The motel room had smelled like bleach and cigarettes, but at least it hadn't smelled like him.
Two weeks later, Maya finally moved into a small, one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of the city. The building was old, its bricks stained with soot, its hallways creaking under the weight of too many footsteps. Her new neighbors weren't penthouse socialites or werewolf aristocrats—they were tired parents, students juggling jobs, and retirees who fed stray cats from paper plates.
It was noisy. It was cramped. It was imperfect.
But it was hers.
Maya dropped her last box onto the floor and leaned against the door, breathing hard. She hadn't realized how heavy her life was until she carried it up three flights of stairs without Damon's men to shadow her. No elevators, no private keycards, no sleek lobby lined with glass. Just peeling wallpaper and the faint scent of fried onions drifting from the unit next door.
She should have felt defeated. Instead, for the first time in months, she felt… lighter.
Ana arrived not long after, arms laden with takeout bags. She kicked the door shut behind her.
"Well," Ana announced, glancing around the apartment, "it's small enough that if you scream, I'll hear you. That's a plus."
Maya laughed weakly. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
Ana set the food down on the counter, hands on her hips. "I'm serious. You did it, May. You walked away from a man who—let's be honest—could probably snap a car in half if he wanted to. And now you've got a place of your own. I'm proud of you."
The words hit Maya harder than she expected. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and forced a smile. "Don't make me cry. I don't want to water-damage the new carpet."
Ana snorted. "Please, that carpet survived at least twenty years of tenants and three different shades of beer stains. It can handle your tears."
They ate greasy noodles out of cartons on the floor, surrounded by unopened boxes and the glow of a single lamp. It wasn't glamorous, but it was real.
For the first time, Maya allowed herself to hope that maybe, just maybe, she could start over.
The days that followed were an adjustment.
Maya applied for jobs at cafés, bookstores, anywhere that didn't require a pedigree or a security clearance. She ended up at a cramped little bakery run by a sharp-eyed woman who cared more about punctuality than résumés. The pay wasn't great, but the smell of fresh bread in the mornings was comforting, and kneading dough was a surprisingly good outlet for restless energy.
Rent was tight. Grocery lists had to be cut in half. She learned to savor cheap coffee, to mend her own clothes, to walk instead of hailing cabs.
Every time her fingers itched to call Damon—every time her pride buckled under the weight of exhaustion—she reminded herself of his words.
If she breaks, she breaks.
And she swore she wouldn't.
Ana visited often, dragging her out of the apartment when Maya got too lost in her thoughts. They went to thrift shops, to hole-in-the-wall diners, to the park where children screamed with laughter and dogs tugged at leashes.
"You're glowing," Ana said one afternoon as they shared fries on a park bench.
Maya blinked. "I look exhausted."
"Glowing," Ana repeated firmly, squinting at her. "But, like… in a tired, nauseous way. Are you eating enough?"
Maya rolled her eyes. "Yes, Mom."
But later that night, as she sat in her tiny bathroom, toothbrush dangling from her lips, she paused. Her reflection looked pale, a little drawn. She'd been nauseous in the mornings, dismissing it as stress or the bakery's early hours. Her period had slipped her mind in the chaos of moving.
Her hand froze against the sink.
No. It couldn't be.
She spat into the sink, rinsed her mouth, and stared at herself.
No, she told herself again, shaking her head. It was just stress. It had to be.
Weeks passed. The nausea didn't.
Neither did the strange heaviness in her chest, or the bone-deep fatigue that followed her like a shadow.
Maya didn't buy a test. She didn't dare. To put it in a box, to see the lines appear, would make it real.
Instead, she busied herself with the bakery, with Ana, with pretending that her life wasn't about to change again in ways she wasn't ready for.
At night, though, she lay awake in her creaky bed, one hand resting lightly against her stomach.
She thought of Damon.
She hated herself for it.
One rainy evening, Ana brought over a bottle of cheap wine.
Maya waved it away. "I'm not drinking tonight."
Ana gave her a look. "You haven't been drinking any night."
"I'm tired."
"You're always tired. May…" Ana hesitated, studying her closely. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"
Maya's throat tightened. She wanted to spill everything, to confess the fear simmering inside her. But the words tangled.
Instead, she forced a smile. "Just… trying to figure myself out, I guess."
Ana didn't look convinced, but she let it drop.
Maya was grateful—and guilty all at once.
The turning point came one Sunday morning.
She was restocking pastries when a customer's toddler darted toward the counter, giggling. Maya bent down instinctively, scooping the little girl up before she tripped. The child's laughter was bright, bubbling, infectious.
"Thank you!" the mother said breathlessly, rushing over.
Maya smiled as she handed the girl back. "She's got quick legs."
The child waved at her with sticky fingers before being carried off.
Maya's chest ached. Not in fear this time, but in something sharper, deeper. A longing she didn't dare name.
That night, alone in her apartment, she whispered to herself: "I can do this. Whatever comes, I can do this."
Her hand brushed her stomach again, trembling but steady.
She wasn't ready to admit it to anyone else—not yet.
But in the quiet of her tiny apartment, she admitted it to herself.
She wasn't alone anymore.
The motel was only ever a stopgap. A place where Maya could hide under thin sheets, staring at the popcorn ceiling while convincing herself she wasn't about to shatter.
Two weeks later, she moved into her new apartment.
It wasn't much. The building leaned slightly, as if weary of its own age. The stairs groaned with every step, the radiator clanked at night like a monster stirring in the walls, and the kitchen faucet coughed more than it flowed. But when Maya opened the door with a key that belonged only to her, she felt something that had nothing to do with luxury or comfort.
It felt like survival.
She set her single suitcase on the floor and pressed her back against the door, just breathing. Her heart raced as though she'd run miles, but all she'd done was claim space. Not space Damon had given her. Not a room in a gilded cage.
Hers.
Ana showed up twenty minutes later, arms full of takeout and her own brand of irreverence.
"Well," Ana said, looking around, "I was going to bring a housewarming plant, but I think it would die in here out of spite."
Maya burst out laughing, the sound surprising even her. "Thanks for the encouragement."
"I mean it in the best way." Ana wiggled her brows, setting down cartons of noodles. "Nothing says independence like fluorescent lighting and questionable plumbing."
They ate on the floor surrounded by boxes. Maya's knees ached, her hands were sore from carrying too much, but she'd never felt more grounded.
"You really did it, May," Ana said softly, chopsticks dangling from her hand. "You left him."
Maya's throat closed. She stared down at greasy noodles and whispered, "I had to."
"Yeah," Ana agreed, squeezing her knee. "But that doesn't make it any less brave."
For the first time in days, Maya let the tears come. Ana leaned against her shoulder, steady and unflinching.
Independence didn't come easy.
The first night, Maya lay awake listening to the unfamiliar symphony of her new home—the distant TV through thin walls, footsteps above her, the hum of traffic outside. It wasn't silent like Damon's penthouse. Silence had been oppressive, filled with the weight of everything unsaid. This was noisy, messy, alive.
She preferred it.
Still, she woke at dawn with aching arms and the knowledge she had to start over.
At the bakery, the air always smelled of yeast and sugar. Maya worked the early shift, rolling dough with flour on her cheeks, serving grumpy commuters who barely looked at her. Some customers were rude, some were kind, most were forgettable. But each shift ended with money she'd earned herself, and that mattered.
Her coworkers, two gossip-loving college girls and a grandmother with a sharp tongue, adopted her quickly. They didn't know her story, didn't ask about the shadows in her eyes. They just teased her about her "customer smile" and shared day-old muffins when the manager wasn't looking.
It was ordinary. It was exhausting. It was exactly what she needed.
But at night, when she returned to her apartment, the ghosts waited.
She tried not to think about Damon—the way his hand could span her entire back, the silver in his eyes, the way he looked at her as if she were both fragile and dangerous. But memory was a stubborn beast. It crept in while she brushed her teeth, while she folded laundry, while she tried to sleep.
If she breaks, she breaks.
The words played like a broken record. Every time she faltered—when rent drained her bank account, when loneliness pressed against her ribs—she reminded herself she couldn't break.
Ana became her anchor.
She came over on weekends, bringing cheap wine and thrifted blankets. They built a nest of pillows on the floor, watching terrible movies until they cried with laughter.
One night, as Ana fell asleep on her shoulder, Maya stared at the cracked ceiling and whispered, "Thank you."
She didn't know if she was thanking Ana, fate, or herself. Maybe all of them.
The first time Maya felt sick, she brushed it off. Too much sugar at work. Not enough sleep. Stress gnawing at her insides.
But it didn't stop.
Morning nausea turned into afternoon dizziness. Her appetite shifted—things she'd loved suddenly repulsed her, while random cravings appeared out of nowhere. Her body ached in ways she didn't understand.
She told herself it was nothing.
She told herself she couldn't afford for it to be something.
At the bakery, she nearly fainted once while carrying a tray. Her boss scolded her, then shoved a glass of water into her hand. "Eat more," the woman barked. "You're too thin."
Maya nodded mutely, swallowing panic with the water.
That night, she sat on the edge of her bed, hand trembling against her stomach.
No. She couldn't be. She wouldn't even let herself think it.
Ana noticed, of course.
"You're glowing," Ana said one Saturday as they lounged in the park.
"I look like death."
"No, seriously. It's like you're… different. Softer." Ana squinted at her. "Are you…?"
Maya's heart jolted. "Don't even say it."
Ana laughed, oblivious. "Fine. Maybe it's just freedom. You're lighter now."
Maya forced a smile. But later, brushing her teeth, her reflection stared back accusingly.
Freedom didn't make you nauseous every morning. Freedom didn't make your breasts tender or your body ache in strange ways.
She knew. She just couldn't face it.
The confirmation came not from a test, but from a moment she couldn't explain away.
A customer's toddler stumbled toward her in the bakery, giggling. Maya caught her before she could fall, the tiny body warm in her arms. The girl laughed, sticky fingers curling into Maya's shirt.
Something in Maya's chest cracked open.
When the mother thanked her and carried the child away, Maya stood frozen, the ghost of small hands clinging to her heart.
That night, she cried into her pillow, hand pressed to her stomach.
She didn't need a test. Her body already knew.
For days, she wrestled with it.
She wanted to call Ana, to spill everything. She wanted to scream at Damon, to throw the truth in his face. But pride held her tongue, fear bound her hands.
In the end, she told no one.
Instead, she whispered to the quiet of her apartment: "I can do this. Alone."
Her hand lingered against her stomach, trembling but steady.
And for the first time since she'd torn that contract, she didn't feel entirely alone anymore.