Emilia
I wake up floating.
Not in the peaceful, dreamy kind of way—more like I’ve been unmoored from my own body. My limbs are heavy and disconnected, my head clouded with static. I feel slow. Off. Wrong.
The ceiling above me isn’t mine.
The sheets beneath me aren’t mine either—soft, crisp, and smelling faintly of cedar and control.
Vincent.
I bolt upright, and the room spins. My heart lurches in my chest like I’ve missed a step on invisible stairs. Cold sweat clings to the back of my neck. My dress clings to my body. And underneath the chemical haze, something darker coils inside me: fear, shame, confusion.
Last night floods back in broken frames—Julian’s hand sliding up my thigh, the way my body wouldn’t respond, my mouth barely working. His voice in my ear. That dim hallway. My back hitting brick.
Then Vincent. Like a switchblade. Cutting through everything.
I close my eyes. Try to breathe. But the nausea, the dizziness, the disgust still cling to me.
The door opens quietly.
Vincent steps in, holding a mug. He freezes when he sees me awake.
There’s something about his stillness that makes everything inside me unravel. I want to scream. Or cry. Or throw something. Instead, I sit there like a statue, too fragile to touch.
He sets the mug beside me. Coffee. Always so functional. Always so controlled.
“You should rest,” he says.
“I feel like I’ve been hollowed out.”
His jaw flexes, but he says nothing.
“You found me,” I whisper.
He nods.
“You didn’t have to.”
“Yes, I did.”
It hits me how different he is from everyone else. Julian ran smooth, false. Vincent feels like a wall. Built from something real. And tonight, that feels unbearable.
“I keep replaying it,” I admit, my voice breaking. “I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even speak. I was just... stuck.”
He sits beside me on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch.
“You froze,” he says gently. “It’s not weakness. It’s a survival response.”
“Is that what you tell victims?”
“It’s what I tell people who got through something bad and still think it’s their fault.”
I don’t even realize I’m crying until the sob catches in my throat. My hands shake. I hate how exposed I feel. But when he finally reaches for me, I fall into him like gravity’s given up.
His arms come around me. Warm. Steady.
And in that second, I’m not strong, or sarcastic, or armored.
I’m just a girl trying to remember how to feel whole.
His hand strokes slowly over my back, grounding me.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
“Why does that matter so much?” I whisper. “Why do you matter so much?”
He doesn’t answer.
I pull back just enough to look at him. “Do you even want me?”
His gaze sharpens. “Don’t do this now.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re not thinking clearly.”
“I know exactly what I’m thinking.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath all night. But before I can speak again, his tone changes.
“I won’t be here tonight.”
It takes me a second to register the words. “What?”
“I have a meeting. Off-grid. I’ll be back late.”
The words don’t hit right. They land like something sharp.
“You’re leaving?”
“I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to.”
“With who?”
He doesn’t answer.
And suddenly I’m spiraling.
Of course. He’s attractive. Dangerous. Controlled. Women must love that. Maybe this job is just a pitstop before he goes home to someone else. Someone who doesn’t fall apart in his bed. Someone who didn’t need saving.
“Let me guess,” I snap. “Some sleek brunette who doesn’t cry in your blankets?”
His eyes harden. “That’s not what this is.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Don’t turn this into something it’s not.”
“You won’t even tell me where you’re going.”
“Because it’s not your business.”
“You’re supposed to protect me.”
“And I will.”
“But not tonight,” I whisper.
He steps back like I burned him. “I’ll be back by morning.”
The door closes behind him like a warning shot.
I stay on his bed, wrapped in his scent, wondering how someone who makes me feel so safe can also make me feel so disposable.
I curl up and stare at the door, willing it to open again.
But it doesn’t.