The realization hits me in a quiet moment. Those are the ones that do the most damage.
I am standing in the kitchen of the penthouse, staring at a mug that has gone untouched long enough for the steam to vanish, when the pieces finally align. Adrian does not want Elena dead. If he did, she would already be gone. He has had opportunities. Too many of them. Windows, rooftops, angles I know he can calculate in his sleep.
No. Death would be too clean.
He wants her afraid.
He wants her watched, shaken, always wondering where he is. He wants her to belong to the terror he creates. Possession without touch. Control without consequence. It is intimacy twisted into something unrecognizable, and that is what makes it dangerous.
My grip tightens around the mug until the porcelain creaks, a thin
