Noa POV
I learn very quickly that fear has layers.
There's the loud kind — shaking hands, racing thoughts, the urge to run until your lungs burn. That fear is useless. Elias spots it instantly. He knows how to calm it, redirect it, smother it until it behaves.
Then there's the quiet kind.
The kind that sharpens you.
That's the one I keep.
I wake before him.
That alone feels like a small victory.
The room is dim, early light barely touching the edges of the curtains. Elias sleeps on his back, one arm stretched toward my side of the bed like he expects me to still be there. His face is peaceful. Relaxed.
Like he doesn't keep secrets in his chest that could ruin lives.
I lie perfectly still, staring at the ceiling, counting seconds. When his breathing shifts — deeper, slower — I know he's fully asleep.
I don't move right away.
Rushing is how you get caught.
Instead, I replay yesterday in my head. Every word. Every look. Every pause that lasted half a second too long.
He knew.
He always knows.
But knowing I'm pretending and knowing why I'm pretending are two different things. Elias is arrogant enough to believe he's already won. That arrogance is my only opening.
Carefully, I slide my hand under the pillow.
My phone is there.
I didn't expect that.
My heart stutters.
He never leaves it with me overnight. Never. The realization is so sudden it almost knocks the air out of me.
A test.
I don't turn it on.
I don't touch it again.
Instead, I let my hand fall back to the mattress and close my eyes, forcing my breathing to stay even.
Minutes pass.
Nothing happens.
Then Elias shifts beside me, rolling onto his side. His arm drapes over my waist, warm and heavy.
Possessive.
I keep my eyes closed.
"You're awake," he murmurs.
I don't jump. I don't stiffen.
"Mm," I say sleepily. "Barely."
A pause.
Then: "You didn't check your phone."
My stomach drops.
"I didn't need to," I reply, soft and unbothered. "I was tired."
He hums thoughtfully, thumb tracing a slow circle into my skin. "Good."
Good.
The word makes my throat tight.
Later, over breakfast, I play my role perfectly.
I eat. I ask neutral questions. I listen when he explains the plan for the day — groceries, a walk, my appointment later. I nod in the right places. Smile when he expects it.
Normal.
Inside, I'm mapping exits.
The grocery store has two entrances. One by the parking lot, one that opens into a smaller strip of shops. Bathrooms at the back. Cameras near the registers. A security guard who looks bored and underpaid.
Not helpful yet.
Elias walks slightly behind me, like he always does in public. Not close enough to look controlling. Not far enough to give me space.
I pick up apples. Put them back. Reach for pasta sauce.
Every movement feels rehearsed, like I'm acting in a play where the audience knows the ending but I don't.
At the checkout, the cashier smiles at me. Young. Bright-eyed. Safe.
For half a second, I consider it.
Just opening my mouth. Just saying help.
Elias's hand settles on my lower back.
Light pressure.
A reminder.
I swallow and say nothing.
Back home, he leaves me alone in the living room while he takes a call in the bedroom. The door is closed, but not all the way.
Another test.
I sit on the couch, hands folded in my lap, staring at the blank TV screen. My reflection looks calm. Put together.
A woman who isn't trapped.
My eyes drift to the bookshelf.
I don't remember choosing any of the books on it.
That's when I see it.
A notebook. Thin. Black. Half-hidden between two novels.
My pulse spikes.
I don't grab it immediately. I wait, listening for Elias's voice. It's low and controlled, words indistinct. He's focused on whoever is on the other end of the line.
I reach for the notebook.
My hands shake as I open it.
The first page is blank.
The second isn't.
My handwriting stares back at me.
If you're reading this, you already know something is wrong.
My vision blurs.
I flip the page.
He will tell you this was your idea. That you asked him to do this. Don't believe him.
Another page.
You're not crazy. You were never crazy.
My chest feels too tight to breathe.
Footsteps.
I snap the notebook shut and shove it back just as Elias's voice cuts off.
He enters the living room a moment later, eyes sharp.
"Everything okay?" he asks.
I look up.
Smile.
"Yeah," I say. "Just tired."
His gaze flicks to the bookshelf. Lingers for half a second.
Then he nods.
"Rest," he says. "We'll leave soon."
When he turns away, I press my nails into my palm hard enough to hurt.
Pain keeps me grounded.
The appointment is worse than I expect.
The new therapist is kind. Neutral. Exactly the kind Elias would choose. She asks careful questions. I give careful answers.
I talk about anxiety. About confusion. About feeling disconnected from myself.
I don't talk about the notebook.
I don't talk about the stairs.
When it's over, Elias squeezes my hand. "You did great."
I nod.
On the way home, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Once.
I don't react.
Twice.
Elias glances at me. "Who is that?"
I pull it out slowly.
Unknown number.
My heart pounds.
"I don't know," I say honestly.
He watches as I open the message.
You don't remember me, but I remember you. He's not telling you everything.
My blood runs cold.
Elias leans closer. "What does it say?"
I tilt the screen toward him.
Wrong number. Sorry.
He relaxes slightly.
"People are careless," he says. "Block it."
I do.
Or at least, I pretend to.
That night, when he falls asleep before I do, I stare at the ceiling again.
But this time, I'm not just surviving.
I'm planning.
There's proof somewhere. Copies. People who remember. Pieces he missed.
And if Elias thinks fear will keep me obedient forever—
He's wrong.
Fear taught me how to lie.
And lying is the first step toward escape.