Ethan Cross began to dream again.
That was how he knew something was wrong.
THE DREAM HE COULDN'T PLACE
The dream never showed faces.
Only fragments.
A ceiling fan spinning too fast.
Music muffled by walls.
A woman's breath—quick, uneven.
His own voice, unfamiliar even to himself.
He woke with his heart racing, sheets tangled around his legs like restraints.
Ethan sat upright in bed, chest tight, the city's glow spilling through the windows. He pressed his palm to his sternum, grounding himself the way therapists had taught him years ago after a burnout he never talked about.
"It's just stress," he muttered.
But stress didn't smell like perfume and fear.
THE DAY SHE ALMOST QUITS
Ava nearly quit that morning.
She stood in the elevator, badge heavy around her neck, fingers trembling as the doors slid shut. Her reflection stared back at her—pale, exhausted, eyes shadowed by memories she'd worked so hard to cage.
She could leave.
Walk out. Take Leo and disappear again.
But disappear where?
The doors opened.
And survival won.
PROXIMITY WITHOUT TOUCH
They worked late that day.
The building emptied until it was just the hum of electricity and the echo of footsteps that weren't there. Ava sorted files while Ethan paced, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and controlled.
He ended the call and looked at her.
"You should go home," he said.
She shrugged. "I'm almost done."
"You don't get paid overtime."
"I know."
That earned a frown.
"You should," he said simply.
She froze.
"I didn't ask for—"
"I know," he interrupted. "But you deserve it."
Deserve.
The word landed wrong.
Ava met his gaze. "You don't know what I deserve."
Something in his expression tightened.
"No," he admitted quietly. "I don't."
THE QUESTION HE SHOULDN'T ASK
They stood in silence for a moment.
Then Ethan broke it.
"Why are you afraid of me?"
The question was gentle.
That made it dangerous.
Ava's pulse spiked. "I'm not."
He didn't call her out. Didn't press.
"I'm used to people wanting something from me," he said instead. "Money. Influence. Access. You don't."
She gave a humorless smile. "I want a paycheck."
"That's honest," he said. "But it's not the same."
Ava swallowed.
Because I know who you really are, a voice inside her screamed.
But she said nothing.
THE MEMORY PUSHES BACK
That night, Ethan stood in the shower longer than necessary, water pounding against his shoulders.
The dream returned—stronger this time.
A door closing.
Laughter fading.
A woman saying no—not loudly, but clearly.
He braced himself against the tile, breath coming hard.
"No," he whispered. "That's not—"
But doubt had teeth.
And it sank in deep.
THE CHILD SEES TOO MUCH
Leo was coloring when Ethan stopped by the childcare room again.
Ava tensed the moment she saw him.
"I hope this is okay," Ethan said. "I just wanted to say goodnight."
Leo looked up. "You look tired."
Ethan smiled faintly. "I am."
Leo studied him with unsettling seriousness. "Did you hurt someone?"
The room went silent.
Ava's blood ran cold.
Ethan crouched slowly, eye level with the child. "Why would you ask that?"
Leo shrugged. "Sometimes people who are sad hurt others."
Ethan had no answer.
Ava stepped in. "Leo, sweetheart, we're going home."
Leo nodded but didn't stop looking at Ethan.
"You should say sorry," Leo added thoughtfully.
Ethan straightened, shaken.
"I don't know what for," he said.
Leo frowned. "Then you should find out."
THE BREAKING POINT
Ava didn't sleep that night.
The dreams came back.
Not as memories—but as panic.
She stood on the edge of the bed at dawn, shaking, then went to the bathroom and locked the door.
Her reflection stared back at her, eyes wild.
"I won't let him rewrite this," she whispered.
She splashed water on her face, breathing through the nausea.
She had survived once.
She would not shatter now.
THE TRUTH KNOCKS
Ethan's assistant scheduled a meeting with a private therapist the next morning at Ethan's request.
"I need to talk about memory," Ethan said. "And guilt."
The therapist raised an eyebrow. "Those usually arrive together."
Ethan nodded grimly.
"There's something I can't remember," he said. "And I'm starting to think that forgetting wasn't an accident."
THE LINE THEY BOTH FEEL
Ava handed Ethan a report that afternoon.
Their fingers brushed.
This time, Ethan flinched.
Ava noticed.
So did he.
"I'm sorry," he said immediately.
"For what?" she asked, voice sharp.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I feel like I should be."
The words hit her like a blow.
Ava stepped back.
Her walls cracked.
Just a little.
WHAT THEY DON'T SAY
Neither of them spoke after that.
But something shifted.
The air grew heavier.
Charged.
Truth pressed closer, impatient now.
Ethan Cross was beginning to remember that his past wasn't clean.
Ava Miller was realizing that the man she hated might not survive the truth.
And neither of them knew yet which would hurt more—
Justice…
Or love.