It explains his annoyance with the board and donors, with the students, and now with me. I know he thinks I’m weak. He’s made vaguely disguised insults before about my size and strength, insinuating I just needed to exercise more. Have more will power.
But the months spent hiking and breathing the high-altitude air of the mountains have made me stronger. Faster. And I am angry. So angry. It bubbles up through the uncertainty like lava, filling the cracks of my broken heart. I become rage, vengeance, and it fuels me into action.
My fingers tighten around the door handle behind me, and I channel my feelings into reclaiming my own power, throwing it open—right into his face. A satisfying thunk precedes a rather unmanly screech.
Ben wails, clutching his face as blood streams between his fingers, “My nose! You broke my fucking nose!”
“It’s Dahlia, asshole,” I call over my shoulder as I whirl on my heel, sprinting for my car. As much as I’d love to stick around to admire my handiwork, all that matters is getting out of here and away from him.
Jumping in, I slap the locks down and yank the gear shift into reverse. The tires screech as I tear out of the driveway, the car bouncing as I clip the curb before slamming it into drive and flooring it. My hands shake as I grip the wheel, my staccato heartbeat thunders in my ears as I retreat.
He doesn’t follow, yet I can’t seem to stop checking in therearview mirror every few seconds, never slowing down. Not until I get back to the storage facility where I’ll leave my car for long-term storage do I finally ease off the gas. I pull into the lot, shove the gear into park, and fumble for my phone. My hands are still shaking, making it harder than it should be to tap through the app and order a car to pick me up.
My eyes flick between the arrival time on the app and the entrance to the lot. Waiting for the glare of headlights, the screech of tires. For Ben to somehow find me, come flying in, block my way, and throw out one last desperate plea. Or lay a hand on me again. I should have done more than break the bastard’s nose.
But no car comes flying around the bend. Several long minutes later, a car approaches at a reasonable pace matching the one listed on my phone. Only then do I get out and grab my bags, slide into the back seat, and clutch them tight as the driver confirms, “Heading to the airport?”
I hesitate for half a second, my gaze flicking to the lot entrance once more. I swallow hard, forcing my voice to be steady. “Yeah. Thanks.”
As the car pulls away, I let my head fall back against the seat and exhale, slow and steady. For years, Ben was my anchor. But anchors don’t just hold you steady. They keep you in the same place. Stagnant. Unmoving.
And I’ve finally cut myself free.
Chapter Eight
Dahlia
Despite being physically and emotionally drained, I can’t sleep. Every creak of the plane, every rustle of movement in the cabin yanks me back to full alertness, as if the adrenaline hasn’t left my system. The caffeine from the two lattes I definitely shouldn’t have sucked down churns with the stress still coursing through my body, leaving me hollow and shaky.
I push my food around on the tray but can’t force anything down even with the upgraded first-class fare. I flip through books on my phone, but the words blur together. Even an audiobook can’t hold my attention—every shift of fabric, every muted cough, every click of a seatbelt latch pulls me back to full alertness.
The miles stretch behind me, but the tension thrumming through my body like a live wire refuses to fade. I can’t shake the feeling that I haven’t seen the last of Ben. I know him too well. He won’t let this go.
I stare blankly out the plane’s window, my mind sifting backward through the years. Trying to pinpoint the moment Istopped being his partner and became something else. Something smaller, as if I were nothing more than a disposable commodity. A paper napkin, used, crumbled, and carelessly tossed aside.
Had he ever really loved me? Or had I only ever been useful? Just another pawn to move in whatever game he is playing at.
I curse myself for being so naive, so damn trusting. Just handing over everything, never questioning if he deserved it. But in my defense, I was in love. He was my whole universe. Everything I did—every sacrifice, every compromise—had been for Ben.
Now, out from under his thumb, the truth sharpens into focus. The changes over the years had been so subtle, so insidious, that I hadn’t even noticed. Like the proverbial frog in boiling water, I never realized I was being conditioned—slowly, deliberately—until I was drowning in his version of who I should be. Shoving myself into a mold that just didn’t quite fit, no matter how uncomfortable it was.
Never again.
Not only had I put Ben’s needs above mine, but I had put his wants above my needs. That is not love. That is not a partnership. And now, the end result is staring me in the face—I’m alone. Truly, utterly alone.
No one is coming to take care of me. There is no white knight.
And that’s okay. It’s time I take care of myself. It’s time I put my own wants and needs first. Hell, if I take half as good care of myself as I did of him I’ll be in great shape. And what better way to start than by chasing down the future I almost let slip away?
By the time I step off the second plane, retrieve my luggage, and meet the jeep I hired during my layover, a quiet confidence settles over me. I’m back. This time, on my own terms. No research agenda for the department, no timelines for a dissertation.I have one goal and one goal only. Secure the plant and extract the cure so I can survive.
The ten-hour drive ahead feels like both an eternity and a blink—too long for the restless energy swirling in my mind, but not long enough to prepare for everything that awaits me.
For the first few hours, I bury myself in my handwritten notes and maps, combing through every page for something I might have missed—a misplaced marking, an overlooked clue. I attempt to upload my new theories to my online research files, but the truck jolts over the winding mountain road, making typing impossible. I eventually give up, and switch to jotting down the swirling thoughts in my mind while bracing myself against the door as the driver expertly weaves through the switchbacks.
When we finally stop for lunch and a bathroom break at a roadsidedhaba, or food stand, I practically tumble out of the jeep, rubbing my numb backside. The scent of sizzling spices and fresh bread hits me first, followed by the comforting warmth of the food stall’s tandoori oven.
The hotaloo gobi—a fragrant mix of potatoes and cauliflower coated in a rich, spiced sauce—welcomes me back to the flavors I’ve missed. I tear off a piece ofparatha, a seasoned flatbread, using it to scoop up the curry, the familiar heat spreading through my belly. A final bite of tangy mango pickle puckers my lips, its tartness a perfect contrast to the rich flavor combination.
