Updated Oct 1, 2025 • ~10 min read
The nightmares came back that night.
Juliette woke to Roman thrashing beside her, his body rigid, sweat soaking through the sheets. But this time she knew what to do. She sat up, turned on the lamp, and spoke his name softly until his eyes opened.
“You’re safe,” she said. “You’re with me. You’re safe.”
He stared at the ceiling, breathing hard, not looking at her. “I was back in solitary,” he said hoarsely. “Twenty-three hours a day in a cell the size of a closet. They’d slide food through a slot in the door. No windows. No human contact except guards who treated you like an animal.” His voice cracked. “I did six months in solitary, Juliette. Six months where the only person I talked to was myself.”
Juliette’s heart shattered. “Why? What happened?”
“I got in a fight. Another inmate came at me with a shank, I defended myself. Didn’t matter that it was self-defense. Didn’t matter that he’d been sent to kill me by someone on the outside. I fought back, so I got punished.” He finally looked at her, and his eyes were haunted. “You lose your mind in solitary. Lose track of days. Start hearing voices. Seeing things that aren’t there. I thought—” He stopped, jaw clenching.
“Thought what?”
“Thought I’d die there. Thought I’d go crazy first, then die, and nobody would care. Nobody would even know.” He sat up, running his hands through his hair. “The only thing that kept me sane was making up stories. About freedom. About what I’d do when I got out. And toward the end, when I thought I was dying, I made up stories about you.”
“About me? But we hadn’t met yet.”
“I know. But I’d already started the arrangement with Mr. Albright. Seen your photo. Read your file.” He looked at her, vulnerable and raw. “I’d imagine conversations we’d have. Places we’d go. What you’d sound like when you laughed. It was fantasy, delusion, probably certifiably insane. But it kept me breathing.”
Juliette moved closer, taking his hands. “Tell me more. About prison. About what it was really like.”
“Why? It’s ugly. Violent. Nothing you need to hear.”
“I need to know. All of it. The things you don’t put in letters or say out loud. I need to understand what you survived.”
Roman was quiet for a long moment. Then he started talking.
He told her about the first day, processing in, getting stripped and searched and dehumanized before he’d even seen his cell. About learning the rules—who to avoid, who to ally with, how to move through the world when every interaction could turn deadly.
“You learn to sleep with one eye open,” he said. “Learn to eat fast, keep your back to walls, never show weakness. Someone tries you in the first week, you fight back hard or you’re marked as prey for the rest of your sentence.”
“Did someone try you?”
“Three guys. First week. Wanted to make a name for themselves by taking down Victor Carver’s son.” His jaw tightened. “I put two of them in the infirmary. The third one left me alone after that.”
Juliette tried to imagine it—Roman, young and scared but having to be hard, having to hurt people to survive. “What was the worst part?”
“The hopelessness.” His voice went soft. “Knowing I was innocent but nobody believed me. Watching appeals fail. Watching my father die while I was locked up—they wouldn’t even let me go to his funeral. Just told me he was gone and that was that.” He looked at her. “The worst part was feeling like I was disappearing. Like the world was forgetting I existed. Like I’d never been Roman Carver at all, just Inmate 47239.”
“But you held on.”
“Barely. There were days—” He stopped, swallowed hard. “There were days I thought about ending it. Thought it would be easier than another year, another decade, another lifetime in that cage. But then I’d think about my grandmother, about the restaurant, about the sun on my face. Small things. And I’d make it one more day.”
“I’m glad you did.” Juliette’s voice broke. “I’m so glad you held on.”
“Me too. Because otherwise I never would have met you.” He cupped her face. “You asked me once if I believed in happy endings. Back when we first got married. I said I wanted to. But honestly? I didn’t think I’d get one. Thought I’d die in prison or get killed by Nico the second I got out. But now—” His thumb brushed her cheekbone. “Now I think maybe I do get a happy ending. With you.”
She kissed him softly. “Tell me more. I want to know everything.”
So he did.
He told her about the books he’d read—hundreds of them, everything the prison library had. Philosophy and history and trashy thrillers and yes, romance novels, because they were the only things that reminded him what hope felt like.
“I read this one book,” he said, almost embarrassed. “About a woman who married a duke for money and they fell in love. Cliché as hell. But I must have read it ten times. Kept thinking—that’s what I want. That transformation. That moment when a transaction becomes real.”
“What was it called?”
“Can’t remember. Something about bargains or deals.” He smiled slightly. “Probably terrible. But it kept me sane.”
He told her about the friends he’d made—other inmates who’d become family in the way only shared trauma could forge. About Malik, a lifer who’d taught him chess and philosophy. About Owen, who’d been in for drug charges and made everyone laugh even when there was nothing funny about their situation.
“Are they still there?” Juliette asked.
“Yeah. Most of them will die there.” His expression went dark. “That’s what gets me. I got out. I was innocent, so I got out. But they’re still in there, still surviving day by day, and there’s nothing I can do for them.”
“When this is over, when we’re in witness protection—we could write them. Visit them if we’re close enough.”
“They wouldn’t let me. Security risk.”
“Then we’ll find another way.” She said it fiercely. “Roman, you’re not leaving them behind. Not completely. We’ll figure something out.”
He stared at her like she’d offered him the world. “How are you real?”
“I’m not special. I just love you.”
“That makes you the most special person alive.”
He told her about the worst day—the day his father died. About getting called to the warden’s office, being told in clinical terms that Victor Carver had suffered a heart attack and didn’t survive. About being denied permission to attend the funeral, to say goodbye, to grieve properly.
“I went back to my cell and I broke,” Roman said quietly. “Destroyed everything I could reach. Screamed until my throat bled. Got thrown in solitary for a week. And when they finally let me out, I was—” He paused. “I was different. Harder. The part of me that had been holding onto hope kind of died with him.”
“But you found it again.”
“Not until you.” He met her eyes. “You brought it back. That hope. That feeling that maybe life could be more than survival.”
Juliette’s throat tightened. She thought about all the times she’d complained about her life before Roman—about work stress, about being broke, about the mundane struggles that had felt overwhelming. And all the while, he’d been surviving hell.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For everything you went through. For the years they stole from you.”
“Don’t apologize for something that wasn’t your fault.” He pulled her close. “Besides, in a weird way, prison gave me you. If I hadn’t gone in, hadn’t needed money for a wife, hadn’t been desperate enough to arrange a marriage—we never would have met.”
“That’s a terrible silver lining.”
“Best terrible silver lining I’ve ever had.”
They lay back down, Juliette pressed against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath her ear. She thought about the man he’d been before prison—young, cocky, running a club and skirting the edges of his father’s world. And the man he’d become—scarred, cautious, carrying eight years of survival in his bones.
“Do you miss it?” she asked. “Who you were before?”
“Sometimes. That guy was stupid and reckless, but he was free. Didn’t look over his shoulder every second. Didn’t wake up screaming.” Roman’s fingers traced patterns on her back. “But that guy never would have appreciated you. Never would have understood what it means to have someone who stays. Prison taught me that, at least. Taught me the value of loyalty, of love, of someone who shows up even when it’s hard.”
“I’ll always show up.”
“I know. That’s why I love you.” He was quiet for a moment. Then: “Juliette? Can I tell you my worst secret? The thing I’ve never told anyone?”
“Always.”
“There was a moment, in solitary, when I almost let go. Almost gave up.” His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “I had a plan. Knew exactly how I’d do it. Was going to wait until lights out, and then—” He stopped, breathing hard.
Juliette held him tighter. “But you didn’t.”
“No. Because that night, a guard slipped a letter under my door. From my father. Written weeks before he died, finally delivered. And in it, he told me—” Roman’s voice cracked. “He told me he believed me. That he knew I was innocent. That he was proud of me for not breaking. And he made me promise to survive, to get out, to live the life he never could.”
“So you held on.”
“So I held on.” He pressed his face into her hair. “I was never supposed to survive, Juliette. Statistically, legally, every odd was against me. But I did. And now I’m here, with you, and I—I don’t know what to do with that. Don’t know how to be the man who gets to be happy after everything.”
“You just be.” She pulled back to look at him. “You just exist. Love me. Let me love you. Build a life. That’s all you have to do, Roman. Just be here.”
“I was never supposed to live,” he admitted, the words raw and broken. “Until you.”
And in the soft light of Theo’s guest room, with danger still circling and the future uncertain, Roman Carver finally let himself believe in survival that looked like living.
The next morning, they had breakfast with Theo and Agent Marlowe. Plans were finalized. Nico’s arrest would happen in four days. After that, Roman and Juliette would be moved to a secure location until trial.
“You’ll need to say goodbye to your family,” Agent Marlowe said to Juliette. “One last visit. Supervised, recorded, but necessary. After we move you, all contact stops.”
Juliette’s chest tightened. One last visit. One last chance to hug her parents, see her brother, explain why she had to disappear.
“When?” she asked.
“Tomorrow. We’ll have agents nearby, make sure you’re safe. But Juliette—” Agent Marlowe’s expression softened. “Don’t tell them where you’re going. Don’t tell them anything about witness protection. The less they know, the safer they are.”
“So I just—what? Say goodbye and vanish?”
“Yes.”
That night, lying in bed with Roman’s arms around her, Juliette let herself cry. For the life she was leaving. For the family she’d never see again. For the woman she’d been before a dying prisoner changed everything.
“We’re doing the right thing,” Roman murmured into her hair. “Aren’t we?”
“I don’t know. But we’re doing it together.” She turned to face him. “That has to count for something.”
“It counts for everything.”
And in the darkness, holding onto each other like lifelines, they tried to believe it.
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