That night, after they turned off the lights and curled into bed, Annie could not sleep.
The sheets were soft. The pillows perfect. His arm was warm around her waist. He kissed her shoulder before drifting off.
Everything was perfect.
Too perfect.
She stared at the ceiling, heartbeat slow and steady, but wrong.
She tried to remember.
Not the last few days. Not the park. Not Mireya.
Before.
What came before?
She searched for anger. For grief. For anything.
But all she found was happiness.
Only laughter. Only kisses. Only joy.
No pain. No shadows. No scars. No memory of earning any of this.
Her brow furrowed. She turned slowly in bed, careful not to wake him.
She stared at Malvor's sleeping face.
He looked so peaceful.
Like nothing had ever gone wrong.
And for the first time, it scared her.
She turned onto her side, watching him sleep.
Too still. Too peaceful.
His breathing matched the rhythm of the room—soft and steady, too steady. Like it had always been that way. Like it had never been anything else.
And just when she started to wonder if he was part of the dream too—
His eyes opened.
Slow. Warm.
They locked with hers, and he smiled. That easy, effortless grin that usually made her heart flip.
"Everything's fine," he murmured, voice low and thick with sleep. "You're safe. We're okay."
He leaned in to kiss her—slow, tender.
And it felt…
Wrong.
Not cold. Not rough.
Just… empty.
Like the idea of affection, painted over a hollow space.
His kiss was warm, but flat. His mouth tasted like spearmint and stillness. His skin smelled like soap and linen. None of the brown sugar, spice, or impossible alchemy she knew.
And when his hand slid down her waist, it wasn't seeking her.
It was claiming her.
Like she was his by default.
His fingers dipped lower, pressing her into the bed with casual authority.
There was no asking.
No teasing.
No reverence.
Only expectation.
Routine.
She stiffened, breath catching—not from pleasure, but from the eerie wrongness of it all.
He didn't notice.
He never noticed.
"Relax," he whispered, voice soft but empty. "You love this. Don't you remember?"
Her pulse spiked.
He nuzzled against her throat, already shifting on top of her, guiding her legs apart like it was just part of the script.
Like he'd done this before.
Thousands of times.
But never with her.
She swallowed hard. Her mouth opened, but no sound came.
Something inside her screamed that this wasn't him.
That this wasn't right.
And yet…
She didn't move.
She didn't stop him.
Because some part of her—this dream-her—had learned that pushing back would only make it take longer.
He kissed her again, firmer this time. "There you go," he murmured, already working his way beneath the blankets, one hand gripping her thigh like it belonged to him. "Just let go. I've got you. You always feel better after."
She stared at the ceiling.
Eyes wide.
Unblinking.
Waiting for it to be over.
His hand didn't stop moving.
Slow, practiced, possessive.
Sliding beneath her shirt like it had every right to be there.
Annie's hands fisted the sheets.
The room pulsed again, just for a second. Like something inside the dream shivered—like it knew it was losing her.
And the false Malvor—smiling too softly, eyes too still—lowered his head to her neck.
"You're overthinking again," he whispered, lips brushing her pulse. "Just be here. With me."
His weight settled between her thighs.
Her breath hitched, sharp and shallow.
"Mal—" she tried, but his mouth was already moving, already kissing her collarbone, already tugging the sheet aside.
"Shhh," he soothed, like she was a frightened animal. "Let me love you."
But it wasn't love.
Not this.
Not him.
It was a performance. A loop. A weapon wrapped in warmth.
She pushed again. Weak. Hesitant. Her body refused to fight him the way her heart wanted to.
Because this was Malvor's face.
His voice.
His scent—faint and wrong, but still close enough.
And it was safer to go along with it, wasn't it?
Easier to let it happen than claw her way out.
If I stop him, will he stop being kind?
He kissed her again, deeper this time, his hand sliding between her legs—
And something inside her snapped.
No chaos. No bond. No warmth. This wasn't him.
She shoved at his chest, harder this time.
"No."
His head tilted. Confused.
He wasn't used to that.
"What's wrong?" he asked, too calm. Too smooth.
"I said no."
He blinked, then leaned in again, lips grazing her cheek. "You don't mean that. You're just tired. You always say that when you're overwhelmed."
Her chest heaved.
Panic clawed its way up her throat.
"No, I—" she tried to sit up again, twisting away. "This isn't real. You're not—"
And then—
"Mama!"
A small, breaking cry from down the hall.
High. Fragile. Real.
Everything stopped.
Annie froze mid-motion, chest heaving, heart slamming against her ribs.
The false Malvor stilled above her.
His expression softened immediately. "It's okay," he said, brushing her hair back like nothing had happened. "She just had a nightmare. You can go to her. She needs you."
The words were perfect.
Too perfect.
But the cry came again—"Mama!"—and Annie felt the panic shrink inside her chest, swallowed by instinct.
By love.
By the illusion that wrapped her chains in velvet.
She slid out from beneath him, legs unsteady, heart rattling against a wall she couldn't name. Her body moved like she was underwater, like someone else was puppeting her bones.
She opened the door.
And there she was.
Mireya.
Standing barefoot in the hall, cheeks flushed with tears, curls tangled, clutching a small stuffed fox to her chest.
"I had a bad dream," she whispered, voice small and broken. "I dreamed you left me."
Annie fell to her knees.
The panic faded.
The doubt dulled.
Because this—this was real, wasn't it?
Her baby. Her little girl.
She opened her arms, and Mireya rushed into them, soft and warm and trembling.
Annie wrapped her tight.
And behind her, the fake Malvor leaned against the doorframe, watching with quiet approval.
"See?" he said gently. "This is your life now. Safe. Whole. Everything you ever wanted."
And Annie?
Annie buried her face in Mireya's curls.
And let the lie wrap around her like a lullaby.
Even if this wasn't real—
Even if it was a lie—
This child felt real.
And Annie held her through the night, torn between the comfort of a dream…
And the gnawing certainty that something inside it was deeply, terribly wrong.
Annie woke to the sound of laughter and the faint, chaotic sizzle of something burning.
Morning light filtered through gauzy curtains, soft and golden, wrapping the room in warmth.
For a second, just a second, she let herself believe.
Then she smelled the coffee.
She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and Malvor walked in with a mug in his hand and flour on his cheek.
"Morning, sunshine," he grinned, setting the cup on the nightstand. "Thought I'd bring you your usual."
She picked up the mug.
Took one sip.
And almost gagged.
It was burnt. Bitter. Somehow both scalding and lukewarm. No sweetness. No balance. No care.
She blinked down into the cup like it had betrayed her personally.
He's never made me a bad cup of coffee.
Not once. Not in all the months she'd lived with him. No matter how chaotic, no matter how tired, Malvor's coffee had always been divine. Always perfect. He'd once remade an entire pot because she said it tasted "tired."
And now?
This.