afael and Victor weren’t ready to give up. After watching the photos burn, they clung to the tattered remnants of our past, desperate to grasp any remaining thread.
“Come on, Aurelia,” Rafael said, rubbing the back of his neck as if about to admit some sin. “Let’s go to dinner. Our treat.”
Victor’s tone was softer, almost begging. “Yeah… our favorite spot. Just one dinner. Let us make things right.”
I didn’t respond, only nodded. Deep down, I already knew—this was our final night together.
The ride in Rafael’s sleek black car was heavy with silence, suffocating and static-charged. Then Victor’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, face tightening. “It’s Celestine.”
Panic sharpened his voice as he answered. “Celestine? What’s happening?”
Her high, frantic cries tore through the quiet. “The power’s out… someone broke into the house! I’m scared—there’s a thief! Please, hurry!”
Rafael’s jaw tightened. He looked at me, then at Victor. “Aurelia… get out.”
“What?” I blinked, stunned.
“We’ll check on Celestine,” Rafael said sharply. “You can’t come.”
Before I could protest, they opened the door and shoved me into the dark, wet street. Rain immediately drenched my hair, my dress, my skin. They didn’t even wait to see if I found shelter before speeding away, red taillights bleeding into the storm.
I stood there a moment, soaked, mascara running like betrayal streaking my cheeks. Then I smiled—bitter, clean, precise. This wasn’t the last dinner. This was a funeral feast. And they didn’t even realize they were attending their own eulogy.
---
Three blocks later, I kicked off my heels. Satin and slippery, my toes blistered, my bare feet met the wet pavement. Dress clinging to me, hair plastered to my neck, breath ragged and cold. No taxi stopped. Not one. Drivers saw me, slowed, then sped up, treating me like a ghost.
I turned into a narrow alley, hoping for a shortcut, maybe a cab, maybe even to collapse under a streetlamp in some poetic wreckage. But the alley had teeth.
A figure stepped from the shadows, hoodie soaked through, face hidden. The glint of a knife caught my eye too late. A shove, a demand—wallet? phone? bag?—I didn’t care. I fought anyway.
I punched. I clawed. I screamed until my throat burned. And then the knife found me. Once in the gut, a second lower, a third as I tried to crawl away. Pain flared, sharp and then ice-cold, stealing my breath. I remember falling, pavement kissing my cheek like goodbye.
Then headlights. A door slamming. A voice shouting my name. Strong arms lifting me.
I tried to speak, tried to ask someone to call my aunt, to say I was sorry, that the cookies wouldn’t be delivered—my lips refused. Vision blurred into static.
Then I saw him. That face. That stranger. The same man who had plunged into the ocean the night of Celestine’s birthday. The same man who had pulled me from the freezing waves after Rafael “accidentally” pushed me. That night, I thought maybe the sea had sent me an angel. But he was real.
He cradled me in his arms, drenched in rain and blood and quiet command. “Stay with me, Aurelia,” he said. “You’re not dying tonight. Not like this.”
“Who… are you?” I whispered.
“Adrian,” he said, the faintest ghost of a smile on his lips.
Then he vanished again. Not in smoke or light, but the clean, cruel disappearance of someone untouchable—slipping away when called, leaving no thanks, leaving only presence and power.
I stayed in the hospital for a week. Tubes in my arms, stitches in my stomach, silence in my soul. No visitors. No calls. Not even my mother—I instructed the nurses to keep it that way. I needed to lie still, to feel the death of whatever part of me had still clung to hope that someone would notice.
On the day of my discharge, still pale, still in a hospital gown, they appeared. Celestine, on a stretcher, bloodied arms wrapped in soaked gauze, mascara streaked across her porcelain face, wailing like a siren. Rafael whispered something soothing into her ear, and Victor carried her bag like a devoted servant.
They passed me in the corridor. And then they froze.
Rafael’s eyes blinked as if he were staring at a corpse. Victor looked like he’d been sucker-punched.
“Aurelia?” Rafael said, voice broken.
I looked at them, then down at the IV still taped to my hand. Nurses were packing my things. I was supposed to go home. Instead, I met them here.
“You’re here?” Victor’s voice hollow, almost stunned.
“You were in the hospital?” Rafael stepped forward, reaching, but I stepped back.
I laughed. Not loud. Not hysterical. Just broken. “You didn’t even know,” I said quietly. “I’ve been here for a week. Fighting to live. And none of you even noticed I was gone.”
Their mouths opened. No words came out. Behind them, Celestine screamed again, stealing every ounce of attention.
Of course she did. Once more, they turned toward her. Once more, I walked away.
This time barefoot. This time bleeding inside.
This time—free.
