The first night she didn't come home, Damien didn't sleep.
He sat in the dark living room, phone in hand, staring at the door.
No call. No text. No message from her sister or her driver or any of the people he'd paid to keep her safe.
Just silence.
And the waiting.
---
He called her at midnight.
No answer.
He called her at one.
No answer.
He called her at two.
The phone rang twice. Then stopped. She'd declined the call.
He stared at the screen.
Declined.
She had never declined his call. Not once. Not in all the months they'd been together. Even when they were fighting. Even when she was angry. Even when she'd told him she needed space.
She had always answered.
Until now.
---
At three in the morning, he called Marco.
"Find her."
"Where was she last?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"She said she needed space. She said she wanted freedom. I gave it to her."
Marco was quiet for a moment.
"And now?"
"Now I want her back."
---
The search took two hours.
Marco's people traced her phone to a hotel across the city. Not a nice hotel. Not the kind of hotel where the wife of Damien Moreau should be staying.
A cheap hotel.
The kind of hotel where people went to hide.
"She's alone," Marco said.
"How do you know?"
"The front desk says she checked in alone. No one else has entered her room."
"Then why is she there?"
Marco was quiet.
"I don't know," he said. "But I think you should ask her yourself."
---
Damien went to the hotel.
Not with his usual entourage. Not with guns and threats and the kind of presence that made people tremble.
Alone.
He walked through the lobby. Took the elevator to the fourth floor. Stopped in front of room 412.
He knocked.
No answer.
He knocked again.
"Christabel. It's me."
Silence.
"Open the door."
"I can't."
He pressed his forehead against the wood.
"Why not?"
"Because if I open the door, I'll come home. And I'm not ready to come home."
"Then don't come home. Just open the door. Let me see you. Let me know you're okay."
---
The lock clicked.
The door opened a crack.
She was standing in the darkness, her hand on her stomach, her eyes red from crying.
"You're not supposed to be here," she said.
"You're not supposed to be here either."
"I needed—"
"I know." He pushed the door open. Stepped inside. "You needed space. You needed freedom. You needed to remember who you are without me."
"Yes."
"Did it work?"
She looked at him.
Her eyes were wet.
"No."
---
He pulled her into his arms.
She didn't resist.
Just pressed her face into his chest and held on.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"For what?"
"For running. For hiding. For making you wait."
"You don't have to apologize."
"I know." She pulled back. Looked at him. "But I am anyway."
He touched her face.
"Come home."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because if I come home, nothing will change. And I need things to change."
"What things?"
She walked to the window.
Looked out at the city.
"I need to know who I am without you."
"You're the mother of my child."
"I'm more than that."
"I know." He walked to her. Stood beside her. "You're the woman I love. The woman I chose. The woman who chose me."
"Did I choose you?" She turned to face him. "Or did you choose me? Did I ever have a choice?"
---
The question hung in the air.
Damien was quiet for a long moment.
"You always had a choice," he said.
"Did I?"
"Yes."
"Then why did I stay?"
"Because you wanted to."
"Or because I was afraid?"
He stepped closer.
"Are you afraid of me?"
"No."
"Then what are you afraid of?"
She touched her stomach.
"I'm afraid of bringing a child into this world. I'm afraid of not being able to protect her. I'm afraid of becoming my mother."
"Your mother?"
"My mother stayed with my father because she was afraid. Afraid of being alone. Afraid of being broke. Afraid of what people would say." She looked at him. "I don't want to be her."
"You're not her."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're here. In a hotel room. Alone. Trying to figure out who you are." He took her hands. "That's not weakness. That's courage."
---
She was quiet for a long time.
The city hummed below them.
Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and faded.
"I'm not coming home tonight," she said.
"I know."
"Are you going to stay?"
"Do you want me to stay?"
She looked at him.
"Yes."
---
He stayed.
They lay on the small hotel bed, fully clothed, her head on his chest, his hand on her stomach.
The baby kicked.
"She knows you're here," Christabel said.
"She knows everything."
"She's going to be just like you."
"God help the world."
"God help anyone who tries to hurt her."
He kissed her forehead.
"Come home tomorrow."
"I will."
"Promise?"
She looked up at him.
"I promise."
---
They didn't sleep.
They talked.
About the past. About the future. About the daughter growing inside her.
About the man he used to be and the man he was trying to become.
About the woman she used to be and the woman she was afraid of becoming.
"I don't want to lose myself," she said.
"You won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because I won't let you." He touched her face. "I fell in love with you. All of you. Not just the parts that are easy."
"And if I change?"
"Then I'll fall in love with the new you."
"What if you don't?"
He smiled.
"Then I'll wait for the old you to come back."
---
In the morning, they went home together.
The penthouse was cold. The city was bright.
Christabel walked to the window. Looked out at the skyline.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"You already apologized."
"I know." She turned to face him. "But I mean it. I'm sorry for running. I'm sorry for hiding. I'm sorry for making you wait."
"You don't have to—"
"I know." She walked to him. Took his hands. "But I am anyway."
He pulled her into his arms.
"Just don't do it again."
"I can't promise that."
"I know."
"Then what can you promise?"
He looked at her.
"I can promise to wait. Every time. No matter how long."