42. Pressure Points

I learned something important that week.

Control doesn’t arrive all at once.

It comes in fragments, moments when you choose not to react, even when every nerve in your body begs you to.

I was tired.

Not the kind of tired sleep fixes. The kind that settles into your bones when you’re constantly alert, constantly bracing for the next intrusion.

Lydia didn’t stop.

She refined.

A delivery arrived at the penthouse while Adrian was at work. Not addressed to him. To me.

A silk scarf.

Expensive. Neutral. Beautiful.

The note was short.

You’re trying so hard. I can tell.

I folded it neatly and set it aside, my hands steadier than I felt. She wanted me rattled before Adrian got home. Wanted me to carry the weight alone.

I refused.

Instead, I wore the scarf.

When Adrian noticed it later that evening, his eyes darkened instantly.

“She sent that.”

“Yes.”

His jaw tightened. “Take it off.”

“No,” I said quietly.

He paused. Looked at me.

“She wants to know if she can still reach me,” I continued. “I won’t give her the satisfaction of hiding.”

Something unreadable crossed his face admiration, concern, restraint.

“She’s pushing your limits,” he said.

“I know,” I replied. “And it’s working.”

That admission cost me something.

The next day was worse.

Lydia didn’t approach me directly. She didn’t need to.

She appeared everywhere Adrian and I were expected to be meeting, charity planning sessions, social obligations that couldn’t be declined without consequence. Always calm. Always polished. Always just within reach.

Too close.

Too familiar.

She laughed at his jokes like she’d heard them before. Touched his sleeve lightly when speaking. Never inappropriate. Never obvious.

Just enough.

I felt it then the pressure. The slow tightening in my chest. The intrusive thoughts I hated myself for having.

Does she know him better?

Am I forcing my place here?

How long before this costs me more than I’m willing to pay?

By the time we got home, my head ached.

I locked myself in the bathroom and leaned against the sink, breathing slowly. My reflection looked composed. Controlled.

But inside, I was fraying.

I wasn’t being attacked anymore.

I was being worn down.

That night, I barely slept.

By morning, the decision was clear.

If Lydia wanted to apply pressure, I would stop absorbing it.

I would redirect it.

At lunch, I asked Adrian something I hadn’t planned to.

“Did you love her?”

The question hung between us, heavy but honest.

He didn’t deflect. Didn’t soften it.

“Yes,” he said. “Once.”

My chest tightened but I didn’t regret asking.

“And now?” I pressed.

“Now I don’t,” he said without hesitation. “What I feel for you is different. It’s chosen. Not familiar.”

I nodded slowly.

“I need something,” I said. “And I need you to trust me.”

He studied me. “What kind of something?”

“Space to act,” I replied. “Not to confront her. To contain her.”

His eyes sharpened. “You’re sure?”

“No,” I admitted. “But I’m done being reactive.”

That afternoon, I made myself visible.

Not aggressively. Strategically.

I attended meetings Lydia expected to dominate—and spoke calmly. Took notes. Asked questions she couldn’t interrupt without looking threatened.

I didn’t challenge her.

I exposed her impatience.

At a social event that evening, I positioned myself where she could see me but not reach me engaged, confident, unbothered. When she approached, I greeted her politely and excused myself before she could settle in.

Her smile tightened.

Good.

Later, she cornered me briefly near the terrace.

“You’re quieter,” she observed.

“I’m focused,” I replied.

She tilted her head. “Careful. Silence can look like retreat.”

I met her gaze, heart racing but voice steady. “Only to people who mistake noise for power.”

Her eyes flickered.

Just once.

That was when I knew.

She was losing control.

Not because I was stronger.

Because I had stopped feeding the cycle.

But control has a cost.

That night, when I finally sat alone, the stress hit me all at once. My hands trembled slightly. My shoulders ached. The weight of holding myself together pressed down hard.

I allowed myself ten minutes.

Ten minutes to feel it.

Then I stood up.

Because Lydia wasn’t my breaking point.

She was my test.

And I was done failing it.

As I turned off the lights, my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

One line.

You’re changing the rules. That makes things dangerous.

I didn’t reply.

I blocked the number.

And for the first time since this began, I wasn’t afraid of what she’d do next.

I was ready.