The apartment was silent except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant noise of traffic. Amelia stood by the window, looking out at the city below. The streetlights flickered in the early morning haze, casting long shadows against the buildings. The city seemed alive, but she felt like a ghost trapped inside her own life.
She couldn't stop thinking about the nightmare. It clung to her like a second skin. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face, the one she had tried so hard to forget.
Not today, she reminded herself again. But the words felt hollow.
Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, pulling her from her thoughts. She knew who it was before she even looked.
"I'm coming home early today. Get ready. We're going out."
The message was short, direct, and in his usual tone—commanding, detached. There was no "how are you?" or "I miss you." There never was.
Amelia glanced at the clock on the wall. It was already late morning. He had been gone since the night before, handling his "business." That was how he put it. His "business" always had a way of keeping him away for hours, sometimes days, leaving her to fill the silence with her thoughts.
She couldn't remember the last time they had a real conversation—one that wasn't about him or his world. His world, the one that had pulled her in against her will all those years ago, was a dangerous one. The underworld of crime, deals, and constant threats was where he thrived. And somehow, it had become hers, too.
Amelia ran her fingers through her hair, trying to calm the unease creeping through her. She wasn't afraid of him, not anymore. Not physically, at least. But there was something about his power—the way he commanded everything around him—that still made her feel small. The way he could enter a room, and the air would shift. The way the people around him feared him, respected him, even worshipped him. She didn't want to admit it, but a part of her feared him in a way that went beyond physical violence. It was the weight of his presence—the way he made her feel like she was nothing more than a piece in his game.
Yet, there were moments—rare ones—when he looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered. When he was gentle, when his hands didn't carry the same roughness they had in the past. There were moments when she could almost forget who he had been… almost.
The sound of the door unlocking snapped her from her thoughts. He was home.
Amelia took a deep breath, steadying herself. She quickly grabbed her coat from the back of the chair and moved toward the door. Her heart rate quickened. She hadn't seen him in a day, and though their interactions were always brief, there was a coldness about him that always left her wondering if he still saw her as the same person he had once hurt.
When she opened the door, he was standing in the hallway, his figure framed by the dim light from the stairwell. His dark eyes caught hers immediately, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
"Ready?" His voice was low, almost like a growl, as he stepped inside, brushing past her.
Amelia nodded, but her throat tightened. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her, heavy and intense, as if he was looking straight through her. There was a coldness to him, but also something else. Something that both terrified and comforted her in equal measure.
He had come home, but he was still a world away.