The click of the bedroom door closing behind Chloe was a relief. Her perpetually serious face, a reflection of my own carefully constructed demeanor, reminded me of the constant vigilance required. I watched her go, then turned to the window, staring out at the street. People milled about, oblivious, immersed in their mundane routines. My world, by contrast, felt like a high-stakes chess game played on a crumbling board.
Sofia. I knew she was back in there, behind that closed door. The thought of her, restless and undoubtedly simmering with frustration, was a constant low hum beneath my skin. I'd seen the pain in her eyes earlier, the hurt when I called what we shared a "mistake." It wasn't entirely a lie, not for my strategy anyway. It was a mistake to let my guard down, to allow myself that moment of reckless abandon. But the sting in her gaze, the raw emotion in her voice, confirmed what I already knew: the connection between us was far more potent than a simple physical release. That was the real problem.
Giving her my phone to call her sister had been a necessary compromise. She needed some tether, something to keep her from truly cracking under the pressure of this confinement. But even that small concession felt like a risk. Every word she spoke, every detail she accidentally let slip, could be a thread Mark could unravel. I'd heard the careful vagueness in her voice, the manufactured cheerfulness. She was smart, adaptable. Too smart, perhaps, for her own good, and for mine.
My mind replayed her words: "You're terrified of anything that isn't a calculated move!" She was right, of course. My entire life was a series of calculated moves. Emotion was a weakness. It led to mistakes, to vulnerabilities that could be exploited. I'd seen it happen. Eleanor was living proof of it. The memory of her lying in that hospital bed, pale and still, a testament to Mark's casual brutality, was a constant, cold presence in my mind. He hadn't just tried to silence a threat; he'd targeted someone I cared about, precisely because he knew it would break me.
And now, Sofia. She was a different kind of threat. Not to me directly, but to my carefully maintained control. She stirred something in me that I hadn't felt in years, something that felt dangerously close to… hope. And hope was a luxury I couldn't afford. Not with Mark still out there.
My plan for her was simple, brutally so: distance and disinterest. I needed her to believe that last night was truly a mistake, a regrettable lapse in judgment. I needed her to grow resentful, to see me as the cold, calculating bastard she'd accused me of being. If she hated me, she wouldn't trust me. If she didn't trust me, she wouldn't cling to any false hope of a future. And if she wasn't emotionally invested, Mark wouldn't have a lever to use against her, or against me through her.
Sending Chloe with clothes was part of that. A practical necessity, yes, but also a deliberate act of delegation. It underscored her status: not a partner, but a protected asset. An item on a checklist. It stripped away any illusion of personal care, reducing our interaction to the strictly transactional. I wouldn't seek her out. I would maintain a professional, almost clinical, demeanor whenever we were forced to interact. My absence, my silence, would be my strategy.
I walked over to the small kitchen area in my dorm, grabbing a bottle of water. The cold plastic felt solid, real, in my hand. Everything about this situation was fluid, unpredictable, except for the one constant: my absolute need to protect what was mine. And right now, that included Sofia, even if it meant alienating her completely.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I was isolating her for her safety, while simultaneously driving her away emotionally. It was a cold comfort, knowing that the pain I inflicted now was a shield. A necessary evil to keep her out of Mark's grasp. But the cost was undeniable. Each deliberate step back, each forced moment of detachment, felt like a fresh cut, not just to her, but to something deep within myself that I hadn't even realized was still alive. The chessboard of my life had just gained an incredibly valuable, and incredibly vulnerable, new piece. And I had to ensure it survived, no matter the personal price.