The parking garage is cold.
The concrete walls echo with the sound of my heels clicking against the pavement, sharp and frantic.
I’m walking too fast, almost running, desperate to get to my car before he catches up.
I should have known he wouldn’t let me leave.
“Hannah!”
His voice bounces off the walls, surrounding me from every direction.
I don’t stop.
I can’t stop.
If I stop, I’ll have to face him.
If I face him, I’ll fall apart.
I reach my car.
My hand is shaking so badly I can barely get the key into the lock.
And then he’s there.
His hand closes around my arm.
He spins me around so fast I lose my balance, stumbling against the cold metal of the car door.
His body cages me in, his chest pressed against mine, his breath hot and ragged on my face.
“You can’t just walk away from me.”
“Watch me.”
I try to push him away.
He doesn’t move.
His hands are on my shoulders, his fingers digging into the fabric of my dress like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
“I’ve been searching for you for seven years.”
“You didn’t search hard enough.”
“I didn’t know where to look.” His voice is desperate, ragged.
“You disappeared.
You changed your name.
You made yourself impossible to find.”
“That was the point.”
“The point was to hurt me.”
“No.” I laugh, bitter and hollow.
“The point was to survive.
The point was to stop being invisible.
The point was to become someone who actually matters.”
“You always mattered.”
“Liar.”
I shove him again.
This time, he stumbles back.
Just a step.
Just enough for me to see the wildness in his eyes.
The desperation.
The hunger.
And then he’s on me again.
His hands are in my hair, his mouth crashing into mine with a violence that steals my breath.
It’s not a gentle kiss.
It’s not romantic.
It’s desperate and hungry and possessive, the kiss of a man who’s spent seven years wondering what he lost.
I should push him away.
I should slap him.
I should scream for security.
But I don’t.
I freeze.
His mouth is on mine, hot and insistent, and for one terrible, wonderful moment, I remember what it felt like to love him.
I remember what it felt like to believe that he could love me back.
And then I bite him.
Hard.
I taste blood.
He groans against my mouth, the sound low and guttural.
But he doesn’t pull away.
If anything, he presses closer, his fingers tightening in my hair, his body pinning me against the car.
I shove him away with all my strength.
He stumbles back, his hand flying to his mouth.
Blood drips through his fingers, bright red against his pale skin.
“That’s the first and last time you ever touch me.”
His eyes are burning.
His chest is heaving.
There’s blood on his lip, smeared across his chin, and he looks absolutely unhinged.
“You still feel it.”
“I feel disgust.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not lying.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
My lipstick is smeared.
My chest is heaving.
I can still taste him on my tongue, the copper tang of blood and the familiar warmth of his kiss.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“Fear,” I snap.
“You’re seeing fear.
I’m terrified of what you’ll do next.
I’m terrified of what you’ll try to take from me.”
“I don’t want to take anything.”
“Then what do you want?”
He steps closer.
I step back.
My back hits the car door again.
“You,” he whispers.
“I want you.”
“Too late.”
“It’s never too late.”
“Yes, it is.” I meet his eyes.
“It was too late the moment you signed those papers.
It was too late the moment you chose her.
It was too late the moment you let me walk away.”
“I didn’t know—”
“You didn’t care.” I cut him off.
“You didn’t care then.
And you don’t care now.
You just want what you can’t have.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then prove it.” I step closer to him.
“Tell me you love me.
Tell me you’ve always loved me.
Tell me you thought about me every single night for seven years.”
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
I laugh.
“That’s what I thought.”
I turn to open my car door.
He grabs my arm, spinning me back around.
“Hannah, please—”
“Don’t.” I pull free.
“Don’t touch me.
Don’t speak to me.
Don’t even look at me.”
I get in the car.
I close the door.
I lock it.
He’s still standing there, bleeding, staring at me through the window.
I start the engine.
I pull out of the parking space.
I drive away without looking back.
In the rearview mirror, I see him.
Standing alone in the empty garage, his hand still pressed to his bleeding lip, his eyes still fixed on my disappearing car.
I don’t stop.
I can’t stop.
If I stop, I’ll go back.
If I go back, I’ll fall apart.
And I’ve come too far to fall apart now.
The drive home is a blur.
I don’t remember the streets.
I don’t remember the traffic.
I don’t remember anything except the taste of his blood on my tongue and the feel of his mouth on mine.
I park the car.
I walk into the penthouse.
I close the door behind me and lean against it, my chest heaving, my hands shaking.
And then I slide down the door and sob.
I hate him.
I hate him for making me feel this way.
I hate him for showing up after seven years and expecting me to fall into his arms.
I hate him for kissing me like he had any right to.
But most of all, I hate myself for still wanting him.
I press my hand to my mouth.
The taste of blood is fading.
But the memory of his kiss is still there.
The desperation.
The hunger.
The desperate, broken need that I recognized because I felt it too.
I don’t know how long I sit there.
Minutes.
Time has lost all meaning.
When I finally stand up, my legs are shaky.
I walk to the bathroom.
I look in the mirror.
The woman staring back at me is a mess.
Her lipstick is smeared.
Her eyes are red.
Her hair is tangled from his fingers.
But there’s something else there too.
Something I haven’t seen in a long time.
Hope.
I push it away.
I can’t afford to hope.
Hope is dangerous.
Hope is what got me into this mess in the first place.
I wash my face.
I brush my teeth.
I change into my pajamas.
And then I crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling.
I think about the kiss.
The way his mouth felt on mine.
The way his body pressed against me.
The way he said my name like it was a prayer.
I think about the blood.
The way it tasted on my tongue.
The way it dripped down his chin.
I think about his eyes.
The desperation.
The hunger.
The promise.
I close my eyes.
I try to sleep.
But every time I close my eyes, I see his face.
And I know, with a certainty that terrifies me, that this isn’t over.
He’s not going to give up.
He’s going to keep pushing.
He’s going to keep fighting.
He’s going to keep trying to break down the walls I’ve built.
And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to keep them standing.
The next morning, I wake up to the sound of my phone buzzing.
Emily.
“Did you see the news?”
“What news?”
“Turn on the TV.
Now.”
I grab the remote.
The screen flickers to life.
And there he is.
Elijah Martinez, standing in front of a bank of microphones, his lip still swollen, his eyes still wild.
“I made a mistake,” he says.
“Seven years ago, I made the biggest mistake of my life.
I let my wife walk away.
I let her believe she was invisible.
And I’ve spent every single day since then regretting it.”
I stare at the screen.
My heart is pounding.
My hands are shaking.
“I’m not going to make that mistake again,” he continues.
“I’m going to fight for her.
I’m going to fight for my family.
I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving that I’m worthy of her love.”
He looks directly into the camera.
“I’m coming for you, Hannah.
And I’m not going to stop until you’re mine again.”
The screen goes black.
I stare at it.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t think.
I can’t do anything except stare at the blank screen and try to process what just happened.
He just declared war.
On live television.
In front of the entire world.
And I have no idea how to fight back.