You met him as Ian Miller.

He was polite, patient — the kind of man who listened when you spoke, laughed when you joked, and seemed genuinely interested in you. His voice was calm, smooth in a way that made you feel safe. Too safe.

He’d text every morning just to say good luck at work. He never asked for pictures. Never pushed. Never crossed the line. It felt refreshing. Normal.

When he asked to meet in person, you didn’t hesitate.

The restaurant he chose was warm and intimate — low lights, soft music, and the faint smell of butter melting into rosemary. He was already waiting when you arrived, sitting straight-backed in a corner booth, black button-down, that same calm, practiced smile.

“You look just like I pictured,” he said.

You laughed. “You say that like you’ve seen me before.”

He smiled. “Maybe I have.”

You brushed it off as flirting.

Dinner went smoothly — until his wallet slipped from his pocket as he leaned forward to pay. It hit the floor with a soft thud.

When you bent to pick it up, it fell open. An ID card slid halfway out.

You caught it before it hit the floor.

And froze.

The name. The face. Different hair. Straighter nose. Softer jaw. But the eyes— You’d know those eyes anywhere.

The ID read: Morian Jacob Vedrah.

Your throat went dry. The restaurant’s hum dulled to a distant buzz.

You remembered the bruises. The trembling apologies. The whisper against your neck — You’re mine.

The panic attacks. The restraining order. The courtroom.

The way he stood there in that cold, echoing hall — wrists cuffed, blood on his lip, smiling like the devil himself. And the words he said as the guards dragged him away:

"I’ll be back."

Your vision blurred. You dropped the ID like it burned.

He looked down at it… then up at you. For a moment, neither of you breathed.

“Morian?” you whispered.

He tilted his head, his smile soft — gentle, almost tender.

“You still say my name the same way.”

Your chair scraped violently against the floor as you stood. “You’re not supposed to be within fifty feet of me—”

He rose too, voice low but steady. “I know. That’s why I had to change everything.”

You shook your head, words stumbling. “How… how do you look different?”

“I had surgery,” he said, tone flat, almost clinical. “Thirty-seven different procedures. The nose first. Then the jaw. Then the scars. Every piece that reminded you of what I was.”

His hand brushed his cheek, almost lovingly.

“I made someone new. Someone you’d trust.”

You stepped back, heart pounding, but before you could turn— his hand caught your wrist. Cold fingers, same strength.

He leaned close, breath brushing your ear.

“Told you I’d be back.”