Thalia's POV
The courtroom lights are too bright. I can't breathe.
Ms. Kent, did you embezzle three million dollars from your own company? The lawyer's voice cuts through me like a knife. Cold. Sharp. Designed to destroy.
I try to speak, but my throat closes. Three hundred people stare at me. Cameras flash. Marcus, my fiancé, my partner, the man I trusted with everything, sits at the plaintiff's table with a perfectly rehearsed sad expression.
Answer the question, Ms. Kent.
I didn't, I would never
You expect this court to believe you knew nothing about the offshore accounts in your name?
My chest tightens. The room spins. I can't get air into my lungs.
Your Honor, the witness appears to be having some kind of episode
I wake up gasping.
My bedroom is dark and silent, but my heart pounds like I just ran a marathon. Sweat soaks my sheets. My hands shake as I reach for my phone: 3:47 AM.
Three years since that trial. Three years since I proved my innocence. Three years, and my body still doesn't believe I'm safe.
I force myself to breathe slowly. Five things I can see: my lamp, my dresser, the water glass on my nightstand, the framed photo I should have thrown away by now, my closed door. Four things I can touch: the cotton sheets, my phone case, my racing heartbeat, the scar on my wrist from when I—
No. Not going there.
I'm okay. I'm safe. It was just a dream.
Except it wasn't just a dream. It was a memory that haunts me every single night.
By the time I get to work at nine, I've had two cups of coffee and barely any sleep. My reflection in the elevator mirror looks like death—dark circles, messy hair I barely managed to brush, lips pressed into a thin line.
Thalia! My coworker Jake waves from his desk. Big day! Did you hear?
I force a smile. Hear what?
Morrison wants to see you in his office. Something about your AI project.
My stomach drops. Mr. Morrison is my boss, and while he's been supportive since he hired me two years ago, sudden meetings still make my anxiety spike. What if he found something wrong? What if someone accused me of stealing code? What if
Relax, Jake laughs. You look like you're about to throw up. It's probably good news.
I make myself walk to Morrison's office, even though every instinct screams to run.
Thalia! Come in, sit down. Mr. Morrison beams at me from behind his massive desk. He's a big man with kind eyes and a warm smile that almost makes me feel safe. Almost.
I perch on the edge of the chair, my hands gripping my knees.
I wanted to tell you personally—your AI security protocol just got approved for company-wide implementation. The board was incredibly impressed. He slides a folder across the desk. We're talking a significant bonus and a promotion to Lead Developer.
I should be happy. This is what I've worked toward for two years. Proof that I'm not broken. Proof I can still create something valuable.
But all I feel is terror.
Is something wrong? Mr. Morrison's smile fades. Most people get excited about promotions.
I'm excited, I lie. Just surprised.
You earned this, Thalia. Your work is exceptional.
The problem is, I thought my work was exceptional three years ago too. I thought I'd built something amazing with Marcus. I thought I could trust my own judgment.
I was wrong about everything.
Thank you, Mr. Morrison. I really appreciate it.
He looks like he wants to say more, but I'm already standing, already backing toward the door, already planning my escape.
The panic attack hits at 11:47 PM.
I'm eating leftover Chinese food in my tiny Brooklyn apartment, scrolling mindlessly through my phone, when I see it: a LinkedIn notification.
Marcus Vale has viewed your profile.
The container of noodles falls from my hands. My vision tunnels. My lungs forget how to work.
Why is he looking at my profile? What does he want? Is he going to come after me again? Did he hear about my promotion? Does he think I stole something again? Is he planning to destroy me again?
I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't move.
My chest feels like someone's sitting on it. Black spots dance across my vision. The walls of my apartment close in.
I'm dying. This is it. I'm actually dying this time.
My shaking hands somehow manage to find Dr. Morrison's emergency number and hit call.
Dr. Morrison. Her calm voice cuts through the chaos in my head.
I—can't—breathe— I gasp between sobs.
Thalia, I need you to listen to my voice. You're having a panic attack. You're safe. Can you tell me where you are?
Home. He—he looked at my profile—Marcus—
I understand. We're going to get through this together. Five things you can see.
She talks me down over the next twenty minutes. By the time my breathing returns to normal, I'm exhausted and humiliated and so tired of being broken.
I'm sorry, I whisper. I thought I was getting better.
You are getting better. Healing isn't linear, Thalia. We've talked about this.
I got a promotion today, and all I could think about was how everything I build gets destroyed.
Then we need to talk about this tomorrow. Can you come in at ten? I have something important to discuss with you anyway.
Something in her tone makes my stomach twist. What kind of important?
We'll talk tomorrow. But Thalia—this is going to be a change. A big one. I need you to trust me.
Trust. That word feels like swallowing glass.
What kind of change? My voice cracks.
Tomorrow, Dr. Morrison says gently. Try to get some sleep. You're going to need your strength.
The line goes dead.
I sit in the dark, her words echoing in my head. A big change. You're going to need your strength.
My hands start shaking again.
What could be so important that she sounds almost... worried?