I sit with my back pressed against the bedroom door, my knees pulled to my chest, and count the hours by the quality of the darkness outside the window.
First the deep black of true night. Then the gradual softening toward charcoal. Then the faint blush of pink along the horizon that means dawn is coming whether I am ready for it or not.
Daniel stopped pacing around two in the morning. I heard him stumbling through the apartment, opening cabinets, cursing under his breath in a way that suggested he was looking for something specific.
The first aid kit, probably. The one I keep under the bathroom sink because he never bothers to learn where anything is stored.
He did not try to break down the door. That is the part I cannot stop turning over in my mind like a stone worn smooth by water.
Every other time—and there have been enough other times that I have lost count—he has thrown his weight against whatever barrier I put between us. He has kicked and screamed and promised to kill me if I did not open up right now.
Tonight, nothing.
Did I stab him too deep?
Is he lying out there in a pool of his own blood? Slowly dying while I sit here counting the minutes until my alarm goes off?
The thought should horrify me instead of finding myself cataloguing the practical implications.
If he is dead, there will be police. There will be questions. There will be a body to explain and a weapon with my fingerprints and a pregnancy that will become public record during the investigation.
I press my palm against my abdomen and feel nothing but the steady rhythm of my own pulse.
At five in the morning, I make a decision. My work day starts at eight, and I refuse to give Daniel the satisfaction of destroying my career on top of everything else.
I will shower. I will dress. I will walk out of this apartment like a woman who has not spent the night wondering if she committed manslaughter.
I press my ear against the door and listen until my jaw aches from the tension.
Nothing. No breathing, no movement, no indication that anyone is waiting on the other side. I turn the lock slowly, easing the mechanism so it barely clicks, and crack the door open two inches.
The hallway is empty. The living room beyond it is dark and still.
I sprint for the bathroom on bare feet, my heart hammering against my ribs, and lock myself inside before I allow myself to breathe. The shower runs cold for the first thirty seconds, and I stand beneath the spray anyway, letting the water wash away the residue of the worst night of my life.
My mother's voice finds me here, the way it always does when I am at my lowest.
Joice Novak, with her calloused hands and her permanent frown and her collection of warnings about men that I dismissed as bitterness until I married one.
‘You want to know what kind of man to avoid, baby girl? The kind who makes you feel like you owe him for loving you. The kind who tells you that you are lucky he chose you, like you are a stray dog he picked up from the pound.’
She worked three jobs when I was growing up. Diner waitress in the mornings, gas station attendant in the afternoons, cleaning offices at night.
She never brought a man home, never mentioned my father.
I used to think she was paranoid. I used to think her hatred of men was a personal failing, a wound she refused to let heal.
Now I stand in a bathroom with bruises forming on my throat and understand that she was trying to give me a map I was too stupid to read.
I dry off quickly and wrap the towel around myself, cracking the door to listen again.
Still nothing.
I cross to the bedroom and reach for the fitted black dress I have been hiding in the back of my drawer. The one I purchased in secret because Daniel would have called it inappropriate.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and Sarah's name appears on the screen.
I answer before I can talk myself out of it, angling the camera to show only my face from the chin up. "Sarah, hi, is everything okay?"
"I am so sorry to call this early, I know it is completely inappropriate, but I have been trying to reach Finn for the past hour and he is not answering his phone or his office line or anything."
She sounds like she is managing a crisis.
"He has a seven-thirty call with the Tokyo investors that I have been prepping for all week, and if he misses it, we lose the entire Nakamura deal. I cannot exactly tell a billion-dollar client that the CEO is unreachable."
My chest tightens at the mention of his name. "I do not know where he is, I left the office before he did last night. Have you tried his driver?"
"Josh says he never called for a pickup. I am probably overreacting, he does this sometimes, but with everything happening with the Henderson merger, I just wanted to make sure he had not mentioned anything to you about his plans."
"He did not say anything to me." I cannot tell her that the last time I saw Finn, his mouth was on mine and his hands were in my hair and I fled like the coward I have always been. "I am sure he is fine, Sarah. He probably just fell asleep on that couch in his office."
Sarah exhales slowly, and I watch some of the tension leave her shoulders. "You are right, you are absolutely right, I am being ridiculous. I apologize for waking you up with my paranoia."
"You did not wake me. I was already up."
"Early riser, I like that." Her smile returns, warm and genuine. "Listen, we never got to finish our conversation. Do you want to grab lunch next Thursday? There is a Thai place around the corner from the office that makes the best pad see ew in the city, and I would love to hear more about you."
"I would like that." The words come out before I can stop them, and I realize with a start that I mean them. "Text me the address and I will meet you there."
"Perfect. Noon works for you?"
"Noon works."
The call ends, and I sit on the edge of the bed with my phone in my hands, staring at the locked door. The apartment is still silent. Too silent.
I grab the umbrella from the corner where I keep it for emergencies, the heavy one with the steel tip that could do real damage if swung correctly, and unlock the bedroom door.
The living room is empty. The couch cushions are rumpled, and there is a dark stain on the carpet near the kitchen doorway, but Daniel is not here.
I check the toilet, the closet, even the small space behind the refrigerator where a desperate man might wedge himself.
Nothing. He is gone.
In the kitchen, bloody bandages are scattered across the counter. Gauze wrappers and medical tape and the empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide that I kept in the cabinet above the stove.
No note. No explanation. Just the proof that he survived and chose to leave.
I stand in the center of my apartment and let the realization wash over me.
He is… gone.
This is my chance.
I move before the thought has fully formed, sprinting back to the bedroom, yanking clothes from hangers without checking if they match. Underwear, bras, the professional blouses I need for work. My passport from the drawer where I hid it.
Fifteen minutes is all it takes to dismantle the life I built in this apartment. Fifteen minutes to shove everything into a single duffle bag and walk out the front door.