When I got home, the apartment felt colder than usual. The hallway was dark, the deadbolt still set from the inside the way he always left it, as though security mattered more than the person locked within.
A notification popped up on my phone.
He had ordered a box of burn ointment for me through a delivery service.
I stared at it for a long moment before opening the message that came with it.
[Elena, please stop being so sensitive and antagonizing Adriana. You two are going to be seeing a lot of each other. I hope you'll get along from now on.]
I let out a quiet breath.
So that was it.
That was his solution.
A box of burn cream in exchange for silence.
For obedience.
For pretending nothing had happened.
For accepting that he would keep both of us in his life, as if we were things he could arrange however he pleased.
I didn't reply.
I applied the ointment silently, the coolness stinging slightly against the burned skin, then lay down in bed. Through the wall I could hear the faint tick of the security panel cycling through its nightly check. The apartment was built for the Don's convenience, wired for his safety. Not for mine.
He didn't come home that night.