I lower myself into the chair, and my gaze drifts immediately to a young couple at the next table—they're maybe in their early twenties, all easy smiles and carefree energy. She steals a bite of his croissant, and he pretends to be offended, but then they both dissolve into laughter, the kind that's genuine and unguarded. The sound carries over to us, light as an autumn breeze.
Something twists sharply in my chest, an ache that feels almost physical. I watch them for a beat too long, memorizing the simple joy in their faces, the way they lean into each other without hesitation or fear. Will Julian and I ever havethat? Just... lightness? That effortless, uncomplicated happiness where the biggest drama is someone stealing a piece of your pastry? Where the past doesn't lurk in every shadow, where I don't spend half my mental energy looking over my shoulder, waiting for Daniel to reappear and shatter whatever fragile peace we've managed to build?
I tear my eyes away from the couple and focus on the menu board instead, even though I'm not really reading it.
Julian catches the server's attention with a subtle gesture and orders for both of us—my usual latte and his black coffee, no sugar—then settles back into his chair, his dark eyes fixed on me with that intense, searching gaze that always makes me feel like he's reading every thought I'm trying to hide.His fingers drum against the table—nervous.
"What?" I ask.
He pauses. "I need to tell you something."
My breath catches. "What?"
"I hired a private investigator."
"What?!" I'm shocked. Where is this coming from?
"To follow Daniel." He says it quickly, like ripping off a bandage. "I couldn't just sit around watching you tear yourself apart, Liza. I had to dosomething."
I should be angry—should be snapping at him about overstepping, about making decisions that involve me without consulting me first, about throwing his money at the problem.
I should lecture him about boundaries, about trust, about how hiring someone to trail my psychotic ex-landlord without even telling me feels just a little too close to the kind of controlling behavior I'm trying to escape from.
But instead, a wave of relief crashes through me, so powerful it nearly takes my breath away—because finally,finally, someone's actually doing something concrete instead of just telling me to wait it out or be patient or trust that time willfix everything. Someone cares enough to take action, even if it's risky, even if it might lead nowhere.
"And?" My voice comes out hoarse. "Did they find anything?"
His expression shifts, disappointment darkening those beautiful eyes. "Nothing concrete yet," he says carefully, watching my face. "Daniel's been... frustratingly normal. The investigator's been following him for two weeks now, documenting everything—his routines, his movements, who he talks to—and it's all painfully mundane.”
“He goes down to work at lobby office every morning like clockwork, goes back to his apartment at lunch, occasionally stops to grab takeout from the same three or four places. Thai food mostly, sometimes pizza. No girlfriend, no suspicious meetings in dark alleys, no stalking behavior the guy could photograph. He's not following you around, not sitting outside your building at night, not doing anything we could actually use." He pauses, frustration evident in the tightness around his mouth. "He's just... existing. Living this quiet, boring, completely normal-looking life."
"Shit." I slump back in my chair.
"I know."
Our coffees arrive—mine's a latte with a heart drawn in the foam. How ironic.
I take a sip of my latte, the foam warm against my lips, and set the cup down carefully before speaking. "I keep hoping," I admit quietly, my voice barely above a whisper, "that maybe he'll meet someone new. Some other woman who catches his eye, someone he can pour all that intensity into instead of me. That he'll fall madly, completely in love with her, become obsessed with winning her over, and just... forget I exist entirely. That he'll move on like a normal person would—like anyone else who's ended a relationship would do. Find someone else, start fresh, leave the past behind."
"Yeah, well." Julian reaches across the table, covering my hand with his. "Normal isn't exactly Daniel's strong suit."
I study our intertwined fingers—his cast is finally off, his hand healing. The bruises have faded.
"Thank you," I whisper. "For trying."
"I'm not done trying." His grip tightens. "We'll figure this out, Liza. I promise."
I want to believe him. But Daniel's out there somewhere, living his tidy little life, waiting. Planning.
And we're stuck here, holding our breath.
Two a.m. Blue light from my laptop bathes the bedroom. Julian's asleep beside me, his breathing steady and deep. I should be sleeping too—God knows my body needs it after everything—but my mind won't shut off. It keeps circling back, replaying moments, dissecting details I'd ignored or explained away before.
I type "sociopathic narcissist" into the search bar.
The results flood my screen—articles, forums, case studies. I click the first link and start reading.
Charm. Manipulation. Lack of empathy. Grandiose sense of self-worth.
