Chapter 8- Theeats
1099 Words
Aria walked to silence again.
The kind that pressed on her chest until breathing felt like work.
No Damian. No footsteps. No low voice telling her to sit, eat, breathe.
Just Lagos traffic seven floors down. Horns and generators bleeding through the glass.
She sat up slowly. The penthouse was too big when it was empty.
Bigger. Colder. Emptier.
Her bare feet hit the marble and it stole the heat from her skin. The cold shot up her legs.
The scent of him was everywhere. Cedar. Something sharp like rain on metal.
It clung to the couch. To the blanket she pulled around her shoulders.
To the pillow she hadn’t put back from last night.
She pressed her face into it once. Stupid. Pathetic.
The fabric was still warm. Like he’d just been there. Like he might come back any second.
She remembered how he used to braid her hair during exams. Fingers careful. Slow. Patient.
Now he locked doors and gave orders to the security . Voice sharp. Final. No room to argue.
Same hands. Different reasons.
Her stomach twisted. What changed him? What broke the boy who memorized her favorite tea into the man who memorized her exits?
Her phone burst on the nightstand. Once. Hard. Screen lighting the dark room.
It was Damian.. Just text.
“Stay inside. Mark is lurking around.”
Just command. Not a request. Not “Aria, please”. Not “are you okay”.
Her jaw clenched first. Anger. Hot and sudden, rising in her throat.
Then fear. Cold, settling in her bones like water.
Then something worse — worry. Ugly, selfish worry that made her feel small.
What if Damian got hurt while trying to punish Mark?
What if he walked into a trap because he was busy protecting her from one?
Her fingers shook over the screen. Typing. Deleting. Typing.
“O-okay.” Backspace.
“Okay I’ve heard you.” Backspace.
“Okay.” She sent it before she could add “I’m scared” again. She deleted it three times.
The word looked weak. Looked like begging. She didn’t want him to see her like that.
The room went quiet again. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made her ears ring.
She paced. Ten steps to the window. Ten steps back.
Checked the glass floors down like Mark could climb it. He couldn’t. But her brain didn’t care.
Checked the door like Damian would walk through it. He didn’t.
She ended up by the bed. Touched the pillow where his head was last night.
Still dented. Still holding his scent. Cedar and that sharp rain-metal thing.
She sat on the edge and the mattress dipped, remembering his weight.
That was worse than the silence. That dip was proof he’d been there. Proof he left.
Then her phone burst again. Not text this time. A file.
Video. No message. Just “1.mp4” in ugly white letters.
Don’t. Don’t watch it.
Her thumb hovered over the thumbnail. Black screen. Nothing visible. Just the play button.
I can’t. I won’t. I—
She pressed play anyway. Her breath caught like she’d been punched in the ribs.
The screen showed them. Close. Too close.
Her head lolling to the side. Eyes half-closed, unfocused, not really seeing.
The blue dress she wore that night at his apartment. Strap slipping down her shoulder.
His mouth was at her neck. Her body limp in his arms. Not fighting. Not resisting. The very first time she went visiting Mark in his apartment.
The night her memory went blank after the third glass of wine she didn’t order.
Aria’s blood went cold. The phone slipped in her palm, slick with sweat.
Her chest locked up. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t blink.
That wasn’t her. That was a stranger wearing her face. A stranger who didn’t remember saying yes.
A stranger Mark recorded. A stranger Damian would never forgive if he saw it.
Her mind flashed back. The first time she went to Mark’s apartment. She’d thought it was safe.
She remembered laughing. She remembered the drink he handed her.
She did not remember waking up. She did not remember cameras.
Mark never said anything about cameras. Mark never said anything about proof.
Then words flashed under the video, white on black, sharp as a knife:
“Come meet me at 42B Allen Avenue.6pm. Come alone.
If you fail, I send this to Damian. Let’s see what he does then.”
The phone felt like ice. Like it would burn her if she held it longer.
She looked at Damian’s text again. “Stay inside.” Two words. Order. Protection. Cage.
She looked at the video again. “I send this to Damian.” Threat. Exposure. End.
24year old her couldn’t let Damian see this and think she chose Mark over him.
Her decision wasn’t clean. It wasn’t brave. It was messy and terrified and selfish.
But it was a decision. Her decision. Not his. Not Mark’s.
At 5:45pm, she grabbed her bag. Hands still shaking so bad the zipper caught twice.
The driver outside didn’t see her.
“Stay inside” burned in her pocket like a brand. Like a warning she was about to ignore.
She sneaked past him anyway. Didn’t explain. Couldn’t explain.
The lobby was too bright. White marble and gold. It hurt her eyes.
The Lagos air hit her face outside, hot and heavy .
Real. Messy. Awake.
No going back.
---
Across town Damian sat in his office with three screens glowing in front of him. He wasn’t looking at contract. He was rewinding the penthouse security footage. His jaw locked when he saw it. Aria, bag in hand, head down, slipping past the driver like she thought he wouldn’t notice. Like she thought he couldn’t see. His knuckles went white on the desk. “Damn it, Aria,” he muttered, voice low, angry. She had looked him in the eye this morning and said okay. She had typed it with her own hands and sent okay to him. Stay inside. Two words. That was all he asked for.
He didn’t wait. He hit call on his phone and didn’t bother with greetings. “Track her. Track her location now. I don’t know where she is heading to. Track her.” He ended the call and slammed the phone down. The glass screen cracked at the corner. Right now Aria was choosing Mark over him. Over his warning. He grabbed his car keys.
If she thought she could walk into that alone, she didn’t know him at all.
---
- Writer
