Ava's POV
The silence after Mark's threat was the loudest thing Ava had ever heard. It screamed in her ears. She sat frozen on the couch, her arms wrapped around her knees, trying to make herself into a small, unnoticeable ball.
Mark didn't move. He just leaned against the kitchen counter, that cold smile still playing on his face, watching her. He was waiting for her to break. Waiting for her to cry, to apologize, to beg. It was a game to him. A horrible, powerful game where she always lost.
Her phone, forgotten on the couch cushion beside her, chose that moment to buzz. It was a short, sharp vibration. A notification. Probably an email about a design contest. Or a weather alert.
In the terrible quiet, it sounded like a bomb going off.
Mark's head snapped toward the sound. His fake smile vanished. His eyes, which had been flat, now sparked with a new, hotter fire. "Who is that?" he demanded, pushing off from the counter.
"It's nothing," Ava whispered, her throat tight. "Just my phone."
"I didn't ask what it was. I asked who it was." He took a step forward. "You've been jumpy all night. On that thing constantly. Who are you talking to?"
The old fear, the walking-on-eggshells feeling, was back, ten times stronger. "No one, Mark. It's just an app."
"You're lying." He crossed the room in three long strides. He moved as he did on the ice, fast, powerful, with a single goal. Before she could react, his hand shot out and snatched her phone from the cushion.
"Give it back!" The words burst out of her, a flare of defiance fueled by pure panic. Her phone was her only connection to the outside world. To her sister, Sophie. To her few clients. It was her life, outside of this apartment, and his anger.
He held it high above his head, looking down at her with a mix of amusement and contempt. "Why? What's on here you don't want me to see? Texts to your mommy about how mean I am? Messages to some other guy?"
"There is no other guy!" she shouted, standing up. Her side gave a sickening, sharp twinge. She ignored it. "It's my work phone! My private phone!"
"'Private'?" He mocked her tone. "There's no 'private' between us, Ava. We're a team. Or did you forget that? I share everything with you. My money, my home, my life. You hide behind this little screen." He shook the phone. "What are you hiding?"
He lowered the phone and started jabbing at the screen with his thumb, trying to guess her passcode. Her birthday. Her old pet's name. "Let me in. Let me see what's so important."
"No!" She lunged for it, a desperate, clumsy move.
He easily caught her wrist—the same one he'd hurt earlier. Pain shot up her arm. He used her own momentum to shove her backward. "You don't tell me NO!"
She stumbled, her feet tangling in the rug. She couldn't catch her balance. The world tilted. She crashed sideways into the tall, narrow bookshelf by the television.
The impact knocked the air from her lungs. A new, different pain exploded in her right side. Books rained down around her. Another frame, this one of them at a team charity event, smiling fake smiles shattered on the floor. She slid down the shelf, landing in a heap among the books and glass, clutching her ribs.
She couldn't breathe. A sharp, stabbing sensation stole every breath. She tried to inhale, and a white-hot fire spread across her chest. A rib. Oh god, he cracked a rib.
Mark stood over her, his chest heaving. He looked from her crumpled form to the new wreckage: the books, the broken frame. For a second, she saw a flicker in his eyes. Not regret. Not worry. It was the look a driver gets when they see a dent in their car. Annoyance at the damage. Calculation of the cost.
"Get up," he said, his voice quieter now, but no less dangerous. "You're making a scene."
Ava couldn't speak. She could only gasp in tiny, painful sips of air. Tears streamed down her face silently. She tried to push herself up with one hand, the other pressed against her screaming side. The room swam.
"I said, get up!" He grabbed her under the arm and hauled her to her feet. The motion was so violent that it made her cry out. A fresh wave of nausea washed over her.
He dragged her a few steps toward the couch and let her go. She collapsed onto it, curling around her injury. He threw her phone down beside her. It landed with a soft thud.
"You're so dramatic," he muttered, running a hand over his face. He looked tired now. Tired of her. "Just… sit there. Think about how you provoked this. Clean up this mess when you've pulled yourself together."
He turned and walked to their bedroom. He didn't look back. The door closed.
A second later, the lock clicked.
The sound was final. It was the sound of a cage door shutting.
For a long minute, Ava just lay there, shaking. Each breath was a tiny, painful victory. He hurt me. He really hurt me. The thought was clear and terrifying. This was different from the yelling, the shoving, the bruised wrist. This was a deep, internal injury. She needed help.
Slowly, painfully, she pushed herself upright. Black spots danced in her vision. She grabbed her phone, her lifeline. She had to get to safety. The bathroom. The only room with a lock.
Hunched over, cradling her side, she hobbled across the living room, avoiding the islands of broken glass. Every step sent a jolt of agony through her. She reached the bathroom, slipped inside, and locked the door. The simple click of the lock was the first bit of safety she'd felt all night.
She slid down the door to sit on the cold tile floor. The trembling was getting worse. Shock, she thought dimly. She was going into shock.
Sophie. She had to call Sophie. Her big sister. Her best friend. Sophie lived forty minutes away, but she would come. She would bring the police. She would make this stop.
Her hands were shaking so badly she could hardly hold the phone. Her vision blurred with tears and pain. She opened her messaging app. Her thumb slipped, hitting the wrong icon. She went back, her breathing coming in short, painful gasps.
She found Sophie's contact a heart emoji. She tapped it. The message box opened.
What to say? There was too much. The fear, the pain, the three years of slowly disappearing. She typed the only true thing her body was screaming at her.
He broke
She sucked in a ragged breath, which made her whimper.
my ribs
She didn't ask for help. She just stated the terrible fact. He broke my ribs.
She hit send.
A wave of relief washed over her, so strong it made her dizzy. It was done. Help was coming. Sophie would call 911. Someone would come. She let her head fall back against the door, closing her eyes. She just had to hold on. Hold on until the sirens.
Her phone, still clutched in her hand, lit up. A reply? Already?
She looked down.
The screen was bright in the dark bathroom. At the top of the message thread, it didn't say "Sophie " with a heart.
It said a single, stark letter: L.
Her blood turned to ice. L? Who was L? She scrolled frantically up. It was an old thread. Months ago. A wrong number about a pizza delivery that had never been deleted. A stranger.
She had texted a stranger.
And below her two desperate sentences, a new text bubble had appeared.
Three words. From the unknown number.
I'm on my way.
Ava's breath caught in her painful chest. A stranger was coming. Not the police. Not her sister. A complete stranger named L was on his way to her locked bathroom, while the man who broke her rib was locked in her bedroom. In her terror, had she just made the most dangerous mistake of her life?