The weight came all at once.
My head spun, my limbs turned numb, and the room tilted before everything slipped into black.
—
I woke to warmth.
A steady presence beside me. A hand resting carefully on my arm.
"Misty," a soft voice said. "You're safe. I'm here."
I turned my head slowly.
Aiden.
He sat on the edge of the bed, jacket gone, sleeves rolled up, his expression calm—concerned in a way that made my chest ache. The light was dim, gentle. No chains. No floor beneath my knees.
I broke.
I clutched his shirt and pulled myself against him, shaking. "I was so scared," I whispered, my voice cracking. "He—he tried to—"
"I know," he murmured, wrapping his arms around me, steady and grounding. "It's over now."
I clung to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world.
Then my eyes dropped.
Scratches.
On his forearm.
Thin, angry lines—half-healed.
My breath caught.
The memory slammed into me: my nails digging into skin during our first night, panic blurring everything, the same marks left behind.
I pulled away slowly.
My heart started racing again.
"That man," I said carefully. "The one tonight… you said he was gone."
"He is," Aiden replied evenly. "You don't need to think about him anymore."
I stared at his face. The same eyes. The same voice. The same calm that had terrified me minutes ago—and comforted me now.
"Where?," I whispered.
Confusion flickered across his features. Genuine. Fractured.
Something clicked into place with horrifying clarity.
There was no body double.
There never had been.
"You don't remember," I said, my voice barely there.
Silence.
His jaw tightened. His gaze drifted away, unfocused, like he was listening to something I couldn't hear.
When he looked back at me, his voice was quiet. "Sometimes… I lose time."
The room felt too small.
Too tight.
He wasn't lying.
He wasn't pretending.
Aiden hadn't been protecting me from another man.
He had been protecting me from himself.
______
The realization settled into me slowly, like poison seeping through bone.
Aiden hadn't been protecting me from another man.
He had been protecting me from himself.
I sat on the edge of the bed long after he fell asleep, my body rigid, every breath measured. The room looked the same—soft lights, expensive furniture, his steady breathing behind me—but nothing felt real anymore. It was like the house had shifted, revealing a second structure beneath the first.
A fractured mind.
One face. Two truths. Neither safe.
If I confronted him outright, I would die. Not out of rage—but out of instinct. One version of him might panic. Another might decide I knew too much. I had seen enough to understand that his danger wasn't constant—it was conditional.
Which meant I had to become careful.
Strategic.
I slipped out of bed silently and went to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. My reflection stared back—pale, eyes too alert. I pressed my hands to the sink, grounding myself.
What do I do when the enemy doesn't always know he's the enemy?
I started listing rules in my head.
First: I don't reveal what I know. Not the USB. Not the laptop. Not the passcode.
Second: I observe. Patterns. Triggers. Gaps in memory.
Third: I prepare an exit that doesn't look like escape.
I returned to the bedroom and lay back down, facing him. In sleep, his expression was calm—almost gentle. That was the most terrifying part. He wasn't pretending.
"I'll help you," I whispered into the dark, not sure which version of him I was speaking to.
And that would be my weapon.
I would become the constant.
The anchor he trusted.
The wife who soothed the fractures instead of challenging them.
While quietly, carefully, I gathered proof.
Because if I ran, he would hunt.
If I fought, he would destroy.
But if I stayed—
I could outlive him.
And maybe, when the time came—
End him.
________
The next day, the results came—not loudly, not all at once, but like cracks spreading through glass.
My phone wouldn't stop vibrating.
At first, I thought it was fear playing tricks on me. Then I saw the group notifications piling up—the group I had created, the one I'd added them to quietly, carefully. Sisters. Parents. Husbands. A brother who still sent messages to a dead number every year on a birthday.
They had seen everything.
The videos. The photos. The timestamps. The faces they had memorized in grief.
One message stood out, pinned at the top.
"This was never an accident."
Another followed almost immediately.
"We knew something was wrong, but no one believed us."
I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands shaking so badly I had to grip the sheets to steady myself. I hadn't added commentary. I hadn't accused. I had only shared the evidence—the raw truth pulled from his laptop, the files that existed nowhere else.
They were talking now. Comparing details. Dates. Places. Patterns.
One woman posted a screenshot of a police report that had been dismissed years ago. Another uploaded a photo of a scar, matching one in a video I had shared. Someone else typed:
"The man who testified for the defense—he disappeared two years later."
My stomach dropped.
This wasn't chaos.
This was convergence.
By afternoon, the tone of the group changed. Short messages. Careful wording. Then one line that made my breath catch:
"Authorities have been contacted. Independently. Multiple jurisdictions."
Not one report.
Many.
That was the difference.
I stared at the screen, a strange calm settling over me. For the first time since I'd met Aiden, the world felt larger than him. Larger than his house, his rules, his versions.
By evening, the news broke quietly. No names yet. Just phrases:
Reopened cold cases. Digital evidence submitted anonymously. A private task force formed.
I was sitting in the living room when I heard the front door open.
My body reacted before my mind did.
Aiden stepped inside, loosening his tie, his expression unreadable. His eyes went straight to me.
"You've been busy," he said lightly.
I forced myself to breathe.
"So have you," I replied.
He studied me for a long moment. Then his phone buzzed.
Once. Twice. Again.
I watched his jaw tighten as he glanced at the screen.
Something had reached him.
Not fear—yet.
But awareness.
He looked up slowly, a smile curving his lips that didn't reach his eyes.
"You finally chose," he said.
I met his gaze, my voice steady despite the storm inside me.
"No," I said. "I finished what they couldn't."
For the first time, he didn't step closer.
For the first time, he looked… careful.
And I knew then—
Whatever version of Aiden stood in front of me tonight,
the world was already moving against him.