Two years after the fire, Derek requested a prison visit.
I almost refused.
Then curiosity won.
We sat across from each other behind glass.
He looked older.
“Thank you for coming.”
I said nothing.
He stared at my scars.
This time, he didn’t look away.
“I’m sorry.”
“Which part?”
His eyes dropped.
“All of it.”
“You’ll need to be more specific.”
“Elena.”
“No. You wanted me dead. Then I saved you. Then you watched me wake up in bandages and pretended you loved me while you figured out how to escape.”
He swallowed.
“I panicked.”
“You planned.”
Silence.
“That isn’t panic.”
He pressed his palm against the glass.
I didn’t move.
“I did love you.”
I almost felt sorry for him.
Not because I believed him.
Because he still didn’t understand what love meant.
“You loved what I gave you.”
He closed his eyes.
“I think about that night every day.”
“So do I.”
“If you hadn’t come back inside—”
