**CHAPTER SIX** **TYLER** As I sit at my desk, the expansive windows of my office offer a breathtaking view of the harbor, the shimmering lights dancing on the water's surface, mirroring the vibrance of the city. Tonight demands a late shift; the final touches for the mayor's campaign event aren’t the only thing on my plate. I have my own secret contracts to sift through—ones that Mitchell will remain blissfully unaware of. Small businesses deserve our backing just as much as the larger corporations, and tonight I have my sights set on two ventures: Leo’s second restaurant and a florist who finally dares to dream of opening her own shop. More than anything, I want to see the florist thrive because her bouquets have added warmth to my mother’s home over the past years. I remember our first encounter in the heart of Boston, where she sold flawless bouquets crafted right in her modest home. It wasn't long before I became a regular customer, nudging her to take the leap into owning a shop. Now, the grand opening is set for next week, and when I told her my sole condition—that she wouldn’t forget me when her reputation soared as a renowned wedding florist—she beamed with excitement. Rubbing my weary eyes, I glance at my watch; it’s already nine o’clock, and I’ve been entrenched in work since seven-thirty this morning. My father seems to have a talent for delays, leaving me to shoulder the burden of completing our numerous ongoing contracts. Thoughts of escape skitter across my mind, yet I’m acutely aware of Mitchell’s influence. His threats may sound vague and unfounded, but I'm not eager to find out how far he’ll go to assert his power. On the other hand, I relish the independence and financial stability this position offers. Our family isn’t sitting on a trust fund; every penny we possess has been hard-earned, and that’s a lesson I value more than anything. When it finally becomes my time to lead this company, I have ambitions of reshaping what our empire stands for. We won't merely be associated with the filthy rich who thrive on wealth and power. I intend to demonstrate our differences. The bloodline, the name we bear, the balance in our accounts—it’s often viewed as a privilege, yet to me, it feels more like a burden. Yet here I am, standing at the pinnacle. Mitchell has left no room for doubt; integration into his world isn't a choice. That reality has shaped my persona as someone whose pain becomes wielded like a weapon, especially when the adversary lacks any remorse for the hurt they inflict. He might be the boss, but it’s I who commands their fear. The countdown to when I claim this company can't come fast enough. After wrapping up the bulk of my work, I seize the opportunity to start sifting through the hospital databases nearby, hunting for information on the girl from the coffee shop fire. I begin my search at Mass Gen, the city's largest hospital. Within minutes, I'm in their system, scrolling through a labyrinth of employees’ names, utterly unsure if she’s a nurse, a CNA, an x-ray technician, or even a doctor. The sheer breadth of hospital roles feels overwhelming as I anticipate sifting through countless names and faces before likely stumbling onto hers. My heart races with every scroll; patience is a virtue I lack, particularly now. I need to know her name. The buzz of my phone pulls me away from my search, and I glance down to see a text from Mitchell. As I scroll through a barrage of messages from my family, with most of them from Sam, my eyes land on my father's succinct note. “Don’t forget the hotel launch next Friday. Casual wear, but still business. That’s on you. Make sure you bring a date. I mean Shelby. Don’t screw this up. Fix what you broke. We’ll have a lot of eyes on us.” I know it won’t be long before Shelby reaches out this week, and I will respond as I always do: not at all. My parents believe that a man presents himself best when he has a compliant woman on his arm, making him seem more formidable. I disagree. I refuse to bring a date to this event, and especially not Shelby—gossip would spread like wildfire. My father’s gaze holds power, and those with power tend to have sharpened tongues. Moments later, my phone buzzes again with another family message, instructing me to meet at Martha’s. I halt my current tasks, grabbing my things and deciding I'll finish what remains tomorrow. A quick reply sent, I lock up my office behind me. I’m on my way. **SUNNY** The day at the hospital has flown by, and before I know it, it’s five o’clock. Skipping lunch made for a long shift—aching feet and a sore back a small price to pay for the rush of adrenaline fueling me. Finally taking my seat at the nurse’s station, I sip water and prepare to tackle my charting. Just as I settle, the charge nurse calls my name. “Sunny!” Tara’s voice breaks through the din by the ambulance bay. “Another case just came in for you: motor vehicle accident involving a young woman running from her abusive partner. Twenty-five years old, coming in by ambulance!” My stomach twists as dread seizes my heart. I simply nod, “Okay!” The words escape my lips as if propelled by instinct, but my mind is racing. As I glance at my computer, the screen blurs as I grip the desk, heart hammering like impending thunder. In my pursuit of freedom, I left behind a life that still echoes hauntingly, forever etched in memories that chase me like shadows. The nightmares bring visions of sinister smiles and the remnants of my past defiling my spirit. I question how love can morph into something so painful. This patient—the girl on the gurney—her suffering will mirror my own, and I dread facing that part of myself again. I know that, despite all, she will likely still harbor feelings for him—love lingering even amidst the rising tide of hatred. It’s a cycle I wish to escape, yet I fear it’s too soon for me to confront. When the ambulance doors swing open and reveal the broken girl inside, the familiar sights send a chill down my spine. Images of anguish, a fist colliding with my face, and the weight of my stethoscope tighten around my neck flood my mind, retracing my trauma in vivid detail. I place my trembling hand on the scar still marking my neck. His presence persists, a reminder I can’t seem to wash away, no matter how hard I try. With my stethoscope gripped unsteadily in hand, I secure it in my pocket as I hastily enter the room where this young girl awaits. “You are safe with me,” I whisper to myself. “Good afternoon, my name is Sunny, and I’ll be your nurse for the next two or three hours. Can you tell me what brought you in today?” My voice is calm, steady, but concern weighs heavily in my chest as I write my name on the chart. It’s a crucial protocol to ensure our patients remain aware of their circumstances; it assists in assessing their mental state. She curls inwards, knees drawn tight to her body, but her grey eyes meet mine, full of fear as blood trickles down from a cut on her forehead. She seems so small and fragile. My heart aches for her. “I’m so sorry this happened to you,” I whisper silently within my mind. Her lips tremble as she bravely answers, “I-I got in an accident.” Her voice quivers, drawing strength with each word, “He got angry…he crashed into my car because I wouldn’t take him back.” I kneel beside her, lowering myself to her level, reaching for her bloodied hand. Only a month ago, my hands would have mirrored hers, bruised and frightened. She might only be a few years younger than me, but an unshakable familiarity lingers. “Tell me everything,” I encourage softly, wishing to extend solace. “You’re safe here.” The reassurance is also for myself. We both need this moment, this sanctuary of safety. Once I’ve stabilized her and devised a plan, I rush to the nearest bathroom, my stomach betraying me, before I can even think twice. The retching erupts, pain wracking my core until tears spill from my stinging eyes. The echoes of frustration and horror of my own past stifle any remaining screams, forcing me to cover my mouth as my body convulses with turmoil. From childhood, we’re taught that when little boys bully us, it’s an affection wrapped in some twisted notion of love. As we grow, we convince ourselves that men who trap and hurt us do so out of a misguided passion. Yet, the blame for staying or the pressure to leave always falls back on us. Why don’t they ask the crucial question: why did he do this to you? The weight of my reality crushes down on me; I’m perpetually running. Every fleeting moment of happiness is shadowed by the knowledge that until I either rid myself of Ryan, either through his death or incarceration, I won’t truly be free. The uncertainty gnaws at my insides. Will I ever escape? Now, I am simply a statistic, a victim quantified by his actions. The panic that once overwhelmed me now settles like a lurking storm, revisiting me in the dead of night through dreams tainted with memories—the pressure of my stethoscope coiled around my throat and the psychological warfare leading to physical violence. His mind games had spiraled into something far darker. I screamed, but no one heard. Will I ever navigate past this trauma? He might be gone, but a whisper inside me taunts, “What if he finds you?” Warrants for his arrest exist, along with the paper trail of a restraining order that feels utterly futile. I flush the toilet with the nudge of my foot, rinse out my mouth, and wash my hands, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. The sun-kissed glow of my skin now withers, consumed by anxiety. The dark circles underneath my eyes burn brighter under the relentless fluorescents. My lips are cracked and dry from the turmoil within. How can he still have this power over me? I think of the girl I just met and how it seems no one will intervene while her pain continues, save for the perpetrator of that hurt. I’ve officially marked a month in this city. In that time, I’ve filled my days with visits to Sam’s paint shop, spending hours lost in books at the public library, or on the couch in either of our apartments bingeing on reality shows like it’s an art form. This Monday, as a means of celebration for my monthaversary in the city, we agreed to indulge in takeout paired with a bottle of wine while binge-watching The Bachelorette. It’s become a comforting weekly ritual. Sam lounges on my sofa, brown and pink-streaked hair draping over the arm, her eyes glued upside-down to the television screen. It amazes me how I could go from spending evenings alone to sharing this space with someone who now feels like family. “So, we have an event on Friday,” she announces, breaking the comfortable silence. “I know it’s not your jam, but I promise it’s super laid-back. It’s the grand opening of this adorably trendy hotel—rooftop party vibes. Naturally,” she gestures animatedly with her wine glass, “my parents want Tyler and me to bring dates. He never does, just to make some kind of statement. I usually bring girls just to drive them nuts. Will you be my date? Just to mess with my parents?” A smirk stretches across my face. “I will gladly be your date to cause chaos. Count me in.” “Thank god,” she beams as our glasses clink together, sealing our pact of mischief.