I put on a simple dress and went downstairs, still tying the belt around my waist. The house was unusually quiet. Too quiet for a home that had hosted chaos less than twenty-four hours ago.
I moved straight into the kitchen, needing routine. Normalcy. Something steady.
I placed the kettle on the cooker, slid two slices of bread into the toaster, and leaned against the counter while waiting. The marble felt cold under my palms.
And just like that — the thought came again.
This counter.
The exact spot where he had cornered me days ago. Where his hand had pressed into the marble beside my waist. Where his breath had ghosted over my neck like a promise he had no right making.
My stomach tightened.
Why am I even thinking about this?
The kettle whistled sharply, snapping me back. I grabbed it too fast, careless, distracted.
A sharp sting shot through my fingers.
"Ouch!" I screamed, dropping the kettle instantly. Hot water splashed near my feet.
I clutched my hand, shaking it wildly before bringing my thumb to my lips. The burn throbbed angrily, bright and punishing.
"At this point I have to be the ambassador of bad luck," I muttered bitterly.
Everything connected to Victor came with consequences. Heat. Burns. Bruises I couldn't show.
I sucked in a breath, staring at the reddening skin.
"That's what you get for wanting what isn't yours," I whispered to myself.
The words tasted harsher than the pain.
I cleaned up quickly, forcing myself to finish making toast. The smell of warm bread filled the kitchen, but even that felt distant. I poured coffee slowly this time, careful, steady.
I carried my plate to the dining table and sat down alone.
The house still felt like it was holding its breath.
"Good morning, madam."
I nearly choked on my toast.
I turned.
"Oh — Aaron," I said, mouth still half full. "You almost gave me a heart attack."
He smiled lightly. Calm. Always calm.
"Please join me," I said quickly. "And I promise I didn't forget therapy."
I lied too fast.
He pulled out a chair and sat down across from me. He didn't call out the lie. He just studied me.
"You seem to be doing great though, Lys," he said quietly.
The way he said it made me shift slightly in my seat.
"Um… well, join me," I offered, pushing the plate of toast toward him, avoiding his eyes.
He shook his head. "I'm fine. Go ahead."
He watched me eat.
Not in a strange way. Just… attentively.
It made me blush a little.
After I finished, we moved to the living room. I laid back on the couch, stretching my legs slightly. He sat in the armchair across from me, posture relaxed but observant.
"So," he said gently, "how are you feeling today, Madam Alyssa?"
I let out a small breath. "I feel good. I think."
The answer came too quickly. Even I heard it.
He nodded slowly. "During our last session, I asked you something about your childhood. I never got an answer."
My stomach tightened.
"I feel uncomfortable talking about my childhood," I said honestly.
His expression softened. "But how can I help you if you won't open up?"
"You just said it yourself," I replied quickly. "I feel fine. I no longer see ghosts. I don't have nightmares. I feel… perfect."
The word sounded strange in the air.
He raised one eyebrow slightly. "Perfect?"
I shifted on the couch.
"You are one difficult human, Alyssa," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "So… do you want to quit therapy?"
The question hung between us.
Quit therapy.
Quit facing things.
Quit digging.
Silence stretched longer than I expected.
I wasn't sure what I wanted.
Then I looked at him directly.
"Do you think I'm crazy?"
The words came out quieter than I intended.
He didn't answer immediately.
My chest tightened.
"You do, don't you?" I pushed, sitting up now. "Just like Elena. Just like my mom. Just like Victor."
I stood up abruptly, pacing once before stopping in front of him.
"Why do people treat me like I'm a crazy person?"
The vulnerability in my voice surprised even me.
He stood up slowly too — not to tower over me, but to meet me.
"We don't think you're crazy, Alyssa," he said gently. "But you've been through a lot. You need someone to talk to."
"I don't feel comfortable talking about my problems," I cut in quickly.
He sighed softly.
"Okay," he said after a moment. "Let's do this differently. If I can't be your therapist… then we can at least be friends."
The word landed differently.
Friend.
Something about it made my chest loosen.
I smiled slowly. My eyes brightened before I could stop them.
"Or," he added playfully, "a personal adviser."
He lightly poked my cheek.
The simple touch felt… safe. Easy. Warm in a way that didn't burn.
"That sounds better," I admitted. "Therapy sounds so harsh. Like I'm broken."
"You're not broken," he said firmly.
"I feel fine now," I blurted, almost convincing myself.
"Okay," he nodded. "If that's how you feel. I just want you to be comfortable. It's not like I'm going to eat you or anything."
We both laughed.
And for a moment — just a small moment — everything felt normal.
Then I cleared my throat.
"I left you a message. Did you get it?"
He frowned slightly and pulled out his phone. "Umm… not really…"
He scrolled.
"Something about confronting fears?" he asked.
"Yes."
He looked up at me.
"Let's go get a snack," he suggested. "And we'll talk about that."
A snack.
Like this was casual.
Like life wasn't on fire.
"Okay," I said softly. "That will do."
I smiled — genuinely this time — and turned toward the stairs.
As I walked back to my room to change my dress, I noticed something strange.
For the first time in days…
Victor wasn't the loudest thought in my head.
And that scared me a little.
Because I wasn't sure if that meant I was healing…
Or running.
Either way —
I was moving.