Chapter 3: Police Station

The sun peeked through the flimsy curtains, casting golden streaks across the unfamiliar sheets. My head pounded with the remnants of a night I'd rather not remember, but the hazy images came flooding back regardless—the laughter, the drink in my hand, the warmth of a body next to mine. I rolled over, but the space beside me was empty. 

  

  This wasn’t my bed. And he wasn’t my husband.

  

  My breath caught as I sat up, the realization hitting me like a wave crashing against the shore. I glanced around the room, the faded posters of rock bands and the cluttered dresser with a jumble of books and trinkets confirming that I was in Silas’s apartment. But where was he? And who was the guy from last night?

  

  Panic clawed at my throat. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. My clothes were haphazardly strewn across the room, and I scrambled to find them. A pair of jeans, my favorite worn-out band tee, and the glasses I’d nearly crushed in my sleep. As I pulled them on, the muffled sounds of voices reached my ears—angry, accusatory. I froze, the voice unmistakable. Nick.

  

  "Of course, you’d let her do this, Silas!" Nick’s voice, thick with anger and something more desperate, cut through the walls. 

  

  “She’s not your property, Nick,” Silas snapped back. “You don’t get to control her.”

  

  I couldn’t breathe. The last thing I needed was to face Nick right now, not after...whatever happened last night. I bit down on my lip, gathering my courage, before quietly pushing the door open. 

  

  The living room was just a few steps away, and I could see them—Nick’s face flushed with anger, his fists clenched, while Silas stood his ground, arms crossed, eyes blazing. Nick’s gaze shot toward me the second the door creaked open. 

  

  “Mirabella!” he called out, the anger in his eyes momentarily giving way to something like relief. “We need to talk.”

  

  I shook my head, backing away, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights. My heart raced, each beat echoing in my ears as I turned on my heel and made a beeline for the back of the apartment.

  

  “Mirabella, wait!” Silas’s voice followed me, but I didn’t stop.

  

  I reached the back door and fumbled with the lock, hands trembling. The door gave way, and I burst out into the small, overgrown backyard. The fence was old, barely holding together, and the wall beyond it looked climbable. My legs moved on autopilot, propelling me forward as I heard footsteps behind me. I didn’t wait to see who was following. 

  

  I jumped up, grabbing the top of the wall with both hands, and hauled myself over. My jeans snagged on something sharp, ripping as I stumbled to the ground on the other side. Without looking back, I started walking, my breathing ragged, trying to put as much distance between me and the apartment as possible. The cool morning air bit into my skin, but I barely noticed, too focused on getting away.

  

  I didn’t know where I was going; I just kept walking, the city blurring past me until my feet ached and my lungs burned. My mind was a storm of emotions—shame, guilt, fear—but beneath it all, a small, rebellious spark of freedom. I didn’t have to explain myself to Nick, not this time.

  

  “Bella?” A familiar voice called out from ahead, and I looked up to see Tania jogging toward me, concern etched on her face. “What the hell happened? You look like you’ve been through a war.”

  

  “Tania…” My voice cracked, and the tears I’d been holding back started to fall. “I need to get away.”

  

  “Come on,” she said gently, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s get you to Aunt Lydia’s. She’s an hour away, but it’ll give you some time to breathe.”

  

  I nodded, allowing her to guide me. As we made our way to her car, I glanced back once more, but the wall I’d climbed was far behind me now. I was leaving more than just a place; I was leaving behind the version of myself that Nick had tried to keep caged.

  

  As the car sped down the highway, the city melting away behind us, I felt a strange sense of peace. It wasn’t over—not by a long shot—but for now, I had a chance to find myself again. Away from Nick, away from the tangled mess I’d made. 

  

  I didn’t know what the future held, but I knew one thing for sure: I was done running in circles. It was time to forge a new path, one that I would walk on my own terms.

  

  The drive to Aunt Lydia’s was quiet, the only sound the hum of the engine and the occasional sniffle from me as I tried to pull myself together. Tania kept one hand on the wheel and the other on my knee, offering silent support. She didn’t ask questions, and for that, I was grateful.

  

  When we finally pulled up to Aunt Lydia’s house, I was struck by how small and unassuming it was. A simple cement structure, barely larger than a cottage, with a sloping roof and a tiny porch that looked like it had seen better days. The yard was a patch of gravel and dry grass, the only color provided by a few stubborn wildflowers clinging to life near the front steps.

  

  “Here we are,” Tania said softly, turning off the engine. “You sure you want to do this?”

  

  I nodded, wiping at my tear-streaked face with the back of my hand. “Yeah, I need to. Thank you, Tania.”

  

  She gave me a small, sad smile. “You know where to find me if you need anything.”

  

  With that, I stepped out of the car, my legs shaky but determined. I watched as Tania drove off, the car disappearing down the dusty road, leaving me alone in front of the house. Taking a deep breath, I approached the door and knocked.

  

  Aunt Lydia answered almost immediately, her face creasing into a warm, if slightly concerned, smile. She was a short, sturdy woman in her late fifties, with gray streaks running through her once-dark hair and deep laugh lines around her eyes.

  

  “Mirabella, darling,” she said, pulling me into a hug. “What brings you here so early? Not that I’m not happy to see you.”

  

  “Hi, Aunt Lydia,” I managed to say, my voice catching. “I just… I needed to get away for a while.”

  

  She didn’t ask for details, just nodded and ushered me inside. “Well, you’re always welcome here. Come in, make yourself at home.”

  

  The inside of the house was just as modest as the outside. The living room was small but cozy, with an old couch, a couple of mismatched chairs, and a worn coffee table. A few framed photos of family and friends lined the walls, and a crocheted blanket was draped over the back of the couch.

  

  I sat down on the couch, my body sinking into the soft cushions, and Aunt Lydia disappeared into the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a cup of tea.

  

  “Here, this will help,” she said, handing me the cup.

  

  “Thanks.” I took a sip, the warmth soothing my frayed nerves.

  

  For a few minutes, we just sat there in silence, the ticking of an old clock on the wall the only sound in the room. Aunt Lydia seemed to sense that I wasn’t ready to talk yet, and I appreciated that.