I woke up to silence—the kind that feels heavy, pressing down on you like a weight. The faint hum of the city outside was the only sound, but even that seemed far away. For a moment, I almost believed I was safe… almost.
James wasn't in the apartment. His absence didn't bother me at first—I figured he was in another room—but when I called out his name and heard nothing back, the unease began to creep in.
The apartment, for all its beauty, felt too big, too empty. Every corner seemed to hold a shadow that didn't belong. I walked to the massive glass windows, pulling back the curtains. The streets below looked normal, cars moving, people rushing about. But my gut told me something wasn't right.
I wandered through the rooms, looking for him, until I found a door slightly open. His office. I hesitated, then pushed it open.
The desk was spotless except for one thing: a small stack of papers with names and numbers scribbled on them. Some were crossed out. My name wasn't there—but Cara's was.
Cara. I still didn't understand why she mattered to him so much… or why I did.
The sound of the door clicking shut behind me froze me in place.
James stood there, hands in his pockets, watching me. His hazel-green eyes looked darker than usual, the easy amusement from earlier gone completely.
"You shouldn't be in here," he said, his voice low—not angry, but heavy with something I couldn't name.
"I was just—" I started, but he cut me off.
"You were curious. I get it." He walked closer, slow, deliberate, until there was barely a foot of space between us. "But curiosity gets people killed, Alexis."
There it was again—that warning edge in his tone, like he was reminding me of something I should already know.
I swallowed hard, my voice barely steady. "You keep saying things like that… but you're the one who keeps me here."
His jaw tightened, and for a long moment, he just stared at me, his silence louder than any threat. Then, he spoke softly:
"I'm keeping you alive."
I didn't know whether to feel grateful or terrified.
Before I could respond, his phone buzzed on the desk. He glanced at the screen, his expression shifting into something cold. Without a word, he answered, turning slightly away from me.
"Yeah," he said into the phone. "I figured Mitch wouldn't back off."
My heart dropped. Mitch. Again.
James ended the call and turned back to me, his gaze sharp. "Pack a bag," he said.
"Why?"
"Because staying here isn't an option anymore."
And just like that, the illusion of safety shattered.
James left me standing there in the middle of the room, the echo of his words still ringing in my ears. Pack a bag.
As if I had anything to pack besides the things he gave me.
I stood frozen, staring around the apartment like a stranger in someone else's life. None of this belonged to me—the clothes, the shoes, even the pillow I had slept on the night before. They were his choices, not mine. Still, my feet carried me into the bedroom, like some part of me already knew better than to argue.
The closet was filled with clothes hung so neatly it felt staged, like a showroom. Dresses, blouses, jackets—all in my size. How long had he been planning this? The thought sent a shiver down my spine. I grabbed a bag from the bottom shelf and started shoving things inside, not caring what they were. Packing didn't feel like preparing—it felt like surrender.
My hands trembled as I zipped the bag shut, the sound harsh against the silence. In the other room, I could hear James's voice, low and sharp as he spoke on the phone. I couldn't make out the words, but I didn't need to. I knew who it was about.
Mitch.
That name sat heavy in my chest. Every time it came up, James changed. His easy sarcasm, his rare moments of warmth—they all vanished, replaced by something darker, colder. Whatever history they shared, it wasn't just old wounds. It was bleeding still, and it was dragging me into it with him.
I walked back into the living room, clutching the bag to my side. James stood by the door, jacket on, keys in his hand. He looked ready for a fight, though his eyes flicked toward me with something softer. He scanned me quickly, like he was checking for cracks, for signs that I was falling apart.
"Ready?" he asked. His voice was calm, but tension rippled beneath it.
I forced a shrug. "As ready as I'll ever be."
He didn't smile. He didn't even try. Instead, he reached out his hand—not gently, not romantically, but firmly. It wasn't really a question. It was the same quiet command I'd felt since the night we crossed paths again.
And even though my heart screamed for freedom, my fingers slid into his without a fight.
The hall outside was dim, shadows stretching long against the walls. James led me quickly, his steps sure, mine stumbling to keep up. We crossed stairwells, empty corridors, the hum of the city growing louder with every step. My pulse pounded in my ears, matching his pace, until we pushed through the glass doors of the building and out into the night.
The air was cool, the streets alive with headlights and muffled conversations. For a moment, I thought maybe we had slipped away unseen. But James's grip on my hand tightened, a silent warning that I shouldn't relax. His eyes kept scanning, searching the crowd like he was expecting a shadow to break free at any second.
I hugged the bag tighter against me, my mind racing. I didn't know where we were going, or if this so-called "home" of his even existed. All I knew was that the further we went, the more I felt the walls of choice closing in on me.
And when James finally looked down at me, his expression unreadable, I realized something that made my stomach twist.
I wasn't afraid of Mitch anymore.
I was afraid of how far James was willing to go to protect me.