The scent of eggs and bacon filled the air when Ella woke up, the warm, buttery aroma wrapping around her like a deceptive embrace. For a moment, still caught in the haze of sleep, she allowed herself to imagine that things were normal. That she was waking up in a home filled with love, where the man she shared a bed with truly cherished her.
Then she shifted, and the sting on her cheek brought everything rushing back.
Ella sat up slowly, running her fingers over the tender skin. The bruise hadn't fully formed yet, but she knew it would darken by midday. Her stomach twisted—not just from the pain, but from what was waiting for her beyond the bedroom door.
The apologies. The sweetness. The part of the cycle that always made leaving seem impossible.
She inhaled deeply, bracing herself before pushing back the covers and stepping onto the cold wooden floor. The apartment, which had been a disaster the night before, was spotless now. The empty beer bottles were gone, the wrappers and dirty dishes cleared away. The couch cushions had been fluffed, and even the coffee table had been wiped down.
Ryan stood by the stove, flipping eggs in a pan, the muscles in his arms tensing as he worked. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard her footsteps, a bright, easy smile stretching across his face.
"Morning, baby," he greeted, like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't raised his hand against her just hours ago.
Ella didn't respond right away. She watched him instead, the way he moved so confidently, like he was the perfect boyfriend—caring, thoughtful, dependable. This was the man she had fallen for once, before she had learned what lay beneath the surface.
Ryan turned off the burner and plated the eggs, adding crispy bacon and toast. He brought the plate over to the small dining table, pulling out a chair for her.
"I made your favorite," he said, eyes filled with something almost hopeful. "I figured you'd be starving after last night."
Ella hesitated before sitting down. She wasn't hungry, not really, but refusing would only make things worse. She picked up her fork, taking a slow bite.
Ryan sat across from her, his hands clasped together. "Listen, Ella, about last night—" He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "I was an asshole. I should never have gotten that angry. I don't know what came over me."
You do, she thought. You always do.
But she didn't say it.
Instead, she lowered her gaze to her plate, waiting for the rest of it.
"I just get so stressed, you know? And when I drink, I lose control. But I love you, Ella. You know that, right?" He reached across the table, taking her free hand in his. "I'd be lost without you."
There it was. The manipulation. The carefully chosen words meant to make her feel needed, to make her stay.
Ella forced a small smile. "I know."
It was a lie, but she said it anyway.
Ryan smiled in relief. "We'll be okay, baby. Things will get better."
They never did.
******
Ella arrived at work a few hours later, the scent of fresh coffee and baked goods replacing the greasy aroma of Ryan's breakfast. She tied her apron around her waist, smoothing out the fabric as she stepped behind the counter. The café was already buzzing with the morning rush, customers chatting over lattes and pastries.
She forced herself into work mode, smiling at each customer, taking orders, and making drinks. The routine kept her steady, made it easier to push away the events of last night.
But her coworker, Mia, wasn't fooled.
Mia was only a few years older than Ella, with a sharp eye and an even sharper tongue. She had noticed the signs before—the tired eyes, the bruises barely hidden by makeup, the way Ella flinched at sudden movements.
As soon as there was a lull in orders, Mia leaned in. "You okay?"
Ella glanced up, already nodding before Mia had even finished the question. "Yeah, just tired."
Mia didn't look convinced. Her gaze flickered to Ella's cheek, where the faintest trace of last night's slap remained. "You sure?"
Ella smiled, practiced and perfect. "Of course."
Mia sighed but let it go.
The bell above the door chimed, signaling a new customer.
Ella turned, ready to greet them with the same automatic warmth she gave every stranger. But the moment her eyes landed on the man who had just walked in, her breath caught.
He was tall—easily over six feet—with broad shoulders and an effortless confidence that made people take notice. His dark hair was slightly tousled, like he had run a hand through it one too many times. He wore an expensive-looking black coat over a fitted navy shirt, the fabric hugging the lean strength beneath.
Conversations quieted as people turned to look at him.
He ignored them, his gaze scanning the café before locking onto her.
Ella's stomach twisted.
Because there was something intense about the way he looked at her, like he already knew her. Like he had been searching for her.
And then he spoke.
"Are you Ella Marquez?"