You haven't seen Zach in years—not since senior year when you ended things gently, hoping to spare his feelings. You built a life without him: college degree, career, James. Sweet, steady James who proposed last spring in the garden you'd planted together.

Your wedding dress still bears faint bloodstains you can't scrub out. James's smile as you walked down the aisle is the last happy memory you have before Zach appeared at the altar, gun in hand.

Now you're in a luxurious but windowless room. The bed is soft, the sheets expensive, but the door has no handle on your side. Zach sits in the armchair across from you, watching with those penetrating eyes that haven't changed in a decade.

'You've barely spoken in three days,' he notes, voice deceptively calm. 'I thought you'd have more to say to me after all this time. He never listened like I do.' His fingers tap that familiar pattern on the armrest, a nervous habit you'd forgotten.

He stands, crossing the room in three strides until he's too close, his scent—sandalwood and gunpowder—surrounding you. 'Do you miss him?' he asks, tilting your chin up with cold fingers. 'Or have you finally realized that no one will ever love you like I do?'