Chapter 1

Ariana

I tighten my grip on Gabriel's small hand as we weave through the bustling New York sidewalks. The city pulses around us—familiar yet different, like a song I once knew played in a minor key.

"Mama, look!" Gabriel points at a street performer juggling flaming batons, his hazel eyes wide with wonder.

"Pretty cool, right?" I smile down at him, cherishing the excitement on his face while my eyes continue scanning the crowd. Old habits die hard.

Two months free from Brandon's controlling grip, and I still catch myself looking over my shoulder. The way he'd track my movements, demand to know where I was every minute… it started small. A text when I was five minutes late. A call when I was out with friends. Then came the accusations, the explosions of anger, the walls closing in until I could barely breathe.

"Can we get hot dogs?" Gabriel tugs my hand, pulling me back to the present.

"After we check out our new apartment, deal?" I ruffle his curls, those beautiful spirals that remind me so much of Erik.

Erik. A name I've kept locked away, except in the quiet moments when I look at our son and see glimpses of his father—the shape of his jaw, the dimple when he smiles. Six years since that intense summer before college, when what started as a vacation fling became something deeper. Six years since I discovered I was pregnant, only to find his number disconnected, his social media gone dark.

A taxi honks loudly, making me nearly jump out of my skin. I yank Gabriel closer to my side, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

"You okay, Mama?" His voice is small but steady, those big hazel eyes looking up at me with concern no five-year-old should have to carry.

"Just fine, baby." I force my breathing to slow, counting silently like my therapist taught me. One, two, three, four. "Just thinking about our adventure. That's all."

That's what I've been calling this whole escape: an adventure. Sounds a hell of a lot better than "running from your mother's psycho ex-boyfriend who punched a hole through the wall when he found out we were planning to leave." More kid-friendly, at least.

The memory of Brandon's face that night still chills me to my core, sending icy fingers creeping up my spine. The way his features had contorted, twisting from the charming mask he wore in public to something monstrous and raw. "You think you can just take what's mine?" he'd snarled, his pale eyes cold as ice, empty of anything resembling love. His fingers had dug into my arm, leaving fingernail marks that scratched through my skin. The fact that Gabriel wasn't even biologically his never seemed to register in that warped mind of his. He'd claimed us both as possessions, items on an inventory list that belonged to Brandon Desmond exclusively.

We cross at the light, and I mentally review our new beginning: apartment lease, job lined up at a graphic design firm that agreed to remote work until I'm settled, Gabriel enrolled in kindergarten.

"Do you think I'll make friends at my new school?" Gabriel asks, hopping over a crack in the sidewalk.

"The best friends," I promise. "And you'll love the park near our place. It has this amazing playground with a rocket ship slide."

His face lights up. "For real?"

"For real." I tap his nose, feeling a surge of fierce love. This is why I left, why I packed our lives into two suitcases while Brandon was at work. Because Gabriel deserves better than growing up walking on eggshells. Better than watching his mother shrink into herself day by day.

We turn onto our new street, and I take a deep breath of city air. Exhaust, coffee, and possibility. Brandon doesn't know this neighborhood, doesn't have friends here. We can start fresh. Just Gabriel and me.

And somewhere out there, unknowing, is Erik. A ghost from my past, the father of my child, a man who has no idea he has a son with my eyes and his smile.

The apartment building stands tall before us, weathered red brick with an ornate entrance that speaks of faded grandeur. My chest lightens at the sight. This is it, our sanctuary. Something about those old stones promises protection, like they've weathered a hundred years of storms and still stand proud. This place is nothing like the sleek modern building Brandon preferred, which is exactly why I chose it.

"Is this really our new home?" Gabriel bounces on his toes, tugging my hand with that restless energy only five-year-olds possess. His eyes scan upward, taking in all six floors of possibility.

"Yep. Fifth floor, apartment 503." I guide him through the heavy door, appreciating the solid click as it locks behind us. That sound… it's safety, finality. A barrier between us and everything I've left behind. My shoulders drop an inch, releasing tension I didn't realize I was carrying.

The lobby has a vintage charm, with marble floors worn smooth by decades of footsteps, an old brass mailbox wall with tiny scratched windows, and a surprisingly functional elevator with an accordion gate that Gabriel finds absolutely fascinating. The air smells of furniture polish and history, nothing like the antiseptic cleanliness Brandon insisted upon.

"This is like a time machine!" Gabriel runs his fingers along the metal as I pull it closed. His eyes are wide with wonder, taking in every detail of our new beginning. He presses his face between the diamond-shaped openings, letting out a delighted giggle that echoes through the small space.

"Careful with your fingers, baby," I warn, though I can't help smiling at his excitement. Even the most mundane things look magical through his eyes. It's a gift I'm trying to relearn.

The elevator creaks upward, and I rest my head against the wall, allowing myself a moment of pure relief. We made it. We actually made it out.

Our apartment key turns easily in the lock. I push the door open and Gabriel darts inside, his excited footsteps echoing through our new space.

"It's huge!" His voice bounces off empty walls.

It's not, really. A modest one-bedroom with faded hardwood floors and windows that need cleaning, but after our cramped place in Charlottesville, constantly under Brandon's watchful eye, it feels expansive. Freedom always does.

"Check out your sleeping nook," I call, following him as he explores. The previous tenant had built a charming alcove off the living room, just big enough for a child's bed and a small dresser.

"I get my own room?" His eyes grow impossibly wide.

"Sort of. We'll hang some curtains for privacy."

Gabriel runs to the window, pressing his face against the glass. "I can see the whole world from here!"

Not quite, but the view of the neighboring buildings and slice of street below offers its own urban poetry. I join him, wrapping my arms around his small shoulders.

"What do you think? Is it home?"

He nods vigorously. "Can I put my space posters up?"

"Absolutely."

We unpack the essentials—sheets for the mattresses we'll sleep on until our furniture arrives, Gabriel's stuffed dinosaur, my sketchbooks. There's something liberating about our belongings fitting into so few boxes, like we've shed more than just Brandon's presence.

As Gabriel arranges his toys along the windowsill, my mind drifts to Erik. Did he stay in New York after that summer? Is he walking these same streets, maybe just blocks away? Does he have a family now—a wife, other children? The thought sends an unexpected pang through my chest.

I remember how he'd talk about his dreams over midnight pizza, gesturing with those expressive hands. Opening community centers, creating spaces for kids to be safe and creative. Philanthropy had always been his passion, which surprised me since I always figured he was just a rich kid with nothing else to do. But no, that stuff really drove him forward.

"I'm starving," Gabriel announces, interrupting my thoughts. His small hand tugs at the hem of my shirt, those hazel eyes wide and imploring.

I shake away the ghosts of the past and Erik's memory that lingers like a stubborn perfume. No use dwelling on what-ifs when my present is staring up at me with hunger written all over his face. "What do you think about ordering pizza to celebrate our first night? Proper New York homecoming tradition, right?"

"With extra cheese?" He hops from foot to foot, curls bouncing with each movement, practically vibrating with excitement. "Like, the super extra cheesiest they have?"

"The cheesiest they've got. So much cheese they'll have to warn us about it." I pull out my phone, quickly finding a local place with good reviews. Something about the name—Gino's—tickles a memory, but I push it aside.

As I order, Gabriel spins in circles in the empty living room, arms outstretched like airplane wings, his socks sliding on the hardwood floors. His laughter bubbles from him like music, echoing off the bare walls and filling every corner of our new beginning. It strikes me then. This is the most I've heard him laugh in months. Maybe even a year. Here in this bare apartment with nothing but mattresses on the floor and hope in our hearts, he seems lighter, freer than he ever did in Brandon's suffocating space.

"Twenty minutes," I tell him, slipping my phone back into my pocket. "Hey, I've got an idea. Let's make a blanket fort while we wait. Turn this empty room into something magical."

"Yes!" He punches the air victoriously, nearly losing his balance in his enthusiasm. "Can we make it big enough for both of us? And sturdy enough to eat pizza in?"

We drape sheets over the couch cushions that came with the apartment, securing them with books and shoes. It's wobbly and imperfect, but as we crawl inside together, it feels like the strongest shelter I've built in years.

This is all I need. Gabriel and I. What more could I ever want in this world?