I have family now. Friends. Well, I’m working on that part. The Timberbridge brothers can be a lot, but their wives and girlfriends? They’re incredible. Not that I’ve had much time with them.

Because I’m hiding.

Because I’m afraid.

Because if any of Winston’s people are running my face through facial recognition software, they’ll find me before we even see them coming.

How do they already know I’m here?

I grab my phone, my thumb hesitating over the screen. I should call Atlas. Tell him I love him. Tell him that no matter what happens, I wouldn’t change any of this—not the fear, not the running, not the ache of wanting something I might not get to keep.

That if today is my last day, at least I can say I had it all. Love, a man who cared for me, and a dream of a better life.

But I don’t.

Because I trust him. Because he promised to protect me, and so far, he hasn’t broken a single promise.

Instead, I call Nysa.

She picks up on the third ring, her voice sharp with concern. “Blythe? Are you okay?”

I exhale, gripping the phone tighter. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

There’s a long pause. Then she adds, “You sound weird.”

I force a small laugh. “Weird, how?”

“A little high-pitched, maybe? Why are you calling so late? Is Atlas okay?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t he be?”

“It’s past midnight. You’re calling me in a weird tone, and Mr. Protective isn’t on the other line telling you to go to sleep. Which means he’s not there.”

“You know him too well.”

“He was the only friend I had while I was on the run,” she says simply. “Which brings me to my next question—what could possibly be so important that he left you alone?”

I hesitate, my pulse thrumming in my ears. “I’m not sure.”

Not a lie. Not really. He told me very little. End this, baby. It doesn’t really give me much, does it?

“Something about my ex being close,” I say loosely.

The silence on the other end is immediate and heavy.

The girls know about Winston. The ex. That’s what we call him now—never by name, never giving him that power. They know he was abusive. They know I escaped. They know he’s still looking for me.

But Simone—she’s the one who knows the worst of it. She saw the scars. She was the one who had to document them, the proof that Winston didn’t just leave marks on the past—he carved himself into my body, into the pieces of me that still ache when I let my guard down.

And now he’s close.

Too close.