Chapter 1 — Shadows in the Apartment

Third Person

The apartment was steeped in an oppressive silence, broken only by the uneven hiss of the radiator as it fought against the damp chill of the overcast afternoon. Samantha “Sam” Walker sat cross-legged on the scuffed floorboards, her slender frame folded inward like a crumpled page. Her green eyes, flecked with unspoken pain, lingered on the blank canvas propped against the wall. Its stark emptiness seemed to whisper accusations, its silence almost louder than the room around her.

The space felt like a fragile cocoon, holding her in a liminal state between safety and stasis. Brushes caked in dried paint sprouted from a chipped mug on the battered table, their handles smeared in hues that spoke of abandoned attempts. A paint-streaked drop cloth sprawled across the floor like a map of forgotten efforts, its chaotic patterns mocking her inertia. The mingling scents of stale coffee and turpentine hung in the air, sharp and clinging, underscoring her sense of paralysis.

Her fingers found Maisie’s charm necklace almost unconsciously, the delicate chain warm against her cool palms. She turned the tiny glass charm between her thumb and forefinger, the pressed wildflower inside catching a shard of muted sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains. A fragment of rainbow flickered onto the floor, delicate and fleeting—a sliver of light in the shadows.

The memory came suddenly, sharp and vivid. Maisie stood in her pristine suburban kitchen, her vibrant presence as palpable as the heat radiating from the untouched tea in Sam’s hands.

“You’ve got to leave him, Sam,” Maisie said, her voice steady but threaded with urgency. The granite countertops gleamed under the weight of silence, and the air smelled faintly of bleach—a scent Sam could never disassociate from David’s heavy-handed control.

Sam stared at her mug, the warmth biting into her palms as if to anchor her. “I can’t, Maisie. I don’t know how to... how to be without him.” Her voice was fragile, like the sound of glass on the verge of shattering.

Maisie leaned forward, her dark brown eyes locking onto Sam’s with fierce determination. “You can,” she said, her words a quiet promise. “One day, you’ll wake up and realize he’s taken everything. And then you’ll have to fight like hell to get it back. But you can, Sam. You’re stronger than you think.”

Maisie’s words echoed like a heartbeat, pressing against Sam’s chest with a bittersweet ache. But now, Maisie wasn’t here to remind her. The absence of her best friend was a hollow, unrelenting throb beneath her ribs.

A sharp knock at the door shattered the stillness, cutting through her thoughts like a jagged blade. Her breath caught, and her fingers froze mid-motion on the charm. For a beat, she sat immobile, her mind tripping over possibilities. The second knock came, louder this time, and Sam’s heart lurched into a panicked rhythm.

She rose slowly, her knees trembling, as though the weight of the air had thickened. Her fingers brushed against the necklace, unconsciously seeking comfort, before tucking it beneath her oversized sweater. As if hiding it might shield her from whatever was waiting on the other side of the door.

“Sam?”

The voice was smooth, familiar, and threaded with control. David.

Her stomach twisted, a sickening knot of dread tightening with each passing second. She swallowed hard, her pulse thundering in her ears as the world around her seemed to shrink.

“I know you’re in there.” His tone was calm, but the undercurrent of irritation was unmistakable. The doorknob rattled, and Sam’s body tensed, her nails digging into the edge of the doorframe.

“Sam,” David said again, sharper now, the smoothness cracking just enough to reveal his impatience.

Her hand moved as if on its own, unlocking the latch, the sound deafening in the tense quiet. She opened the door just enough to face him, her body instinctively angled to block his view inside.

David Walker stood there, tall and polished as ever, his tailored coat pristine and his blond hair styled to perfection. His cold blue eyes swept over her, taking in the oversized sweater, the paint-streaked jeans, the shadows under her eyes. A flicker of disdain crossed his face, so brief it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But Sam saw it. She always saw it.

“Hi,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

“Hi,” he replied with a smile that was all performance and no warmth. His eyes, sharp and calculating, didn’t soften. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by. See how you’re doing.”

Sam’s grip on the door tightened, her nails pressing into the wood. “I’m fine,” she said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Is there... something you needed?”

David’s smile faltered, his expression tightening at the edges. “You haven’t been answering my messages,” he said, his voice cool and measured, though the accusation was clear.

“I’ve been busy,” she murmured, her gaze dropping to the floor.

“Too busy to respond to your husband?” he asked, his tone sharp enough to cut.

“I’m not—” she began, but her voice faltered, the words catching in her throat.

“Don’t.” His tone dropped lower, the steel beneath it unmistakable. “Don’t say it. We’re still married, Sam. That doesn’t just disappear because you decided to walk away.”

Her breath hitched, her chest constricting as though the walls of the apartment were pressing in on her. His gaze drifted past her, landing on the scattered art supplies. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“This... phase doesn’t suit you,” he said, his disdain now unmasked.

She wanted to say something, anything, but the words tangled in her throat.

“You were never good at being alone,” he continued, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming the small space between them. “Come back, Sam. We can fix this. I can fix this. I can fix you.”

The last word struck like a slap, and something inside her stirred—a faint, trembling defiance.

Her voice, soft but steady, rose from somewhere deep within her. “You should go.”

David’s expression flickered, surprise mingling with irritation. For a moment, she thought he might push past her as he used to, but instead, he stepped back. His cold smile returned, practiced and unyielding. “Think about it,” he said. “This isn’t you, Sam.”

He turned and walked away, his polished shoes clicking against the hallway floor. Sam waited until his figure disappeared around the corner before closing the door. She locked it twice, her hands trembling, then leaned her forehead against the cool wood.

Her breath came in shallow gasps as a storm of emotions churned inside her—fear, shame, anger. Her fingers found the necklace again, clutching it tightly as though it might anchor her.

Her gaze drifted back to the blank canvas, still leaning against the wall like a silent witness. She reached out, her fingers hovering over its cool surface, her mind replaying Maisie’s words.

“You’ll have to fight like hell to get it back.”

Maybe—just maybe—there was something waiting to come to life within the emptiness.