Running Into My Ex While Black Friday Shopping

The house was quiet when we got home. Too quiet. Edmund carried John upstairs, the boy's head resting on his shoulder, his earlier tears dried into streaks on his flushed cheeks. I followed behind, my legs moving on autopilot, each step feeling like I was walking through water.

"I'll put him to bed," Edmund said softly, pausing at John's bedroom door. His eyes searched mine. "Will you be alright?"

I nodded. Lying. But what else could I do?

In our bedroom, I stripped off my clothes mechanically and stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as I could stand. Steam filled the bathroom, but I couldn't stop shivering. I scrubbed at my skin until it hurt, trying to wash away the memory of Benedict's reaching hand, his voice claiming ownership over me like I was some object he'd misplaced.

When I finally emerged, Edmund was sitting on the edge of our bed, still fully dressed. He looked up as I entered.

"John's asleep," he said. "I checked twice."

"Thank you." My voice sounded hollow even to my own ears.

He stood and came to me, his hands settling gently on my shoulders. "Do you want to talk about it?"

I shook my head. Talking meant remembering. Remembering meant feeling. And I couldn't—I just couldn't.

"Okay," he said simply, and kissed my forehead. "I'm here."

We climbed into bed. Edmund pulled me close, my back against his chest, his arm wrapped protectively around my waist. His steady breathing usually lulled me to sleep, but tonight, every time I closed my eyes, I saw Benedict's face.

Eventually, exhaustion won.

---

The nightmare came like it always did—swift and merciless.

I was walking down the hallway of the Flood mansion, my hand pressed against the wall for balance. Six months pregnant. My feet ached. The house was too quiet, and something felt wrong, but I couldn't name what.

Then I heard it. A sound. A laugh. Claire's laugh, coming from Benedict's bedroom.

I pushed open the door.

They were tangled together on the bed, Claire's hair spilling across Benedict's chest, her lips curved in satisfaction. Benedict's hand was stroking her back, tender in a way he'd never touched me.

The world tilted.

"Fiona," Benedict said, not even bothering to look guilty. "We need to talk."

But Claire moved faster. She lunged at me, her face twisted with rage. "You don't belong here! You never did!"

Her nails raked across my arm. I stumbled backward, trying to protect my stomach, but she kept coming. The pain was sharp, immediate. Blood bloomed through my sleeve.

"Stop!" I screamed. "The baby—"

Then the cramping started. Deep, wrenching pain that stole my breath. I collapsed, my hands clutching at my belly, feeling the wrongness spreading through my body.

Claire stood over me, her expression triumphant.

Benedict finally moved, but not to help me. He stood between us, his face cold. "This is your fault, Fiona. You caused this drama. You always cause drama."

"Benedict, please," I begged, blood pooling beneath me on the hardwood floor. "The baby—help me—"

"Get out," Claire said, her voice calm now, victorious. "Get out of our house."

And Benedict said nothing. Nothing. He just watched as they threw me out, still bleeding, still losing my baby, into the cold night.

The stitches in my arm pulled. The fever burned. And I was alone.

Alone.

Alone.

---

"Fiona! Fiona, wake up!"

I was screaming. I realized it distantly, as if the sound was coming from someone else's throat. My body was tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, my limbs thrashing against invisible attackers.

"You're safe. You're safe. I've got you."

Edmund's arms locked around me, pulling me against his chest. His heart thundered beneath my ear, his voice steady even as his hands shook slightly.

"Breathe," he murmured. "Just breathe. You're here. You're with me. John's down the hall. We're all safe."

But I couldn't breathe. My lungs wouldn't work. The images were still there—Claire's triumphant smirk, Benedict's cold dismissal, the blood, so much blood—

"I know," Edmund said, rocking me gently. "I know. Let it out."

A sound tore from my throat, something between a sob and a wail. Edmund just held me tighter, his hand stroking my hair, his lips pressing against my temple again and again.

We sat like that in the darkness. Minutes. Hours. I didn't know. Time had lost meaning. Edmund didn't ask me to explain. Didn't demand words I couldn't form. He just held me while I shook, while the panic slowly, agonizingly slowly, began to recede.

"I'm here," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere. Never."

I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to believe him.

But Benedict's voice still echoed in my head: *You know where you belong.*

And somewhere in the darkness, I could almost hear Claire laughing.