Elara's Pov

The wallpaper is cold against my cheek.

I press harder into it, trying to disappear, trying to melt into the corner of my room until I’m nothing but a shadow—silent, invisible, forgettable.

If I’m quiet enough, if I make myself small enough, maybe tonight his eyes won’t find me.

Maybe the alcohol blurring his vision will finally work in my favor.

Maybe he’ll walk past my door.

Maybe he’ll forget I exist.

Maybe.

A floorboard groans somewhere down the hall, the familiar stagger of heavy footsteps dragging toward me.

My breath trembles on the way out.

I squeeze my knees tighter to my chest, burying my face, biting down hard on my bottom lip to keep it from shaking.

If I make no sound…

If I take up no space…

If I breathe softly enough…

Maybe he’ll stop.

He never does.

The doorknob slams against the wall as he bursts in, the force rattling the picture frames that haven’t held photos in years.

His silhouette fills the doorway—broad, swaying slightly, rage leaking from him like heat from a furnace.

“Where—” he slurs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “—is the failure?”

His voice is raw.

Angry.

Already searching.

Already looking for me.

I curl tighter into the corner, fingers digging into the fabric of my sleeves.

My heartbeat punches against my ribs, so loud I’m terrified he’ll hear it.

But he doesn’t need sound.

He always finds me.

“There you are.”

Two words.

Soft.

Deadly.

His footsteps grow louder—thud… thud… thud—each one shaking the floor beneath me.

I flinch when his shadow covers mine, when his presence blocks out what little light spills from the hallway.

He doesn’t even speak before grabbing my wrist.

Pain shoots up my arm as he yanks me to my feet.

My breath catches—too sharp, too fast—but I swallow it down, swallowing the cry that threatens to escape.

Crying makes it worse.

Noise makes it worse.

I learned that years ago.

His hand tangles in my hair, twisting cruelly, and I stumble forward, toes barely catching the floor before he drags me across the room.

My scalp burns, tears stinging my eyes, but I blink them back. Hard.

Don’t cry.

Don’t cry.

Don’t cry.

If I cry, he’ll smile.

He slams me against the wall, and the impact sends a dull shockwave through my skull.

The room tilts.

My vision blurs.

“Your fault,” he spits, breath hot with whiskey. “Do you know how much your silence costs me? Do you know how much you ruin?”

I open my mouth—

—but no sound comes out.

It never does.

Instead, the belt snaps through the air—a whip-crack that makes my whole body jerk before it even touches me.

The leather is worn now, torn at the edges from years of being used for things belts were never meant for.

The hit lands.

A sharp, burning sting spreads through my skin.

I squeeze my eyes shut, clenching my jaw so tightly I taste blood.

Not a cry.

Not a whimper.

Just a quiet inhale.

Then another.

And another.

I focus on breathing.

On anything other than the pain.

The cold floor beneath my feet.

The smell of spilled alcohol clinging to his clothes.

The faint hum of the city outside my window.

The flicker of the ceiling light that’s been dying for months.

I anchor myself to anything that isn’t him.

He hits again.

And again.

And again.

Each strike lands harder than the last, fueled by the night’s failures—failed deals, fractured alliances, numbers dropping, people whispering behind his back.

He blames me for all of it.

He always has.

The room spins slightly, and he pushes me forward with enough force that I drop to my knees.

The carpet scratches my skin.

I brace my hands against the floor, head hanging low as he shouts—words slurring together into one long sentence of anger and disappointment.

I let the noise wash over me.

He’s not talking to me.

He never is.

He’s talking to his failures.

His fears.

His demons.

I’m just the closest target.

After the tenth hit—maybe the twentieth, I’ve stopped counting—his arm slows.

His breath grows heavier.

The bottle in his hand slips, thudding uselessly onto the carpet.

He sways.

Then he drops onto the edge of my bed, muttering curses under his breath.

His head falls into his hands.

His elbows dig into his knees.

His breathing grows deep, uneven.

Alcohol drags him down fast.

Within minutes, he’s asleep.

Just like that.

As if nothing happened.

As if he didn’t storm into my room.

As if he didn’t hurt me.

As if I weren’t still kneeling on the floor,

fighting to breathe through the tightness in my chest.

The belt lies abandoned near my feet—ripped, cracked, barely holding together anymore.

Another casualty in a house full of them.

My body shakes.

Quietly.

Silently.

Perfectly controlled.

A single tear escapes, slipping down my cheek, warm against the cool air.

I wipe it away quickly, terrified that even asleep, he’ll somehow hear it.

I crawl slowly—every movement sharp, aching—until I reach the far corner of the room again.

The one place I can breathe.

The one space he rarely looks twice at.

I curl up.

Knees to chest.

Arms wrapped tight around myself.

My ribs hurt.

My back burns.

My heartbeat feels unsteady.

But I’m alive.

That’s supposed to be enough.

That’s what I tell myself every night.

Maybe tomorrow will be the night he doesn’t notice me.

Maybe tomorrow he won’t come

looking.

Maybe tomorrow he won’t drink.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe.

But the day hasn’t come in years.

This is my life.

My nightmare.

My normal.

And no matter how quiet I try to be…

He always hears me.

He always finds me.