After the police visit, my body felt like it had been emptied of everything—fear, shame, anger, even hope. I was trembling, weak, exhausted, but… alive. Sebastian helped me into the car, silent, letting me process in my own way. His hand occasionally brushed mine—not asking, not forcing, just a presence that grounded me.
Back at our small house, he didn't let me sink into the bed for hours as before. Instead, he guided me slowly into stretches, small movements, making me aware of muscles I hadn't used in weeks. "You need to trust your body, Aria," he said quietly, watching every twitch and flinch. "It's yours again."
I protested, whispering that I was too weak, too tired, but he refused to let me give in. "The world will not wait while you recover. You must move. Small steps. You can do this."
So I did.
The first day, I barely made it down the hall. The second, I walked to the kitchen to drink water. The third, Sebastian had me walk outside, barefoot on the grass, feeling the earth beneath my feet. I cried a little with each step—not from pain, but from relief. My body remembered freedom.
But the flickers of trauma were never far. When I bent down to pick up a stone or touch the soil, I saw my ex's face in my mind, heard my family laughing, felt the weight of judgment and hate pressing on me. I froze, gripping the earth like it would hold me safe. Sebastian's voice broke through: "Aria… breathe. Feel it, then let it go. It cannot hurt you here."
And somehow, I did. Slowly.
By the fifth day, we added more—lifting small weights, walking stairs, stretching further. He watched, correcting posture, encouraging me, never scolding, but never letting me stop pretending I was weak either. "You are stronger than you think," he reminded me. "Every step proves it."
I realized I could trust him—not fully yet, but more than anyone before. He saw my trembles, my silent tears, my panic when memories surged—and never mocked me, never pressured me. Just guided me. And sometimes, he'd tell a story from his past, of failures and fear, and I realized even he had needed someone, once.
Evenings became our time to reflect. I journaled what I could, the flashes of trauma that came unbidden, the small victories. He read over my shoulder sometimes, saying quietly: "You survived worse than this. You will survive what comes next. And when you do, you will be unstoppable."
For the first time, I imagined it—me, strong, independent, free. I wasn't there yet, but every shaky step, every tear-filled stretch, every whispered word of encouragement brought me closer.
By the end of the week, I could stand taller. I could hold a cup without shaking. I could walk farther without collapsing. And when Sebastian watched me laugh at something small—a bird landing on the windowsill—I realized I was reclaiming pieces of myself I had thought were lost forever.
The next morning, Sebastian nudged me awake before the sun even peeked through the curtains. "Time to face the world, Aria," he said quietly, almost gently, but his tone left no room for argument.
I groaned, wishing I could stay wrapped in blankets, safe, untouchable. But he wouldn't let me. Not today. Not ever again.
We stepped outside. The air was crisp, carrying smells of wet earth and morning dew. My legs protested with every step, but Sebastian matched me pace for pace. "Look around," he said. "This world isn't waiting for your fear. It's waiting for you to take it."
I swallowed. My heart pounded—not with fear of him, but fear of what I would feel out there. People. Crowds. Judgment. Flashbacks of my ex, my family, the hospital. But I forced one foot in front of the other.
We walked to a small market in town. Vendors greeted Sebastian warmly. He tipped his head, smiled, and I noticed a curious thing—nobody glanced at me twice. The world, for once, didn't judge. It existed only for the moment.
"Go on," he said. "Buy what you want. I'm right here if you need me."
I walked between the stalls, hands trembling. Fruits, vegetables, bread… everything felt ordinary, normal, but my mind screamed caution. Memories of tainted food, of being kept from the kitchen, of weakness and sickness, surged. My fingers froze on a loaf of bread.
Sebastian's hand lightly brushed my arm. "Aria… breathe. You are in control now. You choose."
I shook my head, laughed quietly at the absurdity, and then, slowly, I picked up the bread. Paid the vendor. Felt a tiny rush of freedom, sharp and intoxicating.
We moved through the town. I spoke quietly with a shopkeeper about directions. My voice faltered, but I didn't stop. Sebastian watched silently, his eyes warm, proud, and calculating all at once.
By noon, I had walked farther than I thought possible, carried a basket of goods, and even handled a small transaction alone. Sebastian's hand occasionally rested on my back, guiding, steadying, but he let me do the work. "You will remember this strength," he whispered. "It is yours."
Returning home, I collapsed on the bed, drained but elated. My body ached, my hands shook, but I had done it. I had reclaimed a piece of myself, outside his influence, outside my past.
That night, as he joined me in bed, I felt a different warmth—one of protection, but also of challenge. "Tomorrow," he said, "we go further. You will speak with people, handle errands alone, meet strangers, negotiate. You will learn that nothing can break you now."
And I believed him. For the first time in years, I believed that maybe, just maybe, I could be the woman he saw—a strong, independent Aria, capable of standing alone.
That evening, we sat together watching TV. His arm brushed mine, and for a moment, I stiffened. The memory hit like a wave—every touch, every hug I had ever received from my ex. The tension I had carried for years—the fear, the helplessness—gathered in my chest, and I couldn't hold it back. Tears spilled.
Sebastian noticed immediately. He pulled me gently into his arms, turning me to face him. "It's okay, Aria," he whispered, his voice steady but intense. "I see it. I know what they did to you. And I will help you. I will help you even if it takes years."
I choked on a sob, overwhelmed by relief and grief.
Then, unexpectedly, he muttered something under his breath about putting a pine cone somewhere unpleasant for my ex. I couldn't help but let out a shaky laugh. For the first time in days, the heaviness lifted, if only a little. And I realized, maybe, with him here, I could start letting some of the misery go.
Months passed in the blink of an eye. The seasons blurred together—hospital visits, long walks, endless paperwork. Sebastian stayed near me through it all, guiding me like a steady hand through a storm.
One afternoon he came in, his dark eyes bright with a kind of quiet excitement.
"I found another house," he said simply. "Bigger. Safer. You'll have space to breathe."
I stared at him, unsure if I should cry or smile.
"A bigger house?" My voice felt small.
He nodded. "Yes. And I've already helped you file the paperwork for government support. You'll have money coming in soon, enough to live, enough to start learning again. You won't always be dependent on me."
For a long moment, I just looked at him. He was always there—near me, steady, guiding—but not smothering. He didn't just rescue me; he gave me tools.
"I don't know how to thank you," I whispered.
He gave a small shrug. "By getting stronger. That's all I want."
The move was long and exhausting, but the moment I stepped into the house, I felt a rush of happiness I hadn't known in years. There was space—enough for the girls, enough for me to breathe. Big windows let sunlight spill across the polished wooden floors, and the high ceilings made everything feel open and free. It was a classical family home, elegant but warm, as if it had been waiting for us.
Sebastian walked beside me, speaking with the owners like he did everything—with calm authority and smooth precision. By the time we finished, everything was arranged; we could sleep in the house that very night.
I couldn't help but notice how effortlessly he made things happen. Every detail, every conversation, every obstacle he handled seamlessly. I was in awe. It wasn't just power or influence—it was control with care, a rare kind of precision that left me both safe and amazed.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe this was the start of something different. Something I could actually call home.
That night, after we'd unpacked just the essentials, I stood in the middle of my new room, running my hands over the smooth wooden floor, the walls, the windows. It felt unreal. Quiet. Safe.
Sebastian was nearby, moving quietly, making sure everything I needed was in place. "You can sleep here," he said softly. "I'll be in the guest room, but if you need anything, just call."
I nodded, though my hands trembled slightly. So many years of fear and exhaustion had left their mark on me—I wasn't used to peace. I sat on the edge of the bed, breathing in the new air, feeling sunlight from earlier lingering in my mind.
As I tried to settle, flashes of the past crept in—the angry voices, the pushing, the fear. My body tensed, my stomach knotted, and I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I hugged my knees, whispering to myself: I am safe now. I am safe.
After a few minutes, Sebastian appeared in the doorway. "Aria?" he asked gently. "You okay?"
I forced a small nod. "I… I just can't stop thinking."
He walked closer and sat on the bed beside me. "You don't have to stop thinking. Just don't let it control you. You're here. You're alive. You're stronger than you know."
His hand brushed mine, light but grounding. I let myself lean just a little into that warmth. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself breathe. Not completely, not yet—but a little.
That night, I didn't sleep perfectly. My mind still clung to shadows, but for the first time, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could face tomorrow.