The phone buzzed in my hand, the name flashing across the screen. My chest clenched. For a moment I almost let it ring out, but some reflex made me swipe.
His voice cut through the line like a blade.
"When are you coming back?"
Sharp. Demanding. The same tone that used to freeze me in place.
I held the phone tighter, knuckles white. My lips trembled before the words left me.
"I… I can't."
A silence stretched, heavy and dangerous. Then his breath hissed through the speaker, all venom and rage.
"What do you mean you can't? You're my wife. You belong here. Stop this nonsense and come home."
My stomach twisted. I looked toward the closed door, the safety of these four walls, the man who had given me a bed and a chance to breathe. I couldn't go back—not to that house, not to those nights, not to the cage I had barely escaped.
"I can't," I repeated, firmer this time, even as my voice cracked. My whole body shook, but somewhere deep, I knew this was the truth.
I could not return.
I didn't know what to do next. My body ached, my mind spun, and the weight of everything pressed down on me.
He turned to me, his dark eyes steady, and said softly, "I'll find us a bigger place. Fast. Somewhere you can breathe."
For a moment, the words were almost too much to believe. I nodded weakly.
Then he grabbed my hand. "Come on. You need fresh air."
We walked, slowly, each step a struggle. My legs burned and went numb, and I kept stopping, gripping the railing or leaning against a wall. I hated asking for help, hated feeling like this, but I knew I couldn't go on alone.
He didn't complain. He called doctors, arranged for me to be checked, and guided me to the hospital. Inside, the sterile smell hit me, but it was… comforting in a strange way. Someone cared, someone had planned for me.
They gave me medication for the pain. It didn't erase it, but it dulled the edges just enough for me to let out a small, shaky smile.
Then the doctor touched my back. I tried to hold back my tears, but my body reacted, flinching with every press around my spine. The pain burned hotter than I remembered, deeper, sharper.
"You need to be checked by an orthopedic professional," the doctor said, frowning. "There's more going on than just exhaustion or stress."
I swallowed hard, biting my lip. I had thought the worst was behind me—but my body reminded me that the scars weren't just emotional. They were physical too, and they weren't going anywhere on their own.
He held me close, letting me rest against him. The warmth of his body grounded me, steadied the trembling in my legs and chest. For a moment, I let myself breathe.
Then the thought clawed its way in. I whispered, "What about my kids… what should I do?"
He turned slightly, his dark eyes serious, unwavering. "You can't take them now," he said firmly. "Look at yourself. Your health. Can you care for them if you can't even stand? You need to be strong first. Ask yourself—if you go back, will they hurt them? Will they hurt you? If you take the kids now, can you care for them when you can barely walk?"
His words were sharp, cutting through the fog of my mind. They hurt, but beneath the sting, I knew he was right. Even without him, I would be on the streets, without money, without support. Nothing.
Memories surged, unbidden and cruel. Flashbacks of me begging my mother for help. Her face twisted into that creepy, mocking smile as she said, "Get yourself a lawyer. If you want to live somewhere, I can get you a car trailer."
I had called another brother. His words were icy. "Go back to your ex. Talk to him."
My sister called next, fury in her voice. "How dare you leave your kids? Go back and check into the mental hospital."
My phone vibrated incessantly with messages from my mother, long stories of my mistakes, judgments dripping from every word. They accused me of wrongs I hadn't committed, crimes of thought and heart that existed only in their twisted minds.
And yet… I knew the truth. I never did any of the things they blamed me for. And for the first time, with him holding me, I realized it didn't matter what they said. I had to focus on surviving.
He kept his word. A few days later, he drove me quietly through the city streets, his hands steady on the wheel. My heart raced the entire time. I didn't know where we were going until we stopped in front of a tall, gray building with mirrored windows.
"The best psychological doctor in the country," he said simply, stepping out and opening the door for me.
I hesitated. My palms were damp, and my legs shook as I followed him inside. The reception area was silent, lined with bookshelves and soft chairs. It felt nothing like a hospital—more like an old library.
He spoke briefly to the receptionist, then guided me to a heavy oak door. "You're safe here," he murmured.
Inside, an old man sat behind a desk, his hands folded neatly. His hair was snow-white, his face lined but not unkind. When he looked at me, it wasn't with suspicion or judgment—it was with patience.
I sat down nervously, gripping the armrests. My friend stayed quiet, sitting a little behind me.
The doctor's voice was low and gentle, like water smoothing stones. "You've been through a lot," he said. "Take your time."
At first, I couldn't even meet his eyes. My words stumbled out, half-formed, but he waited. He didn't rush me, didn't cut me off. Something inside me loosened. I found myself telling pieces of my story, bits I hadn't spoken aloud to anyone.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was steady but kind. "You will get up and write as you wish, create," he said. "You will rebuild your life. I don't see anything broken in you, only someone deeply wounded who needs to heal, you were traumatised."
My throat closed. I nodded, unable to speak.
"Come back here," he added. "Not for diagnosis, but for space. For time. For healing.And write down what happened into detail and bring it to me next time."
He paused, then looked at me over his glasses. "If not for your influential friend, I wouldn't have taken you in. I don't take new patients anymore."
I blinked. "You… you wouldn't have?"
He shook his head faintly. "But here you are."
I turned slightly, glancing at my friend. He looked down at his hands, saying nothing. My mind spun. Influential friend? I knew nothing of this side of him. What kind of power did he have? And why was he using it on me?
I left the office feeling lighter, but also strangely unsettled.
As we stepped onto the street, I couldn't help but notice the way people turned to him. Heads tilted, murmurs passed along sidewalks. "How are you, Sebastian?" someone called.
I froze mid-step, astonished. Everyone seemed to know him. Some bowed slightly, others smiled broadly. I followed him silently, my heart racing. I had no idea this was the world he moved in.
We entered a small coffee shop tucked between buildings. The moment we walked in, the atmosphere shifted. The boss himself came around the counter, nodding respectfully. "Good to see you," he said.
Then the waiters—each one—greeted him by name. "What will you have today?" "Need your usual?" "Everything ready for you, sir."
I stood by the window, gripping my bag, feeling like I had been thrown into a scene from a movie. People moved around me, but all I could focus on was him, calm and composed, as if this attention was nothing.
I blinked, caught between awe and disbelief. This is his world. And somehow, I'm inside it now.
Sebastian's eyes flicked to my face, sharp and observant, as if he could read every flicker of pain.
"You feel pain again, don't you,Aria?" he asked gently, his voice steady.
I tried to shake my head, but the tightness in my chest betrayed me.
"Take the medication the doctor gave you," he said, his hand brushing lightly near mine, not touching, just close enough to remind me I wasn't alone. "I'll call the orthopedic hospital. They'll see you sooner. You shouldn't be in this much pain."
His words were firm but caring, cutting through the haze of discomfort and fear. For the first time in days, I felt a small thread of relief. Someone was watching, someone truly saw me.
As we sat in the coffee shop, my hands began to tremble. At first, it was just a small quiver, but within moments, I couldn't even hold the cup. It wobbled in my fingers, sloshing a little, and I quickly set it down, frustration prickling through me.
I pressed my hands against my legs, trying to steady them, whispering in my mind: Stop shaking… stop…
But no matter how hard I willed it, the trembling didn't stop.
Sebastian's gaze found me again, sharp and steady. "Aria…" he said softly, just the sound of my name grounding me slightly, "it's okay. Breathe. You're safe here."
I closed my eyes briefly, letting the words sink in. Safe. A simple word, but in that moment, it felt like a lifeline.
Sebastian didn't say anything at first. He just watched me, his dark eyes studying every small movement. I felt exposed under that gaze, but it was steady, not harsh.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low but firm. "Aria… I notice your trembling. It's unusual. I've seen this before, in someone who's been through a lot more than they should have."
I tried to shrug, but the tremble made it hard to even sit still.
"You should visit my doctor," he continued. "I'll call her. She'll see you. Trust me—this isn't something to ignore."