(Noa POV)
I don't sleep.
I lie in bed with my eyes closed and count the seconds between Elias's breaths.
He sleeps like someone who has never doubted a decision in his life—slow, steady, unburdened. Every inhale is calm. Every exhale is control. It makes my skin crawl.
The room smells like him. Clean. Familiar. Safe in a way that feels rehearsed.
I keep my body still. I've learned that moving too much invites questions. Touch. Observation. Elias notices everything. He always has. The way my fingers curl when I'm anxious. The hitch in my breathing when I lie. The micro-flinch when his hand lingers too long.
I wonder how long he's been studying me like this.
Not loving. Studying.
The thought makes my stomach turn.
I replay the last words he said in my head like a broken recording.
You erased them to make sure I could never testify.
And he said yes.
No hesitation. No apology. Just truth, laid bare and calm, like he was explaining the weather.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
There's something wrong with me. I know that. Something fractured. Something that bends instead of breaks. I should be screaming. Planning an escape. Calling the police.
But my body remembers something my mind doesn't.
That leaving him is dangerous.
That knowing too much gets people erased.
I inhale slowly and force myself to think.
Not panic. Think.
Elias believes I'm still fragile. Still unstable. Still his responsibility. That's my shield. That's the only reason I'm still breathing.
So I'll play the role.
I turn slightly in bed, letting my shoulder brush his arm. My movement is careful—unthreatening.
His breathing changes instantly.
He's awake.
"You're thinking too loudly," he murmurs.
My heart slams against my ribs.
I force a shaky breath. "I can't sleep."
His hand finds my waist, warm and grounding, like muscle memory reaching for me before thought. He pulls me closer, my back pressed to his chest.
"Nightmares?" he asks softly.
"Yes," I whisper.
It's not a lie. Just not the whole truth.
His fingers trace slow circles against my skin. Comforting. Familiar. Possessive.
"You don't need to be afraid," he says. "Everything dangerous is gone."
I swallow.
You're still here, I think.
Out loud, I say, "Promise?"
His lips brush my hair.
"I already chose you," he says. "I don't change my mind."
Something about the way he says it makes my chest tighten.
Not I love you.
Not I'd never hurt you.
I chose you.
Like a decision. Like ownership.
I let my body relax against his, pretending the touch doesn't make my skin scream.
"Elias?" I whisper.
"Yes."
"Did you ever think about what I'd feel when I remembered?"
His hand stills.
The silence stretches just long enough to feel deliberate.
"Yes," he says finally.
"And?"
"And I decided your pain was survivable."
My throat tightens. "And his wasn't?"
He exhales slowly. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Humanize him."
I close my eyes.
"I was stalked," I say quietly. "I was afraid."
"I know," he says.
"You watched me fall apart."
"I watched you survive."
"That's not the same thing."
His arm tightens around me. Not angry. Not aggressive. Just firm.
"You keep framing this like a crime," he says calmly. "But crimes are punished. You weren't."
I turn slightly, looking at him over my shoulder. His face is unreadable in the dark. Perfectly composed.
"Because you didn't let me be," I say.
A faint smile touches his lips.
"Exactly."
I feel it then.
Not fear.
Understanding.
Elias doesn't see himself as a villain.
He sees himself as the system that replaced one that failed me.
The law didn't protect me. Memory didn't protect me. Justice didn't protect me.
So he did.
And now, he believes that gives him the right to decide everything that comes next.
I lie there, trapped between his chest and the truth, and realize something else too.
He isn't worried about me leaving.
He's worried about me remembering more.
That's the real threat.
The next morning, he leaves first.
He kisses my forehead before he goes, like always.
"Try to eat something," he says. "Dr. Keene will check in later."
I nod obediently.
The door clicks shut.
And for the first time since this all began, I'm alone.
I sit on the edge of the bed, heart pounding, and wait.
Five minutes.
Ten.
I don't move until I'm sure he's gone.
Then I stand and go straight to the locked office.
The door is still locked.
Of course it is.
But the feeling doesn't stop me this time.
It's not panic. It's not hysteria.
It's instinct.
I scan the room.
The vents. The corners. The shelves.
Elias doesn't hide things where people expect them.
He hides them where they won't look twice.
I run my fingers along the bookshelf, pretending to browse, until my hand catches on something loose.
A false backing.
My breath catches.
I pull gently.
It slides open.
Inside is a phone.
Not mine.
Older. Burner-style. Scratched and worn.
My hands shake as I turn it on.
No lock.
Of course.
He didn't think I'd find it.
Or maybe he wanted me to.
There's one saved contact.
E.
My heart pounds as I open the messages.
The dates stop my breath.
They're recent.
Not years ago.
Weeks.
Days.
I scroll.
She's remembering faster than expected.
We may need to accelerate the contingency.
No, she can't know yet.
If she runs, it will get ugly.
My vision blurs.
He wasn't talking to a therapist.
He was talking to an accomplice.
I scroll further.
And then I see it.
A name.
A file attachment.
A still image.
A stairwell.
A timestamp.
And in the reflection of the glass—
Me.
Standing at the top.
Hands outstretched.
Screaming.
Alive.
I stagger back, the phone slipping from my fingers.
My chest burns. My head spins.
He didn't just erase my memory.
He curated it.
Edited it.
Decided what version of me deserved to exist.
The front door opens.
Footsteps.
Too soon.
My blood turns to ice.
I grab the phone and shove it back into the wall just as Elias's shadow fills the doorway.
He looks at me.
Really looks.
His gaze flicks to the bookshelf.
Then back to my face.
Something darkens behind his eyes.
"You moved things," he says calmly.
I force a shaky laugh. "I was just… restless."
He steps closer.
Slow. Unhurried.
"I told you," he says quietly, "I know when you're pretending."
My heart pounds so loud I'm sure he can hear it.
He reaches out, brushing my hair back gently.
"So," he murmurs, voice almost kind, "tell me what you found."
And in that moment, I know—
This isn't the chapter where I escape.
It's the chapter where he decides
how much more of me he's willing to erase