Page 16

His apartment is exactly as always—pristine, cold, more like a museum than a home.

White furniture that shows every stain, glass tables that show every fingerprint, nothing out of place.

The kind of perfection that requires constant vigilance to maintain.

The kind of perfection he demands from me.

Dylan stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, hands clasped behind his back like some movie villain surveying his domain.

He doesn't turn when I enter, doesn't acknowledge me at all for long moments that stretch like hours.

"Close the door," he says finally.

I obey, the click of the lock sealing my fate.

The sound always makes me flinch, though I try to hide it.

Trapped. Again.

"You're early," he observes, still facing the window. "Good. Though I shouldn't have to summon you like a disobedient child."

"I'm sorry." The words are automatic now, reflexive.

Sorry is my default state around him.

"Are you?" He turns finally, brown eyes scanning me from head to toe. Like I'm a purchase he's evaluating, checking for flaws. "You've gained weight."

The words land like blows, even though I expected them.

It's always something.

Too fat, too thin, too loud, too quiet.

I exist in a constant state of never being enough.

"I've been stressed," I offer carefully.

"From what?" He moves closer, circling me slowly.

I force myself to stay still, not to react as he inspects me. "Your joke of a job? That shitty apartment I graciously allow you to keep? What exactly is so stressful about your cushy little life?"

I want to scream.

You.

You're the stress.

You're the nightmare.

You're the reason I can't eat, can't sleep, can't breathe.

"The situation with my family," I say instead. "The lockdown has everyone on edge."

"Ah yes, your criminal family." He stops in front of me, reaching out to finger the necklace at my throat. "Still choosing them over me, I see. After everything I've done for you."

"That's not?—"

The slap comes fast, controlled.