Antonio's POV
Something was wrong.
Not with Selene—she was exhausted, yes, but glowing, her laugh tucked beneath the folds of her tired eyes when I hugged her earlier. No, this wasn't about her. It was something I saw—just for a split second.
A man.
Standing across the road from the hospital parking lot. Watching.
Not the normal kind of stare—the kind that sent ice crawling up your spine. And I knew that look. It was the same one I'd seen in Ayra's screenshots weeks ago.
Victor.
I didn't tell Selene. Not yet. Not when her shift was dragging her soul thin. Not when she finally smiled again after so long.
But I made a call that night.
"Ayra," I said the moment she picked up, "he's back."
She didn't even ask who.
"Do you think he knows?" she asked softly.
"I think he never really left," I replied, pacing near the ambulance bay. "He just watched from the shadows. Like a coward. Like he always does."
There was a beat of silence. Then her voice dropped into something colder. "Then it's time we drag him into the light."
Ayra had been working on more than I'd known. While I was tangled in meetings and travel, she was following a digital trail. Unencrypted emails. CCTV footage from the gallery party. Archived clinic footage. Even a journal Victor's old roommate had shared anonymously—pages laced with obsession. About Selene. About control.
And the worst part?
He hadn't just stalked her.
He had followed her across cities. Even when she thought he was long gone. Even after she changed her name.
"What does he want?" I muttered through clenched teeth.
Ayra's reply was low and sharp. "He wants to make her run again."
No.
Not this time.
This time, we weren't running. This time, I wasn't watching helplessly.
This time—I was ending it.
For her.
For the girl who still believed the monsters had left.
They hadn't. But neither had I.
Selene POV
Something was off.
I could feel it in Antonio's voice. The pauses. The way his responses came with a delay, his laugh a little forced, like a melody missing its rhythm.
And then there was Ayra—suddenly texting more than usual, always asking how I was doing, where I was, if I was ever alone.
At first, I thought they were just being sweet. Protective. But tonight… tonight it clicked.
When I opened Antonio's laptop on the kitchen counter, just to play our usual playlist while cooking, it wasn't music that met me. It was a paused CCTV frame—an image of the hospital parking lot.
I blinked, frozen.
In the corner of the footage was a man. Tall. Thin. Face half-shadowed.
Victor.
Even before I registered the name, my body responded—shoulders locking up, breath catching, fingers curling into my sleeves. It haunted me like a scent I couldn't wash off.
Why was he here? How long?
And why hadn't Antonio told me?
The door creaked.
I turned slowly, heart thudding.
Antonio stepped in, stopping cold when he saw the screen.
"Selene…"
My voice trembled, but I held it steady. "When were you going to tell me?"
His jaw tightened. Not in anger—but regret. "I wanted to. I was going to. I needed to protect you first."
"You think hiding it protects me?" My voice cracked. "He's here, Antonio. He found me. Again, When did he get bail out?"
He walked toward me, slow, like I was a bird about to fly off. " I don't know, I think he ran out from a jail. And I didn't want him to win. I didn't want you to live in fear again."
"You should've told me," I whispered.
"I know." His voice softened. "But you're not alone this time, Selene. We're not letting him control your life anymore."
A silence settled between us. Thick. Heavy. Familiar.
But this time, I didn't let it grow.
I closed the laptop gently, turned to face him fully, and took his hand.
"Then tell me everything. No filters. No more secrets."
He exhaled. Then, slowly, carefully, he began to unravel the truth.
How Ayra had helped him. How Victor had been digging into my past. How close he'd gotten. How they'd been tracking him for weeks—building a case, planning something final.
"He's not just obsessed anymore," Antonio said. "He's dangerous. But we're ready. We're ending it."
My heart ached. With fear. With fury. With relief.
But mostly—with love.
Not because he was perfect.
But because even in the worst kind of storm—he chose to fight it with me.