The town was called Hastings, known for its old town, fishing, and large seaside area.
It was the kind of place where the wind felt like it was trying to scrub your past right off your skin.
I lived in a one-bedroom apartment above a bakery. The floors creaked, the heater groaned like a dying animal, and the windows were permanently frosted with sea salt. It was small, it was cold, and it was the first place in thirty years that didn't come with a contract or a debt attached to the lease.
I kept myself afloat with a portion of the money I'd taken from London. I called it my "reparations." I worked four days a week at a local bookstore, shelving paperbacks and drinking tea with the owner, an old woman who didn't care where I came from as long as I could alphabetize the fiction section.
Every Tuesday, the postman arrived with a thick, cream-colored envelope.
Julian didn't call. He didn't text. He didn't send his security team to drag me back to Belgravia. He knew exactly where I was, of course, I could feel the invisible threads of his protection in the way the local police drove past my street a little more often than necessary, or how my favorite scotch always seemed to be in stock at the corner shop.
But he respected the distance. He settled for the ink.
I sat on my small balcony, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, and opened the latest letter. His handwriting was elegant, sharp, and carried the weight of a man who was learning to be still.
Alina,
The house is too quiet. I've started eating in the kitchen, just to hear the sound of the refrigerator hum. I feel lonely without you. I went to the ridge last week, but don't worry, I didn't stay. I bought the diner from the estate. The land and 3 more around it and handed it to Martha. She didn't say thank you but I could tell she was grateful in the way she looked at me.
I'm not asking you to come back. Not yet. I'm just reminding you that the shark has learned how to tread water. I'm still here, in the dark, waiting for the tide to bring you home.
Yours, always. J.
I folded the letter and looked out at the Atlantic. The water was gray and violent, crashing against the rocks with a relentless, obsessive energy. It reminded me of him.
I wasn't the girl from the ridge anymore. I wasn't the asset from the contract. I was a woman who spent her mornings watching the sun rise over a different ocean and her evenings reading letters from a monster who loved her enough to let her breathe.
I reached for a pen and a piece of scrap paper. My wit was still there, tucked under the surface.
Julian,
The scotch here is terrible. If you're going to stalk me, at least have the decency to bribe the local distributor to get something peaty. I'm still not ready. I'm still finding my own skin. But I didn't burn the letter this time. Take that for what it's worth.
Ps: You're a dick.
Love you. A.
I walked down to the post box, the sea spray dampening my hair. I didn't know if I'd ever go back to London. I didn't know if the "bliss" we'd found could ever survive the truth of how it started.
But as I dropped the envelope into the slot, I felt a strange, quiet hum in my chest. For the first time, nothing was haunting.
But for now, the salt air was enough.