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The exhaustion that goes bone-deep.

The way coffee—my lifeline—now makes me want to vomit.

The tenderness in my breasts I've been ignoring.

"No," I say aloud to my empty apartment. "It's just stress. Has to be."

But even as I say it, I know I'm lying to myself.

I'm on birth control, yes, but... when was the last time I actually checked the pills?

Reallylooked at them?

Dylan knows about them, is constantly asking me if I took them.

But he’s the kind of man who would fuck with my shit.

Why does he always ask if I take them?

It’s because he doesn’t want to be a father… right?

What if?—

I can't think about that now.

Can't let that possibility take root.

I have to get through today first.

Have to survive whatever he has planned.

Then I can deal with the maybe-baby situation.

The drive to Dylan's apartment passes in a blur of familiar streets and growing dread.

Each red light is both a reprieve and a delay of the inevitable.

Each mile brings me closer to the man who's slowly destroying me, one cruel word and violent touch at a time.

His building looms ahead, all glass and steel and modern architecture.

The kind of place that screams success and money.

The kind of place where neighbors mind their own business, where soundproofing ensures privacy, where security guards are paid to look the other way.

The perfect place for a monster to hide in plain sight.

I park in the visitor section, taking a moment to gather myself.

My hands grip the steering wheel hard enough to hurt, knuckles white with tension.

I could leave right now, turn the car around, drive to the clubhouse, throw myself on their mercy.

But then I picture Bjorn at physical therapy.

Tuesday, 2 PM, third floor. Dylan's "friend" who works security, who could make cameras malfunction at just the right moment.

My sixteen-year-old brother, who's already lost so much, vulnerable and defenseless against whatever "accident" Dylan might arrange.