Chapter 22

Twenty-Two

I woke to silence. No handcuffs, no cold basement floor, no oppressive darkness. Just the soft hum of central air and the faint scent of lavender. The room around me was unfamiliar—clean, bright, and far too big. For a moment, I thought I might still be dreaming, the kind where safety feels fragile, like a glass bubble that could shatter with the wrong breath.

My body ached with a deep, lingering soreness from days spent fighting against myself. My wrists bore faint marks from the cuffs and my chest was still tender beneath the bandages Liam had applied. I ran my fingers along the edges of the gauze, the touch grounding me in reality.

The room was pristine and impersonal, like something from a luxury hotel. It was too perfect, too untouched, which made it all the more surreal. I sat up slowly, my muscles protesting, and looked around. The only evidence that this space belonged to someone was the neatly folded hoodie draped over a chair, probably left there by Liam.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, my feet brushing against the plush carpet. The softness startled me—a far cry from the cold concrete of the basement. I stood on unsteady legs, my body moving without much input from my mind, and wandered toward the door.

The hallway was wide and bathed in light from tall windows. Everything about this house screamed wealth, from the gleaming floors to the oversized paintings lining the walls. I traced a hand along the railing as I descended a grand staircase, my bare feet making soft sounds against the polished wood.

The house was silent, save for the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance. I passed through the living room, where more opulent furniture sat in perfect arrangement. It felt like a set piece in a play, a space too perfect to be real.

On the counter in the kitchen sat a note, its handwriting neat and precise.

Kira, Take your time. You’re safe here. -Liam

Safe. The word felt foreign. I wasn’t sure I even believed it.

I lingered in the kitchen for a moment, staring at the note. Liam hadn’t come back. The absence of his presence left an uneasy void, but part of me was relieved. I didn’t have to face him, and pretend to be okay.

My eyes drifted to the phone he’d left for me, sitting next to the credit card. It was sleek and new, its glossy surface catching the morning light. I hesitated before picking it up, its weight feeling heavier than it should.

I sat at the table, staring at the screen as I powered it on. The blank home screen stared back at me, a fresh start that felt daunting. Liam had programmed his number into it—his name was the only one in the contacts list.

I opened the messaging app, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. What was I even supposed to say? The thought of asking for something felt... wrong, like I was imposing.

After a long moment, I typed:

Can I use the card to pay for a therapist near here?

I stared at the words, my finger trembling over the send button. My mind raced with excuses not to press it. What if he thought I was weak? What if he said no? But I couldn’t keep spiraling. Not anymore.

I hit send and placed the phone face down on the table, anxiety tightening my chest.

The vibration of his reply startled me. I flipped the phone over and read the single word:

Yes.

As I stared at the screen, the little typing bubble appeared, then disappeared. He’d wanted to say more but decided against it. The thought made my chest ache, though I couldn’t say why.

The confirmation felt like permission to move forward. I opened the browser and searched for therapists nearby, my hands shaking as I scrolled through the results. Most places had waiting lists or required weeks to get an appointment. It felt hopeless until I saw one with an opening tomorrow.

The receptionist was kind, her voice soothing as I stumbled over my words. “Tomorrow at 2 p.m.?” she confirmed.

“Yes,” I replied, the word coming out faint.

After hanging up, I set the phone down and stared at it, my mind struggling to process what I’d just done. Tomorrow. It was too soon, too fast. But wasn’t that what I needed?

The thought of talking to someone, of laying everything bare, terrified me. But the alternative was worse.

I stood and wandered back into the living room, my gaze landing on the massive windows that overlooked an expansive garden. The sun shone brightly, bathing the room in warmth, but it felt out of place. I wasn’t ready for so much light.

I curled up on the couch, pulling my knees to my chest. The house was too quiet, too big. Every shadow felt like it was watching me, and every creak of the floorboards reminded me of Owen’s footsteps on the basement stairs.

The thought of him was like a knife, cutting through the fragile calm I’d tried to build. His voice, his touch, the way he whispered my name like a prayer. I hated him. I loved him. I didn’t know how to separate the two.

But I knew one thing: I didn’t want to die. Not anymore.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut, leaving me breathless. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t know how to live, either. My life was a tangled mess of trauma and fear, and somewhere in the middle of it all was Owen.

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, I felt a flicker of something like hope. It was faint and fragile, like a candle in the wind, but it was there.

And for now, that was enough.