I remember falling to my knees. Watching red stain the floor.
She froze.
Then came the panic. "It was an accident," she kept saying, over and over, voice small now. "Baby, I didn't mean to—please—please—"
But I couldn't hear her anymore. Not over the roar in my ears.
Because that was the moment it hit me.
She's going to kill me.
Not today. Maybe not next week. But if I stayed, one night, during another one of those spirals—she'd lose control just long enough to end me. And no one would ever believe she meant to.
Not someone like me. Not a man. Not a coach. Not the guy everyone thought had it all together.
But I knew the truth. And I finally understood: if I didn't leave, I wouldn't survive her love.
That night, I told her it was over.
But breaking up didn't break the spell.
Three months after we split, I brought someone into my home—she was a coworker who needed help printing something late at night. My home office was closer than the company building. Mira called from an unknown number. I didn't pick up. She called again. I answered.
"If she's not out in five minutes," she said, voice low and venomous, "you'll both regret it."
That's when I knew—there were cameras. In my house. My sanctuary. Violated.
After that, Mira vanished. For weeks, there was silence. No messages. No shadows trailing behind me. No notes. It was almost enough to hope.
And then came Anne.
We'd worked together briefly—she handled PR for a youth outreach program at the gym. Smart, kind, cautious. Nothing between us. Just polite small talk and quiet respect. One day, after a long shift, we grabbed coffee. A normal moment. Harmless.
But Mira had been watching.
She always was.
A few days later, I walked out of the gym and there she was—Anne—standing near my car. Pale. Shaking. Mira was behind her, pressing a knife to her throat, whispering something I couldn't hear. My heart lodged in my throat.
I froze.
"Don't move," Mira called. "She touched what's mine."
I begged. I pleaded. I said Anne didn't know, that it wasn't like that, that she had no idea. That she was innocent.
Mira tilted her head, like she was studying something small and pathetic.
And then she shoved Anne into the street.
The scream. The car. The thud.
Anne lived. By some miracle, she lived.
But I'll never forget the sound of her body hitting the pavement. Or the way Mira watched it happen, calm as ever, like she'd simply knocked over a vase.
Her father cleaned it all up. He paid Anne's medical bills. Cut her a check that could silence anyone. Made her sign an NDA and disappear. No cops. No headlines. Just blood, silence, and shame.
Then he called me.
