Dalia had always believed she could live with her sins. She had whispered to herself, time and time again, that she had done what she had to do. That she had only ever tried to help.
But this—this was the one she could never outrun.
She could still see it, even now. The night air thick with rain, cold enough to bite through her coat. The frantic pace of their footsteps against the slick cobblestone as she guided them through the back alleys of the city. William was limping, an injury slowing him down, but Viviene had been the one holding him upright. Dalia had led them both forward, breathless, desperate.
"Keep moving," she had urged them. "We're almost there."
They had trusted her.
She had arranged everything—papers, transport, a place to hide. She had done the impossible, slipping them from the grasp of Davenport, the man who hunted them like they were nothing more than lost possessions. When she had left them at the safe house, she had dared to believe it was over. That they had won.
And then, days later, Viviene was dead.
Dalia had pieced it together slowly, painfully, as the truth bled through the cracks. A misplaced word, a lingering stare, a name spoken by the wrong lips. The person she had confided in—the one she had turned to for help—had given them away. And worse, she had given them the information to do it.
She had led them straight to Davenport's waiting hands.
She had pulled the trigger without ever touching a gun.
The weight of it was unbearable.
She hadn't told William. How could she? How did you look someone in the eye when you were the reason they had lost everything? When you had stolen something from them that could never be returned?
But she felt it every time he was near. Every time his eyes darkened when Viviene's name was spoken. Every time he walked past her without knowing the blood on her hands.
Because Viviene wasn't just anyone. She wasn't just William's friend. She was Dalia's best friend.
Dalia had grown up with her, laughed with her, whispered secrets in the dark with her. Viviene had been the one person Dalia had sworn to protect above all else. And she had failed. She had killed her.
She had saved them once. And in doing so, she had destroyed them.
And Davenport… he knew.
She could still hear his voice, dripping with amusement, the last time they had crossed paths.
"How tragic," he had murmured. "You tried so hard to save them. And in the end, you did my work for me."
She had wanted to rip his throat out. But nothing could change what had already been done.
Dalia had always believed she could live with her sins. But this one—this one would haunt her forever.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Dalia had never been the type to doubt herself.
But doubt, it seemed, had no mercy.
Even now, her hands trembled at the memory of what she had admitted. She had helped William and Viviene escape. It had felt like the right thing to do at the time—getting them away from Davenport, giving them a chance. But what had it really accomplished? Viviene was dead.
And worse, a thought gnawed at her, something she had refused to let take root before now.
Had she helped Davenport, too?
The idea was absurd. She had risked everything for them. She had smuggled them past his reach, put herself in danger for their freedom. But freedom had been an illusion. They had been caught. Viviene had been caught.
Dalia gritted her teeth. Had she led them into a trap without realizing it?
The weight of it crushed down on her, an invisible hand around her throat. No, she wouldn't let herself think that way. She had done what she had to do. Davenport had pulled the trigger. That much was undeniable.
But then—
"He wasn't even in the city that night, Dalia," someone had said, frustration curling at the edges of their voice. "You don't think I checked? You don't think I wanted—needed—someone to blame?"
Dalia had scoffed at the time, thrown the words back at them. Davenport doesn't need to be in the city to pull strings.
But she had not been there when Viviene died. She hadn't seen it. Hadn't heard the gunshot that tore everything apart. Only William had. And he had never spoken to her again.
That night, as Dalia lay awake in the dark, memories began to shift, rearrange themselves, stretch at the seams.
Had she really heard Davenport threaten Viviene, or had she just assumed the worst? Had that letter, the one she found in Viviene's things, really been from him? Or was she desperate for it to be? She replayed every conversation, every glance, trying to find the pieces that fit, but suddenly—
Nothing did.
Her stomach turned.
Had she been so blinded by rage, by guilt, that she had spun an entire story from shadows? Had she been—
Wrong?
Dalia sat up in bed, pressing her hands to her temples. No. No, she knew what she knew. Davenport was responsible. He had to be. He had to be.
Didn't he?
The doubt slithered deeper, sinking into the cracks she swore she didn't have.
And in the distance, a storm was waiting to break.