Chapter 3

I'm staring at the latest text when the barista calls out "Medium oat milk latte, no foam" for the third time.

That's my order. Every Tuesday at 11:15, just like the message said.

The coffee shop on Fifth Street is my one sanctuary in this city of surveillance.

Exposed brick walls, mismatched vintage furniture, and a handwritten chalkboard menu that changes daily.

It's the kind of place Alexander would never set foot in…too casual, too unpredictable for his taste.

Which is exactly why I love it.

"Sorry," I mumble, grabbing my latte from the counter. My hands are still shaking from the message I received this morning: "I still remember how you smelled that night behind the bleachers. Vanilla and rebellion."

"You okay?" Maya, the barista with purple streaks in her hair, gives me a concerned look.

"You seem off today."

Even she notices. God, I really am falling apart.

"Just tired," I lie, then hate myself for how easily that comes now.

I find my usual table in the corner, where I can watch the door and keep my back to the wall. Old habits from a time I try not to think about.

But thinking about it is exactly what these messages want me to do.

The coffee tastes like nothing as memories I've buried for years start clawing their way to the surface….High school…..Pennsylvania.

A time when I was stupid enough to believe in fairy tales.

There was this guy. God, I can barely think about him without my chest tightening with a mixture of embarrassment and something darker I don't want to name.

Derek Matthews. He was everything I wasn't…popular, confident, dangerous in the way that made teenage girls stupid.

Dark hair, darker eyes, and a smile that could melt you from across a crowded hallway.

Every girl in school wanted him. The cheerleaders, the student council president, even some of the teachers got flustered when he walked by.

And for some inexplicable reason, he noticed me.

The attention had been intoxicating. Little notes in my locker, stolen moments after school, that night behind the bleachers when he'd kissed me like I was the only girl in the world.

I'd floated through those weeks like I was walking on air.

Until his attention became something darker. More possessive. More dangerous.

My phone buzzes, jolting me back to the present.

Unknown number: You're thinking about me right now, aren't you? About that night when I told you I'd never let anyone else have you.

Ice floods my veins. How could anyone know what I was just thinking about?

My fingers tremble as I text back: Derek?

The response comes immediately: Hello, Sophia. Did you miss me?

My throat goes dry. Derek Matthews. My high school obsession, the boy who made me feel special until his love became a cage I had to escape.

You're supposed to be in Pennsylvania.

Things change. I've been watching you for a long time, waiting for the right moment.

Through the café window, I catch a glimpse of someone standing across the street. Tall, dark hair, wearing a leather jacket that looks achingly familiar.

When I blink, he's gone.

Leave me alone, Derek.

I can't do that. You belong with me, not him.

That marriage of yours is a joke…a business transaction that's slowly killing who you really are.

You don't know anything about my marriage.

Don't I? When's the last time he made you laugh? Really laugh, not those polite sounds you make at his business dinners. When's the last time he kissed you like he meant it instead of like you were a duty to be performed?

Tears blur my vision. I blink them back furiously…can't break down in public like this.

My marriage is none of your business.

You ARE my business, Sophia. You always have been. He doesn't know the scar on your hip from when you fell off your bike racing me to the old mill. He doesn't know you write poetry in the margins of books.

He doesn't know you still dream about riding motorcycles through small towns.

Each word hits like a physical blow. The scar, yes…still there, still a reminder of reckless teenage summers.

The poetry…I've never stopped writing, even though Alexander thinks it's a waste of time.

And the motorcycle dreams... God, I haven't thought about those rides in years.

The wind in my hair, arms wrapped around Derek's chest , feeling alive for the first time in my careful, controlled life.

Stop.

I can't stop. I've tried. But seeing you with him, seeing what you've become... I won't let you disappear completely.

I haven't disappeared. I'm happy.

Are you? He doesn't know you cry in the shower because you feel like you're suffocating. He doesn't know you keep a suitcase packed under your bed that you keep the divorce paper

The suitcase. Jesus. How could he know about that?

I'm leaving.

Run if you want. But you can't hide from who you really are forever. And I'll be waiting when you remember that you were meant for more than being Alexander Kane's perfect accessory.

I grab my purse and practically sprint for the door, ignoring Maya's concerned call from behind the counter.

On the sidewalk, I gulp cold air and try to calm my racing heart. This is insane. Derek is here, in New York, stalking me, claiming to know intimate details about my marriage, my dreams, my fears.

I should call Alexander. Tell him about Derek, let his security team handle it.

But something stops me. Maybe it's the uncomfortable truth in Derek's observations about my marriage.

Maybe it's the way he talked about who I used to be before I learned to be afraid of wanting more.

My phone buzzes one final time.

I know you felt something just now. Reading my messages, remembering what we had.

You can pretend all you want, but your body remembers mine. Your heart remembers how it felt to be truly wanted.

I delete the conversation with shaking fingers, but I can't delete the memories flooding back. Or the way my body responded to his words….the heat, the traitorous wetness between my thighs that I haven't felt in years.

Derek's hands in my hair. His voice whispering promises in the dark. The way he looked at me like I was something precious and wild and worth fighting for.

The way he used to touch me like he was memorizing every inch of my skin.

Before I learned that his love came with chains I couldn't see until it was almost too late to break them.

But God help me, even knowing that, I still want his touch in ways that make me hate myself.

As I walk back toward the penthouse, I can't shake the feeling that someone is watching me.

And somewhere, buried beneath years of careful control, a part of me wishes I had the courage to look back.