Chapter 4 Something In Me Still Wants To Breathe

I waited until the house was quiet.

Not just still-but empty of footsteps, of breathing, of him.

Only then did I move.

The silence made me nervous. Not peaceful like freedom-but tight like a rope pulled around my ribs.

I didn't know what I was looking for. Maybe proof that this wasn't my life. Or maybe something sharp to remind me I was still awake.

The hallway was longer than I remembered. Every floorboard seemed to hold its breath under me.

Dominic's house wasn't like any I'd ever been in. It wasn't just big. It was strategic.

Like everything in it had a purpose.

And none of those purposes included me.

I passed a closed door on the left. My fingers itched. I kept walking.

Then another. Locked.

Another.

I tried the handle.

It opened.

The room inside smelled like cedarwood and something darker.

Books lined the walls-hundreds of them. Heavy-looking ones. Old.

There was a leather chair in the corner, and a single lamp casting soft yellow light.

The only light in the room.

And a desk.

Not like the one in the bedroom. This one was real. Worn. With nicks in the wood like it had survived wars.

And there, sitting neatly on top, was a photograph.

I didn't mean to touch it. But I did.

A boy.

No more than seven or eight. Eyes too serious for a child. A man stood behind him, hand on his shoulder. Not smiling.

The resemblance hit me hard.

Dominic. Younger. Smaller. Still with that storm brewing behind his eyes.

I was still staring when I heard the voice behind me.

"You weren't invited in here."

I turned too fast. The frame slipped from my fingers.

It didn't shatter. Just hit the carpet with a dull thud.

Dominic stood in the doorway. No suit jacket this time. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Veins on his forearms like rivers.

He didn't move.

Neither did I.

"I was just..." I started, but the sentence didn't finish. It got lost somewhere in the knot forming in my throat.

"Curious?" he said. Quiet.

Too quiet.

I nodded, ashamed.

He stepped into the room. Closed the door behind him. The click felt like a punishment.

"You're not here to be curious, Liana."

I backed up a little. "I know. I just... I thought maybe if I understood you-"

"Understand me?"

He laughed. Sharp. Dry.

"You want to understand the man who bought you?"

I winced.

"You think that'll save you?" he asked, stepping closer.

"No," I whispered.

"Then why?"

"I don't know."

It was the truth.

I didn't know.

Maybe I just wanted to feel less powerless.

Less nothing.

He stopped in front of me. His eyes locked on mine. For the first time, I saw it-something behind the cold. Not warmth. But something like... regret. Or a ghost of it.

"I was five," he said suddenly.

"What?"

He gestured to the photo on the floor.

"When that was taken. He told me to stop crying or he'd make me cry harder."

I swallowed.

"That's your father?" I asked, too soft.

He didn't answer. But I already knew.

Dominic bent down, picked up the frame, brushed off the glass.

"He died two years later."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." His voice was flat. "I wasn't."

Silence.

Then-

"You want to understand me, Liana?" he asked.

I didn't answer.

"Then know this: I don't forget. I don't forgive. And I don't let go."

The words wrapped around me like cold wire.

I nodded slowly.

He stared at me like he was trying to decide what part of me to break first.

Then-just as suddenly-he turned.

"I'm going to the warehouse. You'll stay in your room. No wandering."

He walked out without waiting for my reply.

The door shut behind him like a slammed gate.

I stood there alone, the photograph still burning behind my eyes.

And for the first time since I'd arrived, I felt something dangerous rise in me:

Not hope.

Not hate.

Just... curiosity.

Sharp and quiet.

Because behind all that control... he was bleeding too.

-