Chapter 2 The Unwanted Savior

Alex looked like a melted candle, but he was recovering quickly. I watched his eyes—not in horror, but in academic analysis. The initial signifier of shock was already yielding to the secondary signifier of self-preservation. He wasn’t going to beg; he was going to blame.

He cleared his throat, pushing the blonde woman—Britney, Alex had called her, a name as generic as her narrative function—a little too quickly onto the white sectional next to me.

"Ellie, look, just sit down," Alex said, running a hand over his hair. "I know this looks bad. And I hate myself, I really do. I wish I wasn't that guy, but here we are."

I continued to stare at him. "Yes, Alex. Here we are. Your commitment to the tired infidelity trope is truly commendable. It’s almost postmodern in its predictability."

He ignored the words, focusing instead on the tone. He sat opposite us, leaning forward, attempting a weary sincerity that felt rehearsed. "Have I been cheating on you? Yes. But it’s not that simple. I mean, look at this. Look at how you dress for dinner. Look at this apartment. It’s all... structure. It's all subtext."

He waved a dismissive hand, gesturing from the copper pot of untouched pasta to the black lace I was wearing.

"The truth is, Ellie, you’re just not adventurous enough."

The phrase hung in the air, heavy and ridiculous. Adventurous enough. I, who had spent the better part of my youth surviving a life-or-death crisis and was now spending my adult years dissecting the existential implications of AI-driven reality, was not adventurous enough for a man who ordered the same latte every day.

I felt a cold surge of pure, clinical rage. "Not adventurous enough?" I asked, my voice rising slightly, the silky tone cracking. "What type of adventure could you possibly need, Alex? Did you need me to decode secret government signs? Did you need me to help you navigate a violent, life-threatening crisis? Did you need me to—"

Before I could finish the biting sentence, the blonde woman, Britney, leaned closer. Her hand, complete with a blindingly glittery, impractical manicure, slithered across the pristine white cushion and rested on my thigh. Her eyes were wide, inviting, and absolutely vacant of thought. The gesture wasn't apologetic; it was an offer. A clear, unsubtle symbol.

Oh.

The full, nauseating reality of their dynamic slammed into me. This wasn't just Alex cheating; this was him attempting to drag me into a desperate, messy performance designed to mask his own inadequacy, making my presence part of the "adventure."

My stomach turned. I was an expert in signs, and this was the most repulsive one I’d ever been subjected to.

I grabbed her hand. My grip wasn't violent; it was firm, restraining. My eyes flickered down to her nails—long, squared, painted a glittering, toxic green.

"Wow," I said, a bright, dangerous smile stretching my lips. "I actually really love your polish, Britney. It’s an incredibly clear signifier of bad judgment, but it’s definitely eye-catching."

I dropped her hand as if it were contaminated. My mind felt hyper-alert, but my control was slipping fast. I needed distance before the academic detachment fractured completely and exposed the panicked eight-year-old underneath.

I stood up, crossing the room to the kitchen island where the bottle of Cabernet still sat. I grabbed it by the neck, the cold glass reassuringly heavy.

"I’m leaving," I murmured, the words mostly to myself, mostly to keep the rising tide of humiliation at bay.

"Where are you going?" Alex asked, his voice now switching from remorseful victim to annoyed possessor. "You can't just leave. We need to talk about this."

"Talk about what?" I shot back, turning toward the door. "The complete structural failure of a relationship built on superficial convenience? I already wrote the thesis on that in my head ten minutes ago. I'm done with the peer review."

Alex snickered, a low, incredulous sound that scraped across my frayed nerves. "You’re going to run away? Go home and write a dissertation on how I hurt your delicate little genius feelings? You know what, Elowen? Maybe that’s the real problem. You've always been so obsessed with being smart, you forgot how to be human."

The word "human" hit me like a physical blow. It wasn't the infidelity that broke me; it was the insult to my entire identity, the intellectual weapon I had forged against the ghosts of my past. It was the absolute denial of my trauma. The fact that the man who saved my life—Rhys—was arrogant but never denied the core of who I was, while this pathetic man used my intelligence as a cudgel.

I saw red. The humiliation, the betrayal, the memory of the stab wound, the years of feeling like a freak—it all condensed into a single, kinetic moment.

I raised the bottle. I didn't aim; I just threw.

The CRACK of glass hitting bone was deafening. The Cabernet sprayed outward—a final, violent, dark sign of intent—drenching the white sofa and the horrified, screaming Britney. Alex collapsed backward off the couch, clutching his face, blood already blooming between his fingers, staining his pristine clothes. His nose was definitely broken.

That, I thought, the cold analysis rushing back in the wake of the adrenaline spike, was the appropriate metaphor.

I didn't wait. I turned toward the apartment door, needing nothing more than to escape the sight of the blood, the sound of the screaming, and the sudden, dangerous feeling of having lost all control. I stumbled over my boots, the black lace snagging momentarily.

I threw open the heavy apartment door and tried to bolt into the hallway.

But I didn't make it.

I slammed hard, full-force, into a wall of muscle and leather that had been waiting just outside. The impact knocked the air from my lungs and sent me reeling back into the apartment doorway. My hands flew up to stabilize myself, landing hard on the chest of the man blocking my path.

I looked up. The smell of high-end cologne and adrenaline was immediate, overwhelming, and utterly familiar.

Rhys Vance.

He gripped my arms, his hands firm and non-negotiable. His dark eyes locked onto mine, searching frantically, urgently assessing the blood, the glass, and the screaming behind me. His voice was a raw, low sound, stripped of all artifice. "Ellie. Are you cut? What the hell happened in there?"