Page 7

"She fills your head with all that feminist nonsense. Independent women, equality—" He laughed, the sound sharp as broken glass. "You're not a woman, are you? You're my little girl. You don't need friends when you have Daddy."

The scene fractured. Now I stood in the bedroom, hands shaking as I folded clothes into a duffel bag. Had to be quiet. He was in the shower, twenty minutes if I was lucky. Fifteen if—

"Going somewhere?"

Cruz leaned against the doorframe, my phone in his hand. Hair still damp, wearing only the towel slung low on his hips. He scrolled through my photos with casual interest.

"Such a pretty little girl in your princess dress." His thumb swiped across the screen. "This one's particularly sweet. You on your knees, pacifier in your mouth. Very artistic lighting."

My hands stilled on the sweater I'd been folding. Those photos. Private moments I'd thought were safe, special. Now weapons in his arsenal.

"Your mother would be horrified." Another swipe. "What's her number again? And this one—oh, this would definitely interest your clients at the shop. Can you imagine their faces?"

He moved closer, still scrolling. The phone screen reflected in his eyes, image after humiliating image.

"Your portfolio website gets good traffic. These would make quite the gallery addition. 'Local Artist's Secret Life.' Has a nice ring to it."

"Please." The word cracked in my throat.

"Please what?" He stopped directly in front of me. "Please don't show everyone what you really are? Please don't tell them their edgy tattoo artist is just a pathetic little girl playing dress-up?"

The duffel bag fell from my numb fingers.

"Good girls don't leave their Daddies, Lena."

Another fracture. The front door now, my hand on the knob. So close. Just turn it and run and—

His hand crushed my wrist, grinding the small bones together. The door slammed shut, my back against it, his face inches from mine.

"You think you can leave? You?" His free hand traced my cheek with mock tenderness. "I own you, Lena. Every bank account has my name on it. Every lease, every contract. Those photos? Backed up in places you'll never find."

His grip tightened. Pain shot up my arm.

"Every pathetic little dream you have, every scrap of dignity you've built—I can destroy it with one email. One post. Onephone call to Mommy showing her what her daughter really does when she plays baby."

The loft dissolved at the edges. His voice echoed as dream-Lena finally ran, crashing through a door that led nowhere and everywhere.

"You'll never be safe from what you are."

I jerked awake gasping, sheets twisted around my legs like restraints. 6:43 AM glowed red from the alarm clock, and for a heartbeat I didn't know where I was. Not the loft. Not Cruz's bed.

My studio apartment. My space.

Sweat soaked through my tank top, making it cling. I kicked free of the sheets and pressed my palms against my eyes until stars bloomed. Four years. Four years since I'd run, and the dreams still came nightly like clockwork.

Around me, my bedroom breathed with comfortable chaos. Fairy lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling because I'd hung them at 2 AM during a manic burst of decorating. The walls—my walls—covered in my art. Skulls morphing into flowers. Phoenixes rising from graves. A sugar skull with roses for eyes that I'd painted the week after leaving, when my hands wouldn't stop shaking unless they held a brush.

I swung my legs over the bed's edge, toes finding the soft rug I'd bought at a thrift store. Ugly as sin with its clash of burgundy and orange swirls, but mine. Beneath the bed, barely visible in the morning shadows, sat the old guitar case.

Don't look at it. Not today.

But my eyes found it anyway. Black leather worn at the corners, covered in band stickers to hide its purpose. Inside—no guitar. Instead, carefully wrapped items I couldn't bring myself to throw away but couldn't bear to see. Coloring books he hadn't found. A stuffed tortoise named Shelly. The pink pacifier I'd bought myself before Cruz turned it into something shameful.

Little things. Hidden things. Things that still felt like evidence of some crime. They'd been untouched for four years. Even though I knew healthy dynamics existed—I'd seen them—I couldn't bring myself to reclaim that part of me. It still felt dangerous.

I padded barefoot across paint-stained hardwood, each step grounding me in the present. My apartment sprawled before me—one big room pretending to be separate spaces. The kitchenette tucked in one corner, the living area dominated by my work, the bathroom behind a door decorated with band posters.

Organized chaos everywhere. By the couch, sketches for Thor's wedding sleeve spread out like tarot cards. On the coffee table, the memorial design for Mrs. Chen—poppies and pain rendered in ink and love. Near my easel, loose papers labeled "Random 3 AM Ideas" in my scrawled handwriting.