She stayed in my penthouse for three months.
She drank my tea. She slept in my bed.
But she never looked at me the way she looked at the sunrise.
And that was when I realized I hadn't captured her at all.
She had captured me.
---
The first month was a victory.
Or so I told myself.
She was there. In my space. In my bed. Drinking my tea and reading my books and watering a plant she'd brought from her old apartment.
I had her.
That was what mattered.
Except she wasn't there. Not really. Her body was in my penthouse, but her mind was somewhere else. Somewhere I couldn't follow.
She never complained. Never fought. Never asked for anything.
She just... existed.
Beside me but not with me.
---
"You're quiet," I said one night.
We were in bed. The city was dark. Her hand was on my chest, tracing lazy patterns on my skin.
"I'm thinking," she said.
"About what?"
She was quiet for a moment.
"About whether you're going to let me leave this bed."
The words hung in the air.
I turned my head. Looked at her.
"What did you say?"
"You heard me." She didn't look away. Her eyes were calm. Too calm. "I'm asking if I have a choice. Any choice. About where I go. Who I see. Whether I stay."
"Of course you have a choice."
"Do I?"
"Yes."
"Then I want to see my sister. Alone. Without your people following me. Without you checking my phone. Without you knowing where I am every second of every day."
---
The silence that followed was deafening.
I could feel my jaw tightening. My hands curling into fists beneath the sheets. The old anger – the one I'd been trying so hard to bury – rising in my chest like a living thing.
"You're not going alone."
"Then I'm not going."
"Christabel—"
"You said I had a choice." Her voice cracked. Just a little. "So I'm choosing. If I can't go alone, I'm not going at all. And I'm staying in this bed. And I'm not talking to you for the rest of the night."
She turned away from me.
Pulled the sheet over her shoulder.
And lay there, her back to me, silent.
---
No one turned their back on me.
No one.
I should have been angry. Should have grabbed her. Should have reminded her – with words or with force – that she belonged to me.
But I didn't.
Because somewhere in the past month, something had changed.
I didn't just want her body.
I wanted her.
All of her. The parts she was hiding. The parts she was protecting. The parts she wouldn't let me see.
And you can't force someone to give you those.
You can only wait.
---
The second month was harder.
She stopped talking as much. Stopped meeting my eyes. Stopped doing the small things that had made me believe she was starting to feel something.
She just... faded.
Like a flower that had been cut and placed in water, still blooming but already dying.
I watched her.
Every morning, she woke before me. Walked to the window. Stared at the sunrise.
She never looked at me the way she looked at that light.
And that was when I realized.
I hadn't captured her.
She had captured me.
And now she was letting me go.
---
"What do you want?" I asked her one night.
We were in the living room. She was sitting on the couch, her knees drawn to her chest, her eyes on the city below.
"I want to go home," she said.
"This is your home."
"No." She looked at me. "This is your home. I'm just living in it."
"What's the difference?"
"You know the difference."
I walked to her.
Knelt in front of her.
"Then tell me."
She was quiet for a long moment. The city hummed below us. Somewhere in the building, a door opened and closed.
"I want to remember who I am," she said finally. "Before you. Before this. Before I became someone I don't recognize."
"You're exactly who you've always been."
"No." She shook her head. "I'm who you want me to be. There's a difference."
---
The third month, she started fighting back.
Not with words.
With silence.
She stopped eating with me. Stopped sitting in the same room. Stopped pretending that she wanted to be there.
She was leaving me.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
And I didn't know how to stop it.
"You're different," I said.
"I'm the same. You're just finally seeing me."
"I've always seen you."
"No." She walked to the window. Pressed her palm against the glass. "You've seen what you wanted to see. The woman who didn't run. The woman who didn't flinch. The woman who got in your car."
"And who are you?"
She turned to face me.
Her eyes were dark.
"I'm the woman who's trying to figure out if she can survive you."
---
That night, I didn't sleep.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathe beside me.
She was there.
But she was already gone.
And I didn't know how to get her back.
"I'm not going to let you leave," I said.
She didn't answer.
"I'm not going to let you go."
Still no answer.
"Christabel."
She turned her head. Looked at me.
"You already have," she said.
---
Three months.
That was how long it took for me to realize that I wasn't the monster in her story.
She was.
Because she had done something no one else had ever done.
She had made me care.
And then she had started to walk away.
First Line of Chapter 4 (Teaser):
"The first time I tried to be nice, she looked at me like I'd betrayed her. 'Don't,' she said. 'I don't know how to handle you when you're like this.' And that was when I understood. She didn't want the man I was trying to become. She wanted the monster."