I started checking over my shoulder.
Not for strangers.
For him.
Ethan wasn't following me. He didn't need to.
But I began noticing things.
A black SUV always parked near my building.
A man in a gray suit who appeared at the café I liked three times in one week—never ordering anything.
A call from my mother: "I got a strange offer to refinance the house. Someone named Hart Holdings?"
When I confronted Ethan, he didn't deny it.
"I'm just making sure you're safe," he said, without blinking.
"From who?" I snapped. "From myself?"
He looked at me, eyes calm. Controlled. "From regret."
My blood ran cold.
This wasn't love.
This wasn't protection.
This was containment.
That night, I dreamed I was in a glass box.
I could see the sky. The city.
But every time I reached for the handle, it disappeared.
And outside the glass, Ethan stood watching me—expressionless. Like he was waiting for me to thank him for building it.
I woke up sweating.
I told myself I had to leave.
Just for a few days. To clear my head.
I packed a small bag, shut off my phone, booked a hotel under another name. It felt like the only real breath I'd taken in months.
But when I walked into the room…
There was a note waiting for me on the bed.
"I admire the effort. But you don't have to run to be found. — E"
No signature.
No threats.
Just presence.
And the quiet realization that there was nowhere I could go where he hadn't already been.