Collided Souls

I M O G E N

I can't believe I'm doing this.

My hands are clammy. My heart races with every step I take behind one of the officers leading me through the halls. Goosebumps rise at the sounds—whistles, stares, crude comments—from the men around me.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I'm about to face my abusive ex. Face to face.

I covered up as much as I could—baggy hoodie, sweats, anything to feel invisible.

"We're here, ma'am," the officer says, ushering me into the visitation room. He presses a button, letting me take a seat behind the glass. Christian will sit on the other side.

Thank God for the glass. It keeps him from touching me, breathing near me, or even seething his venom directly into my skin.

"He'll be out soon," the officer adds.

I swallow hard. "Okay..."

I pick at a fingernail, eyes locked on the metal door Christian is supposed to walk through. Each minute drags by, my thoughts swirling into panic. My muscles tense as the sound of that door grows louder.

Around me, others are chatting with lovers, family, friends. Their faces carry warmth, even joy. Mine won't—not when this is over.

I'm a grown woman now.

Not the teenager. Not the helpless twenty-something who thought love was meant to hurt.

She was lost, dependent. In love.

I'm not her anymore—except maybe the last part.

Because saying I'm in love with Cane still feels surreal.

The metal door creaks. The air shifts.

Christian enters, flanked by two guards, shackled like a beast. He looks like something out of a nightmare.

Gone is the clean-shaven face, the sharp haircut, the polished look. Now he's wearing a scruffy five o'clock shadow, unkempt hair, a posture that screams predator.

He smirks when he sees me.

It's happening. It's really happening.

I clench my purse, watching them guide him to his seat. He's changed—more than I expected.

We both reach for the phone on our respective sides of the glass. I tighten my grip to stop my hand from shaking. Weakness is power to him.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to visit little old me," Christian says, toying with the cord. A fake pout tugs at his lips. He leans closer, voice low. "Didn't think you'd actually come."

"This wasn't my first choice," I replied, leaning in just enough.

Even with the glass, I can feel the heat of his presence. But no tears this time. No fear freezing my skin.

"Really?" he asks, reclining smugly. "So what was your first choice? Run back to pretty boy?" He chuckles. "Never mind, don't answer. Hey! Did you get my letter? Thought it was sweet."

"You're sick," I spit.

"Sick for you, Immy," he says playfully. "But hey... what can I say?"

"I don't know how many times I have to ask this, Christian," I say, voice tight with anger. "What. Do. You. Want. From. Me?"

His smile fades, replaced by something darker. His eyes turn cold. His chair scrapes as he leans in close again.

"Simple," he says, voice venomous. "You. You're still the same ungrateful slut who thinks she can walk away. But newsflash, Imogen—you're mine. Not his. Not anyone else's. As long as I breathe. As long as you breathe. As long as the earth spins. You. Are. Mine. Imogen Eliza Stokes."

"It's my decision!" I snap. I won't be silenced.

"Says who?"

"Me!"

He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Don't forget what I own, I keep. What I love, I love. What I kill, I kill. And you?" He taps the glass. "You're mine to keep. To love. To own. And Cane? He's mine to kill."

"You won't lay a hand on him."

"Again," he smiles. "Says who? I've got eyes and ears inside and out of this dump. What makes you think I can't end him with one word?"

My heart drops. "You wouldn't."

"I would," Christian says, his smile slipping away. He leans back, licking his lips, scanning me like prey. "But I'll wait. I like to savor things."

Part of me wants to leap over the glass and choke the life out of him. The other part wants to curl up in a corner and cry until sleep takes me.

"Say it," he growls.

"I'm not."

"Say. It."

"I will not!" I shout. "You're out of your bloody mind!"

"Damn it, Imogen!" he roars, slamming a fist against the glass. It rattles violently, silencing the whole room.

Even the inmates don't look. They're afraid to meet his eyes. He breathes heavily, licks his lips again, and leans forward one last time.

"Listen, and listen good," he says, pointing to his ear. "If I have to repeat myself one more time, I swear—when I get out, it won't just be you who suffers. Everyone you love will suffer. Even pretty boy. Are we clear?"

I must've blacked out. My body feels hollow. My face wet. Tears, I guess. My breathing's shallow, like I'm sinking into some dark, bottomless sea.

Is that what we are? The ocean and the shark?

"Are we clear?" he repeats.

I grip the phone tight, imagining it's his throat. "Yes."

"Great."

"Great."

We stare at each other until one of his guards signals that time's up. Christian nods and raises a finger for one more minute.

"I love you, Immy. Don't forget that." He blows a kiss through the glass, winking—relishing the pain he's causing.

How can someone live knowing they're the villain in someone else's story?

Oh, and Christian? Hope you rot.

The words burn on my tongue, begging to be released. But I don't say them. I can't. I just watch the guards drag him away. I hang up the phone with a click.

The tears stop. Not because I'm not broken.

Because I'm angry now.

And I have to tell Cane.

Tell him everything I never wanted to speak aloud.

Because it's his life too—and everyone else's.

A/N

Yep. Yep. Yep. 💌