The Future

Six months later.

I stood in front of the mirror in my apartment, adjusting the collar of my dress. It was deep blue, simple, elegant. I'd bought it at a thrift store for fifteen dollars and altered it myself.

I looked like a different woman.

Not the bride who'd walked down the aisle in white silk. Not the mistress who'd sneaked around in the dark. Not the victim who'd taken lash after lash without a sound.

Someone new.

Someone free.

Elias was waiting for me downstairs.

He was leaning against his car, his hands in his pockets, his silver hair catching the morning light. He looked up when he saw me and smiled.

"You look beautiful," he said.

"Thank you."

He opened the car door for me. I slid in. He walked around and got in beside me.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

I took a deep breath.

"Yes."

We drove to the courthouse.

Damon's sentencing was today. The judge had reviewed the evidence. The jury had returned a guilty verdict on all counts. Now it was just a matter of how long he would serve.

I didn't know what I felt. Not anger. Not satisfaction. Just a quiet sense of closure.

We sat in the back of the courtroom. The gallery was packed journalists, spectators, family members of other victims. Everyone wanted to see the man who'd killed my mother face justice.

Damon was brought in.

He looked different. Smaller. His hair had greyed at the temples. His face was gaunt. He was wearing a prison uniform, his wrists cuffed in front of him.

He didn't look at me.

The judge read the sentence.

Twenty-five years to life.

I closed my eyes.

I thought of my mother. Her laugh. Her hands. The way she used to brush my hair and tell me stories.

I hoped she was proud.

After the sentencing, I walked out of the courthouse alone.

Elias had stayed behind to speak with the lawyers. I needed a moment. I needed air.

I stood on the steps, looking out at the city. The sun was shining. People were walking by. Life was moving forward.

I felt something I hadn't felt in years.

Peace.

My phone buzzed.

I looked down. A text from an unknown number.

"I know what you did. I know where you live. This isn't over."

My blood ran cold.

I stared at the screen.

Then I typed back: "Who is this?"

No response.

I called Elias.

He answered on the first ring.

"Clara? What's wrong?"

"I got a text. A threat."

"I'm coming."

He was there in two minutes.

He read the message. His jaw tightened.

"We need to go to the police," he said.

"And tell them what? That someone sent me a threatening text? They won't do anything."

"They will if it's connected to Damon."

"It's not. Damon is in prison."

"Then who?"

I didn't have an answer.

We went back to my apartment.

Elias checked every room, every window, every lock. He was methodical, calm, completely in control.

"I'm staying here tonight," he said.

"You don't have to—"

"I'm staying."

I didn't argue.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Elias was on the couch in the living room. I could hear him moving around, checking his phone, making calls.

I thought about the message.

This isn't over.

Who would send that? Who would want to threaten me now?

I thought about Victor. He'd fled the country. He was gone.

I thought about Damon. He was in prison.

I thought about Elias's family. His father was dead. His mother had disappeared years ago.

I couldn't think of anyone.

But someone was out there.

And they wanted me to know it.

The next morning, I woke to the smell of coffee.

Elias was in the kitchen, pouring two cups. He looked tired he hadn't slept much.

"Did you find anything?" I asked.

"No. The number is untraceable. A burner phone."

"Of course it is."

He handed me a cup. "We need to be careful."

"I know."

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

I looked at him. His grey eyes were steady.

"I know," I said.

The days passed.

No more messages. No more threats. Just silence.

I started to relax. I started to believe it was nothing.

But then I came home from work one day and found a note on my door.

"You think you've won. You haven't. I'll be seeing you soon."

I called Elias.

He was there in five minutes.

He read the note. His face went pale.

"We're leaving," he said.

"What?"

"Pack a bag. We're going to my penthouse. It's safer there."

"Elias—"

"Please. Just trust me."

I looked at him. I thought about everything we'd been through. Everything we'd survived.

I nodded.

We drove to his penthouse in silence.

The city lights blurred past. The night was dark and quiet.

I didn't know who was after me.

I didn't know what they wanted.

But I knew one thing.

I wasn't going to let them win.