The sound of a knock startled Jaimie from her nap.
It was dusk. Shadows stretched long across the condo. The sky outside burned orange and pink, casting a soft glow over the room.
She reached for her phone—no missed calls. No texts.
No one said they were coming.
Her heartbeat quickened.
She walked to the door slowly, cautiously, her hand instinctively resting over her belly.
Another knock. Harder. Louder.
"Who is it?" she asked, voice firm.
Silence.
She peeked through the peephole.15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmlA8FWMOOK
All she saw was a figure in a black hoodie, head low, face obscured.
Cold shot through her spine.
"Carla," she whispered.
The door burst open.
Jaimie stumbled backward, falling hard onto the tiled floor, barely catching herself with one arm. Her other curled protectively over her stomach.
Carla stepped inside, madness flashing in her eyes like wildfire.
She slammed the door behind her and locked it.
"I warned you," she hissed.
Her hand slipped from her pocket—and with it, a kitchen knife.
Jaimie's eyes widened in horror.
"You're sick," she said, backing up toward the living room, every step trembling. "You need help—"
"No," Carla snapped, voice almost giddy. "You need to be gone. You took them both. My man. My son. My place. And now, what? His baby too?"
Jaimie's back hit the edge of the dining table.
Carla lunged.
Jaimie dodged instinctively—her arm cut as Carla's blade scraped past her skin.
Pain. Red. Heat.
Jaimie grabbed the nearest object—a glass vase—and smashed it across Carla's shoulder.
It wasn't enough.
Carla screamed, staggered, then came again.
They struggled. The knife clattered to the floor, skidding across the tiles.
Jaimie dove for it.
Carla yanked her hair, pulling her back.
Jaimie cried out but kicked Carla's shin with all the strength in her legs.
Carla shrieked.
Jaimie crawled forward on her elbows and finally grasped the knife.
She didn't want to use it.
But her heart beat for more than herself now.
"Stay down!" she screamed, holding the blade in her bloody hand.
Carla froze—panting, bruised, wild-eyed.
Jaimie backed away slowly, still holding the knife.
Sirens howled in the distance.
Someone must've heard.
Someone must've seen.
The door burst open again—this time, with force, authority, panic.
Tedd.
His face was pale, drenched in sweat and horror as he took in the scene: Carla collapsed on the floor, Jaimie shaking, blood on her arm, a knife in her hand.
He didn't hesitate.
He ran to her, cupped her face.
"Jaimie," he breathed, "I'm here."
She dropped the knife and crumpled into him, sobbing violently.
"I fought back," she gasped, clutching his shirt. "I fought back."
"You did," he whispered, tears streaking down his face. "You did."
Police arrived. Carla was arrested.
She laughed as they dragged her out, her eyes never leaving Jaimie's.
"You'll never have peace," she spat. "You'll never deserve him."
But Jaimie didn't flinch.
For the first time, she didn't look away.
Later at the hospital, the doctor cleaned her wound.
Tedd held her hand the whole time, gently brushing the hair from her face.
"I'm never leaving again," he murmured.
She stared at him, exhausted. Hollow. But alive.
"Don't promise unless you mean it," she whispered.
"I mean it," he said. "With every breath."
And for the first time in a long, long while, she believed him.
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