Part 95
When the door clicks shut, the quiet returns.
Adrian sits completely still, counting the seconds until her footsteps fade. He doesn't move until he hears the faint creak of another door somewhere down the hall — maybe the kitchen. Only then does he let out the breath he's been holding.
His pulse still pounds, but his face stays composed.
He knows panic won't help him now.
He stands slowly, examining the room again — every detail, every object she's placed there. Nothing looks dangerous, but everything feels deliberate. The curtains are drawn tight. The windows sealed with paint, not nails, but still sealed.
He notices small touches: a vase of fresh sunflowers by the window.
His throat tightens.
"Of course," he mutters. "You'd bring them."
He forces himself to focus.
The door — locked from the outside. The hinges look new. There's no phone, no clock, nothing with a connection to the world beyond this house. Only the glass of water and the folded blanket, as if she expects him to stay.
He sits back down on the edge of the bed, rubbing his hands together, trying to think. Alex believes this is love, protection, salvation. Fighting her outright won't work — he's seen that flicker of fragility in her, the way her calm shatters under pressure.
He'll have to make her want to let him go.
Adrian leans back, closing his eyes. He replays every conversation they've had, searching for the moments when her mask cracked — when she doubted herself. There were a few.
She responds to kindness. To validation.
That's his way out.
Not confrontation, but understanding.
He looks at the note again, reading the words over and over: You're safe now.
And quietly, under his breath, he answers,
"Maybe. But not for long."