Page 53 of This Life of Mine

When I left him, I promised myself one thing with absolute certainty:He will never touch me again.

For five years, that promise held. Until last night.

My body doesn’t only remember his face and voice. It remembers force. The fist in my hair. The sudden yank—dragging me down before my brain could register what was happening. One second upright, the next slammed onto concrete, breath knocked from my lungs.

This wasn’t a raised voice, or a slammed door. This was gravity weaponized. Being pinned flat. His weight crushing down, heavier, stronger, inescapable. The cold realization that strength means nothing when someone has leverage and mass on their side.

No one prepares you for how quickly helplessness arrives. For the humiliation of your limbs being useless beneath someone else’s weight. Powerlessness doesn’t announce itself. It just happens.

And that’s what makes the anger tighten further.

I survived him once. I rebuilt. I constructed a life where he no longer exists in my orbit. And still—the past reached.

The impact of that revelation is heavy. It reminds me how easily history can lunge when you’re not looking.

I straighten and meet my own eyes in the mirror. I see fury, fury at being reminded of something I already conquered.

He does not get to undo that—reclaim territory—past or present. And he absolutely does not get to steal the happiness I fought for after him.

I didn’t come this far to fold.

I blink my eyes as fragments replay in my head. The heels. God, the fucking heels. The way they destabilized me, slowed me down, turned instinct into a liability.

If I’d been in workout clothes—leggings, sneakers, hair secured—I know perfectly well how it would have gone. I would’ve been able to escape him—had space to run.

Instead, I was in heels, a coat barely shielding lingerie, fully exposed.

That may have been the worst part—not the fear, but the vulnerability. Being caught in the wrong version of myself when I needed to be formidable.

But that version does not define today.

I turn from the mirror and keep moving—because being still has never saved me. So I decide to go to work.

Staying home feels like surrender, and I’ve surrendered enough for one lifetime.

As I move through my routine, slower than usual, my thoughts shift—not only to Cole, but to Alex. The steadiness in his voice. The precision in his movements. The way chaos didn’t seem to rattle him.

Gratitude fills me. Something that feels comforting.

I leave the house and head to the bakery, every step reminding me of what I endured—and what I refuse to let claim me.

I’m scraped. Bruised. Sore in places I’d rather not catalog. But I’m upright. And for today, that’s enough.

Last night I texted Val and the team that I would be in late. I asked if they could be there early to get everything started.

I saw all the messages coming through in response but didn’t reply. I needed time.

The moment I step inside the shop, the air shifts. I’m later than usual. Nearly six. Whispered conversations stall as soon as they see me. Phones tilt downward a fraction too late, screens still glowing.

“Lina,” Kay says, eyes wide. “Are you okay? My God—what happened? TikTok, IG, Facebook…they’re lit up about last night.”

My stomach drops. Online?

Well shit balls!

Videos of the shop flooded social media overnight.

Grainy clips of flashing lights. Police cars blocking the street. Fire trucks parked crookedly as they skidded into place. An ambulance pulled right up front, hazard lights blinking like a warning.