That was where my real life waited—inside a scuffed red suitcase, battered at the edges, steeped in the scent of escape. Freedom. Blood. Moonlight. I dragged it out and opened it just a fraction. Stacks of cash greeted me, money gathered quietly over years. They believed it came from selling pastries and bread, but that was only part of the truth. People paid more than they needed to. Some instinct in them—however dulled—recognized something dangerous in me.
There was a passport, too. My real name printed clearly across it: Nyx Mira. A name untouched by Thorne. Untainted. Mine.
And a photograph.
Me at eighteen. Smiling too widely, teeth sharp, eyes bright with a wildness that hadn’t yet been trained into submission. Before marriage softened me into silence. Before obedience replaced fire. I closed the suitcase quickly, steadying my breath before my pulse could give me away.
The kitchen sat in darkness, thick with the scent of lemon cleaner and stillness. I filled a pot, set it to boil, cracked eggs, sliced bread. My hands worked without thought, the motions carved so deeply into me they felt ceremonial. Stir. Season. Turn. Serve. Feed.
Then footsteps.
Bare feet against wood.