I woke to the smell of antiseptic and the steady hum of a heart monitor. But the most terrifying thing in the room wasn’t the machines—it was the man holding my hand.
Pain coursed through me, loud and relentless, yet it wasn’t what kept me tethered to reality. It was the warmth of his fingers against mine—slow, deliberate, practiced. He sat at the edge of my hospital bed, red-rimmed eyes, hair slightly undone, voice cracking just enough to seem vulnerable. To anyone passing by, he looked like a devoted, grieving husband. I knew the truth. That same hand had been around my throat hours earlier.
“Stay with me,” he whispered. “The doctors said you had a bad fall. I thought I lost you.”
A fall. The lie was rehearsed.
Swallowing felt like shards of glass. One eye swollen shut, the other barely working, ribs bruised and aching, every breath a battle. I stared at the ceiling tiles because looking at him was dangerous. His face was a trap—the loving mask, the wounded mask, the mask that made everyone doubt themselves.
He squeezed my hand. My heart monitor jumped.
“Do you remember?” he asked, voice low but carrying just enough for the nurse outside. “You were carrying laundry. It was an accident.”
Mint and whiskey clung to him when he leaned closer. “I’m here,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
That was the threat.
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