Page 89 of Imprisoned

“You what?” She jerks back like I’ve slapped her. “This is—this can’t be happening. You’re a psychologist, Willow! You help people!”

“I’m helping someone. I’m helping Axel.”

“He’s a murderer!” Mom’s voice rises, edged with panic.

“It’s complicated, Mom. We... fell in love. And I know how that sounds crazy, believe me, but he’s different. He’s changing.”

Tears well in her eyes. “You’ve thrown away your career, your life... for a psychopath? Willow, this isn’t you!”

“It is me. Maybe it always was. I’ve never felt more alive, more myself than I do with him.”

Mom’s shoulders sag, disappointment etching deep lines around her mouth. “And what about me? What am I supposed to do now? I can’t just uproot my entire life and move to Brazil!”

“I know, Mom. I’m not asking you to. I couldn’t leave you behind without explaining and giving you that choice—without saying goodbye.”

The word hangs between us like a physical thing. Goodbye.

“So that’s it?” she asks. “You’re choosing him over your career? Over me?”

I look at Mom’s tear-streaked face and feel my chest tighten. The words catch in my throat, but I force them out.

“I was hoping you might... stay.” My voice cracks. “Here. With us.”

Mom’s mouth drops open. “With you and—and the murderer?”

“Axel,” I correct her gently. “And yes.”

A painful silence stretches between us. The clock on the wall reads 10:17 PM, the late hour adding to the surreal quality of this conversation.

“I know it sounds insane,” I continue, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. “I thought—I hoped—we could be a family here. You’ve always wanted to travel more, and this place is beautiful.” I gesture toward the windows where the night hides the ocean, but its rhythmic sounds fill the quiet spaces between our words. “And you could get to know Axel, the real Axel, not just what you’ve seen on the news.”

Mom stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Willow, do you hear yourself? You want me to leave my entire life behind to live with my fugitive daughter and her psychopathic boyfriend?”

“He’s more than that.” Pain lances through me at her words. “When I’m with him, the voices in his head stop. I help him. He helps me. We balance each other.”

“This isn’t balance, honey. This is madness.” She reaches for my hand. “You need help. We can find a way out of this. It’s not too late.”

I pull my hand away. “I don’t want a way out. I want you to understand. I love him, Mom. And I love you too. That’s why I arranged all this—the house, bringing you here. I thought maybeyou’d see how happy I am and... I don’t know... want to be part of it.”

Mom’s eyes fill with fresh tears. “Oh, Willow.” Her voice is heavy with grief. “My sweet girl. What has he done to you?”

The sound of the sliding glass door makes us both turn. Axel stands in the doorway, his imposing frame silhouetted against the night. His jaw is tight, eyes stormy—he’s heard everything. My heart sinks.

“Axel—” I start, but he raises a hand, cutting me off.

“I need to say something.” His voice is different—stripped of its usual dangerous edge. He steps forward, and Mom instinctively shrinks back against the couch.

Axel surprises me by abandoning his usual domineering stance, lowering himself to one knee before my mother and putting himself below her eye level. I’ve never seen him make himself small for anyone.

“Mrs. Matthews,” he says quietly. “I understand your fear. If I were you, I’d feel the same.” He runs a hand through his dark hair, a gesture of nervousness I’ve rarely witnessed. “I’ve done terrible things. I won’t deny that. But your daughter—” His voice catches. “Willow is the only person who’s ever made the voices stop.”

Mom’s eyes widen, her gaze darting between us.

“I’ve had them since I was a kid,” Axel continues, his green eyes earnest in a way I’ve only seen in our most intimate moments. “Voices telling me to hurt, to destroy. They never shut up. Not until her.” He looks at me, vulnerability naked on his face. “When she touches me when she’s near me—there’s quiet for the first time in my life.”

He turns back to Mom. “I haven’t hurt anyone since meeting her except out of survival. I don’t want to. She makes me feel... normal. Human. Something I never thought possible.” His hands are open, palms up—a gesture of supplication. “I knowyou have no reason to believe me, but I love your daughter. And I think she loves me too. Not because she’s broken or damaged, but because she sees something in me worth saving.”

Mom’s face is still pale, but her expression has shifted from terror to something more complex—disbelief alongside reluctant curiosity.

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