Chapter 158: Lines that shouldn’t be crossed
I was aware the ringtone for a text message could ruin the mood. I just had no idea it would do it while I was folding new towels.
It was a soft ring from the kitchen countertop, where I'd set my phone face down next to Caspian's mug. The noise didn't register at first—just background noise on a chill afternoon. But part of me braced itself. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was the way tranquility always seemed to fray at the edges just when I was starting to think it was real.
I moved stealthily, my hands damp from the washing. I grasped the phone, flipped it over, and froze in my tracks.
A new number. No name.
Just the opening of a message that had sent my stomach soaring downwards.
"I saw your picture in that artwork at the gallery. You still tilt your head the way you used to when you smiled. I miss that. I miss us. I don't think I can exist in a world where you're with another person."
My hand trembled as I unlocked the phone and read on. The words blurred together a bit—both from the creeping warmth along my spine and the icy jolt running through me.
"You're not safe with him. You never were. You're still mine, Lily. Deep down, you know that."
There it was. That switch. From pitiful to possessive. From pining to something dark.
I didn't read the rest. I didn't need to.
I slammed block once more.
The numbness came next. Then the nausea. Then the feeling in my chest that pinned me down as if it had fingers. I put the phone on the table carefully, as if if I was too hasty, it would shatter.
Caspian emerged from the study, rolled-up sleeves, book still in hand. He froze the moment he noticed my face.
"Lily."
I tried to say something, but my throat was dry.
He took two steps across the room. "What's happening?"
I extended the phone to him, the screen still open, the message still unlocked.
His face froze as he read. No angry scream. No swear words. Nothing but a silence so stiff it was more frightening than anger.
At last, in a flat, even voice, he said, "How long has he been doing this?"
"Since before the first email," I said. "Little things. New numbers. I kept blocking them. I figured—" I swallowed. "I figured if I didn't respond, he'd go away."
His eyes locked with mine, and something in them blazed—not anger per se, but something more profound. A promise of protection that wasn't theoretical anymore.
"You should have said something," he said.
"I didn't want to bring it into this house. Into us."
"Unless you're scared in here."
I looked down, unsure where to put my hands. "I didn't want you to think I was still allowing him in."
He inched closer, so near I could feel the heat of him. "I don't think that. I've never thought that."
My eyes trapped his then. Straight on. And there it was—what always caused me to stiffen unwinding: the way he looked at me when I was weakest. Not with pity. Not with rage. But with raw, unbreakable intensity. As if I wasn't broken to begin with.
"I loathe that he still has this grasp on me," I said in a whisper.
"He doesn't," Caspian replied. "He only has what we let him take."
“We’ve been pretending he’s gone.”
“We’ve been giving ourselves peace. But pretending he doesn’t exist won’t make him disappear.”
I crossed my arms tightly across my chest. “I’m tired, Caspian. Tired of jumping every time my phone buzzes. Tired of wondering if we’re one message away from falling back into all of it.”
He reached out and cupped my face. “We won’t fall. Not this time.”
His thumb swept underneath my cheekbone, the motion excruciatingly gentle.
I leaned against him—not because I was broken, but because I wanted to. Because being in his arms did not make me smaller. It grounded me.
"What do we do?" I breathed.
"We draw the line."
"And if he crosses it?"
"Then we stop pretending."
I nodded, eyes flicking closed for a moment. "No more hiding."
He lifted my chin up until I was looking at him again. "We don't have to be afraid of ghosts. He's only human. A wretched one. And we have a say in how much space he occupies in our lives."
I breathed in a small amount. "You make it sound too easy."
"It isn't. But it is ours to claim."
The tension lingered on my body, all at once. It never did. But I felt the gradual letting go, the gradual reminder that I was not alone. That I did not have to keep this fear hidden from everyone.
We ended up squatting on the living room floor, by the couch, knees drawn up like children cowering from thunder.
"I want to set boundaries," I said at last. "With everything. Not just with Nathaniel. With the media. With the gallery. Even with us."
Caspian rolled over to look at me. "With us?"
"Not in a bad way," I said. "I just mean… I want us to know what we're okay with. What we're not. I don't want to keep guessing anymore."
He leaned his head against the couch. "You're right."
I stared at him. "Really?"
"Yeah." He smiled faintly. "I think this is the first relationship I've ever had where I actually want to have a conversation about boundaries."
"Same."
We just sat there, legs stretched out, hands intertwining sporadically.
"So," I breathed, "what's your line?"
His expression became thoughtful. "If someone threatens you—really threatens you—I don't hold back. That's a line for me."
"Even if I ask you to?"
He faltered. "Especially if you ask me to. Because I know you'd only ask if you were afraid, and I'm not going to let fear make that choice for us."
I gnawed my lip. "That's good."
He turned the question on me. "What's yours?"
I thought about it. "If ever I feel like I can't tell you anything anymore. If I start feeling like I'm keeping secrets again. That's my line. We don't survive that version of us."
He nodded slowly, seriousness of it not lost on us.
"I don't want to survive," he said. "I want to live. With you."
And somehow, despite everything, I smiled. "Then we keep choosing that."
We hung out there for a little while longer, the sun passing below the panes. The sky became darker and colored pink. It was one of those quiet moments where nothing quite occurred—no crisis, no announcements—but everything still shifted anyway.
A line had been established.
And this time, I wasn't alone on the other side of it.