HIS TURN
Roman didn't miss things.
He calculated them.
He had always been a man of silence — not because he lacked words, but because he preferred the ones people gave him unwillingly. Eyes. Breaths. Sobs. Silence told the truth.
And lately… Serene's silence had changed.
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She no longer trembled when he passed by.
No longer flinched when Gloria touched him.
No longer looked at him at all.
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The first time she walked past him with that peaceful smile — that fake freedom stitched across her lips — Roman had let her.
Once.
Because he wanted to see if it was real.
By the third day, he knew.
Serene was slipping.
From the cage.
From him.
From everything he had carefully designed.
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He watched her that morning in the garden, twirling a pencil between her fingers like a girl with options.
His hands twitched.
He turned away and entered the east wing where Gloria's laugh waited like cheap perfume.
---
She touched his arm again.
Poured him wine.
Let her voice drip sweet things into his ear.
He let her. He always let her.
Because Serene was watching from the hallway.
Because Lelo was watching her mother forget them.
Because something had to break.
---
That night, he stood outside Serene's door again.
Listened.
No crying.
No pacing.
Just the soft scratch of her pen on paper.
He opened the door. Slowly. Deliberately.
She didn't turn.
"Is something wrong?" she asked quietly.
He said nothing.
Stepped closer. Close enough to see the pages in her lap — one filled with writing, the other filled with a sketch of a birdcage.
Empty.
Roman's eyes narrowed.
She finally looked at him.
And smiled.
> "Thank you for not bothering me lately. I needed this."
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Roman didn't respond.
But something in him — cold and old and obsessed — clenched tight.
He turned. Closed the door behind him. Locked it.
Not hers.
His.
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> "Tomorrow," he murmured to himself, walking back through the dark corridor,
"we remind her where she belongs."
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