I didn't sleep that night.
I couldn't.
My mind was a tangled mess of memories, of moments that felt like dreams and nightmares all at once. I kept replaying Ethan's face as he walked away, his eyes filled with pain and betrayal. But worse—worse than the pain I felt for him, was the quiet truth that whispered at the back of my mind:
I wasn't sure if I had ever truly loved him. Not in the way I thought.
Love... it was complicated. It was twisted and suffocating and sometimes, it wasn't enough to hold onto. It wasn't enough to keep me from feeling trapped in a life I couldn't escape. And yet, here I was, trapped in a different kind of cage—a gilded one, built by Johnson Moretti.
He had a way of making me feel like I didn't belong anywhere else. A way of making me feel like I was his, without ever really claiming me. It was terrifying.
The next morning, I found myself sitting at the kitchen counter, my hands wrapped around a cup of coffee that was cold before I even touched it. My thoughts drifted to that one moment—that moment when I had let him hold me. When his fingers had brushed my skin, not to claim, but to care.
I couldn't get it out of my head.
And that terrified me more than anything.
The soft sound of footsteps pulled me from my reverie. I didn't need to look up to know it was him. I felt his presence like a weight in the air—heavy, dark, and impossible to ignore.
"You didn't eat last night." His voice was calm, but there was something underneath it. Something that made me look up.
He was standing in the doorway, watching me with those eyes—those eyes that had seen too much, yet always seemed to soften when they were on me.
I didn't say anything.
He took a step forward, then another, his gaze never leaving me. When he reached the counter, he placed a plate of food in front of me—eggs, toast, and fruit. Simple. But there was a tenderness in the gesture that made my heart ache.
"I'm not hungry," I muttered, pushing the plate away.
He didn't pull it back. Instead, he leaned against the counter, his eyes scanning my face, reading me like he always did. But this time, there was something in his gaze—a vulnerability that I had never seen before. Something that made me wonder if he was afraid too.
"You're afraid of me," he said, his voice so quiet I almost missed it.
I lifted my eyes to meet his. The raw honesty in his words hit me like a slap.
"No," I whispered. "I'm afraid of myself."
He was silent for a long moment, his jaw tight. He reached out, his hand brushing a strand of hair from my face, the touch almost gentle.
"You're not who you think you are," he said softly. "You're stronger than you give yourself credit for."
I didn't know how to respond to that. All I could do was stare at him, the weight of his words pressing down on me like an anchor.
There was so much I wanted to say. So much I needed to understand. But the truth was, I didn't know where to start. I didn't know if I even had the right to ask him questions when I wasn't sure of the answers myself.
"You've been through things no one should ever go through," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper. "But that doesn't make you a monster."
His eyes flickered, a hint of something—something softer, something human—dancing behind the ice. But it was gone before I could fully see it.
"Doesn't it?" he asked, the weight of his own past lingering in his words.
I reached for the plate of food again, picking up the fork, even though I wasn't hungry. It was the only thing I could do to fill the silence that was suffocating us both. My eyes stayed focused on the plate, trying to avoid the intensity of his gaze.
But I could feel him watching me—watching me like I was the only thing that mattered.
"You don't have to carry this alone," I said, my voice firmer this time. "Whatever you've done… whatever you think you are… it doesn't have to define you."
Johnson's hand clenched on the counter, his knuckles white. He didn't speak for a long time, and when he finally did, his voice was thick with emotion.
"I don't know how to stop being what I am."
I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words. They hung in the air, heavy and sharp, like a blade that could cut through anything.
But then, he took a step toward me, closing the distance between us. His hand reached out, not in anger, but in something softer. Something tender.
His fingers brushed the side of my cheek, and I closed my eyes, letting the warmth of his touch settle over me like a blanket. There was nothing violent in his gesture. Nothing possessive. Just the quiet, desperate longing of a man who didn't know how to be anything other than the monster he'd created.
"I don't want to be this man anymore," he whispered, his voice breaking.
For the first time, I believed him.
And for the first time, I realized—I didn't want to leave him.