet. And he sees it—the moment I falter, my mind racing through the possibilities. He knows I’m on the cusp of figuring out something important, something he doesn’t want me to know without being on his side first.
Ben takes a slow step forward, voice smooth, cajoling. “Come on, Dolly.” His voice rolling over that damn wretched nickname leaves an oil slick over my heart. Although he keeps his voice controlled, I see the flash of anger in his eyes. “Let’s be smart about this.”
I shift my weight, fingers tightening around the door handle. My instincts scream go, go, go, as right on cue, he lunges and snags my free wrist.
“Ben,” I gasp, shocked that he would lay his hands on me.
In response, he tightens his grip, grinding the bones together. Not hard enough to break them, but enough to make his point. Enough to remind me that, for all his carefully constructed charm, power and control have always been what he wanted most.
It explains his annoyance with the board and donors, with the students, and now with me. I know he thinks I’m weak. He’s made vaguely disguised insults before about my size and strength, insinuating I just needed to exercise more. Have more will power.
But the months spent hiking and breathing the high-altitude air of the mountains have made me stronger. Faster. And I am angry. So angry. It bubbles up through the uncertainty like lava, filling the cracks of my broken heart. I become rage, vengeance, and it fuels me into action.
My fingers tighten around the door handle behind me, and I channel my feelings into reclaiming my own power, throwing it open—right into his face. A satisfying thunk precedes a rather unmanly screech.
Ben wails, clutching his face as blood streams between his fingers, “My nose! You broke my fucking nose!”
“It’s Dahlia, asshole,” I call over my shoulder as I whirl on my heel, sprinting for my car. As much as I’d love to stick around to admire my handiwork, all that matters is getting out of here and away from him.
Jumping in, I slap the locks down and yank the gear shift into reverse. The tires screech as I tear out of the driveway, the car bouncing as I clip the curb before slamming it into drive and flooring it. My hands shake as I grip the wheel, my staccato heartbeat thunders in my ears as I retreat.
He doesn’t follow, yet I can’t seem to stop checking in the rearview mirror every few seconds, never slowing down.
Not until I get back to the storage facility where I’ll leave my car for long-term storage do I finally ease off the gas.
I pull into the lot, shove the gear into park, and fumble for my phone.
My hands are still shaking, making it harder than it should be to tap through the app and order a car to pick me up.
My eyes flick between the arrival time on the app and the entrance to the lot.
Waiting for the glare of headlights, the screech of tires.
For Ben to somehow find me, come flying in, block my way, and throw out one last desperate plea.
Or lay a hand on me again. I should have done more than break the bastard’s nose.
But no car comes flying around the bend. Several long minutes later, a car approaches at a reasonable pace matching the one listed on my phone. Only then do I get out and grab my bags, slide into the back seat, and clutch them tight as the driver confirms, “Heading to the airport?”
I hesitate for half a second, my gaze flicking to the lot entrance once more. I swallow hard, forcing my voice to be steady. “Yeah. Thanks.”
As the car pulls away, I let my head fall back against the seat and exhale, slow and steady. For years, Ben was my anchor. But anchors don’t just hold you steady. They keep you in the same place. Stagnant. Unmoving.
And I’ve finally cut myself free.