Updated Oct 1, 2025 • ~14 min read
Juliette woke at 3 AM to the sound of screaming.
She bolted upright, heart hammering, disoriented in the darkness. It took her a second to place the sound—coming from the living room, raw and animal and full of terror.
Roman.
She threw off her covers and ran, not thinking, just moving on instinct. The living room was dark except for the streetlight filtering through the blinds. Roman was on the couch, tangled in blankets, his body rigid, face contorted.
“No—don’t—” His voice was broken, desperate. “Please, I didn’t—”
A nightmare. He was having a nightmare.
Juliette approached carefully, remembering something she’d read once about waking people from night terrors. Don’t touch them. Don’t startle them. But watching him thrash and hearing those broken pleas made her chest ache.
“Roman.” She kept her voice soft, steady. “Roman, you’re dreaming. You’re safe. You’re in my apartment, not—not there. You’re safe.”
He didn’t respond, still caught in whatever hell his mind had conjured. His hands clawed at the blankets like he was fighting invisible restraints.
Juliette made a decision and sat on the edge of the couch, close but not touching. “Roman, it’s Juliette. Your wife. You’re safe. Come back to me.”
His eyes snapped open.
For a second he didn’t see her—didn’t see anything except whatever horror still gripped him. Then recognition flooded in and he jackknifed up, breathing hard, sweat soaking through his t-shirt.
“Juliette.” Her name came out ragged. “I’m sorry. I’m—”
“Don’t apologize.” She reached for his hand slowly, giving him time to pull away. He didn’t. His fingers locked around hers like a lifeline. “How often does this happen?”
“Every night. Sometimes multiple times.” He scrubbed his free hand over his face. “Eight years of sleeping with one eye open, listening for threats. Your body doesn’t forget that just because the cage opens.”
Eight years of this. Eight years of terror in the dark.
“What do you dream about?” she asked quietly.
Roman was silent for a long moment. Then: “Going back. Being dragged back to a cell. The doors closing. Guards laughing. Waking up and realizing the exoneration was the dream and the cage was real.” His voice cracked. “Or worse—being out but trapped anyway. No identity, no life, just a ghost trying to exist in a world that moved on without me.”
Juliette’s throat tightened. She squeezed his hand. “You’re not going back. The conviction was overturned. You’re free.”
“Am I?” His eyes met hers in the darkness, and she saw the fear there, raw and unfiltered. “Because it doesn’t feel like freedom, Juliette. It feels like I traded one cage for another. Everywhere I go, people recognize me. The news won’t stop talking about me. I can’t get a job, can’t open a bank account without someone taking pictures. And the people from my old life—” He stopped, jaw clenching. “They’re circling. Waiting. I’m not free. I’m just in a different kind of prison.”
“Then we’ll figure it out. Together.”
“You keep saying that. Together. But you don’t have to—” He pulled his hand away, standing abruptly. “You don’t owe me anything, Juliette. You paid your debt. Your family’s taken care of. You can walk away anytime.”
“Is that what you want? For me to walk away?”
“No.” The word came out fierce, desperate. “God, no. But I can’t—I won’t be the reason you’re trapped too. You deserve better than this. Better than me.”
Juliette stood, closing the distance between them. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve. That’s my choice.”
“Then make a smart one. Run.”
“No.”
They stared at each other in the darkness, the air between them charged with everything unsaid. Roman looked wrecked—exhausted and vulnerable in a way he never let himself be in daylight. Juliette’s heart ached for him, for the man who’d survived hell and couldn’t stop expecting to be dragged back.
“Come here,” she said softly.
“Juliette—”
“Just come here.”
He moved to her slowly, uncertainly. When he was close enough, she wrapped her arms around him and held on. Roman went rigid for a heartbeat, then collapsed into her, his face burying in her hair, his arms coming around her like she was the only solid thing in his world.
They stood like that for a long time, just breathing. Juliette felt his heart hammering against her chest, felt the tremors running through his body as he fought for control.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair. “I’m so sorry you got dragged into this.”
“Stop apologizing.” She pulled back just enough to look at him. “I made a choice. I’m still making it. Every day I choose to stay.”
“Why?”
Because somewhere between the prison chapel and tonight, he’d stopped being a transaction and started being something else. Someone real. Someone who made her feel things she’d never expected to feel.
But she couldn’t say that. Not yet. It was too soon, too raw, too terrifying.
“Because you need someone,” she said instead. “And maybe I do too.”
Roman’s hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone in that now-familiar gesture. “You’re too good for this world, you know that?”
“I’m really not. I married you for money, remember?”
“And stayed for me. That counts for something.” He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers. “Thank you. For waking me up. For not running when you heard me lose it.”
“Where would I go? It’s my apartment.”
He laughed, a soft huff of air. “Fair point.”
“Come on.” Juliette took his hand, tugging him toward her bedroom. “You’re not sleeping on the couch anymore.”
Roman stopped dead. “Juliette, I can’t—we agreed—”
“The bed’s big enough for both of us. And before you get any ideas, this isn’t about sex. This is about you not spending another night alone with your nightmares.” She met his eyes, firm. “You sleep better with someone there. I’ve read about it. PTSD, night terrors—having another person nearby helps.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t. I want to.” She tugged his hand again. “Now stop arguing and come to bed before I change my mind.”
He followed, still hesitant. Juliette’s bedroom was small, dominated by a queen bed with a worn quilt her grandmother had made. She climbed in one side, leaving plenty of space between them. Roman stood there for a moment, looking lost, before slowly sliding in on the other side.
They lay in the darkness, careful not to touch, the space between them feeling both infinite and impossibly small.
“Thank you,” Roman said quietly. “For this. For everything.”
“Go to sleep, Roman.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Try.” Juliette rolled onto her side, facing him. “I’m right here. If the nightmares come back, I’ll wake you up again.”
He turned to face her too, and even in the darkness she could feel the intensity of his gaze. “You’re incredible, you know that?”
“You’ve said that before.”
“Because it keeps being true.” He was quiet for a moment. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
“Earlier, when I said I was falling for you—did it scare you?”
Juliette’s heart kicked against her ribs. “Yes.”
“Because you don’t feel the same way?”
“Because I might.” The admission slipped out before she could stop it. “And that terrifies me more than anything.”
Roman went very still. “Might?”
“I don’t know what I feel yet. It’s all too tangled up—the money, the marriage, the lies, the truth. But when you kissed me tonight, I didn’t want you to stop. And when you have nightmares, I want to fix them. And when you look at me the way you’re looking at me right now—” She swallowed hard. “I feel something. I just don’t know what to call it yet.”
“You don’t have to call it anything. Not until you’re ready.” His hand found hers under the covers, fingers threading together. “But Juliette? When you figure it out—whatever it is—tell me. Promise?”
“I promise.”
They fell asleep like that, hands linked, breathing in sync. And for the first time since Roman Carver walked back into the world, he slept through the night without screaming.
Juliette woke to sunlight and the smell of coffee.
She was alone in bed, Roman’s side already cool. For a second, panic flared—had he left? Had last night been too much?—but then she heard movement in the kitchen.
She found him at her tiny stove, spatula in hand, making eggs. He’d clearly showered—his hair was damp, he was wearing fresh clothes from the bag he’d brought yesterday. He looked domestic. Normal. Nothing like the haunted man from 3 AM.
“Morning,” he said without turning around. “Hope you like scrambled. It’s the only thing I remember how to make.”
Juliette leaned against the doorframe, something warm blooming in her chest. “You didn’t have to cook.”
“You let me sleep in your bed. It’s the least I can do.” He plated the eggs, adding toast from her toaster. “Besides, I needed to feel useful. Do something normal. Cooking breakfast for my wife feels pretty damn normal.”
My wife. The words still sent a shiver through her.
They ate at her small table, knees occasionally bumping, falling into an easy rhythm that felt dangerously like comfortable. Roman told her about the books he wanted to read now that he could choose his own, about places in Chicago he wanted to see again. Juliette told him about the nonprofit’s upcoming fundraiser, about her favorite coffee shop three blocks away.
It felt like dating. Like getting to know someone under normal circumstances.
Except nothing about this was normal.
Her phone rang just as they finished eating. Unknown number. Juliette’s stomach sank.
“Don’t answer it,” Roman said immediately. “If it’s important, they’ll leave a message.”
But it kept ringing. And ringing.
Finally, she answered. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Carver?” A woman’s voice, smooth and professional. “This is Naomi Chen from Chicago Tribune. I’d love to talk to you about your marriage to Roman Carver. We’re running a feature story and—”
Juliette hung up.
The phone rang again immediately.
“Turn it off,” Roman said, his expression darkening. “Juliette, turn it off now.”
She powered down the phone, hands shaking. “How did they get my number?”
“Same way they got everything else. Public records, data brokers, someone selling information.” He stood, pacing. “This is going to get worse before it gets better. The story’s too good—wrongful conviction, mysterious marriage, organized crime connections. They’re going to dig into every aspect of your life.”
“I can’t just disappear. I have a job. A life.”
“I know.” He ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. “We need to get ahead of this. Control the narrative before they control it for us.”
“How?”
“Give them an interview. One sit-down with a reputable journalist. Tell our story the way we want it told. Then refuse all other requests.” He turned to face her. “But it has to be together. Unified front. Mr. and Mrs. Carver, madly in love, protecting their privacy.”
“We’re not madly in love.”
“They don’t know that.” His eyes met hers. “Can you fake it? For an interview?”
Could she? Pretend to be head-over-heels for a man she’d married for money? A man who made her heart race and her brain short-circuit but who she still barely knew?
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
“Then maybe we don’t have to fake it.” He crossed back to her, tilting her chin up with gentle fingers. “Maybe we just tell the truth. That we started as a transaction and became something else. That we’re figuring it out as we go. That we’re learning to be married.”
“And if they ask about the organized crime stuff? About the threats?”
“We deflect. Say it’s an ongoing investigation, we can’t comment. Keep the focus on us, on the marriage.” His thumb brushed her lower lip and her breath hitched. “Think you can handle that?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Good.” He stepped back, all business again. “I’ll have Mr. Albright set something up. Someone sympathetic, someone who won’t tear us apart. We do it this week, get it over with.”
Juliette’s phone—still powered off on the table—suddenly felt like a bomb. How many messages were piling up? How many reporters, digging into her past, calling her friends, harassing her family?
The walls of her apartment felt like they were closing in.
“I need air,” she said suddenly. “I need to get out of here.”
“Not alone. It’s not safe.”
“Then come with me.” She grabbed her jacket. “There’s a park three blocks away. No one will recognize us there.”
Roman looked skeptical but nodded. “Okay. But we’re careful. Stay in public areas. And if anyone approaches—”
“We leave. I know.” She headed for the door, desperate to escape the suffocating feeling of being watched, hunted. “Let’s go.”
They made it two blocks before Juliette realized they were being followed.
A black sedan, moving slowly, staying a car length behind. Tinted windows. Professional.
“Roman,” she said quietly. “That car—”
“I know. I’ve been watching it since we left.” His hand found the small of her back, protective. “Keep walking. Don’t run. We’re just a couple taking a walk.”
“Who is it?”
“Could be press. Could be something else.” His jaw was tight. “There’s a coffee shop on the corner. We’re going to duck inside, use the back exit if there is one.”
They walked faster, Juliette’s heart pounding. The sedan kept pace.
They reached the coffee shop—the one she’d told Roman about over breakfast—and slipped inside. The warm smell of espresso and pastries should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like a trap.
Roman scanned the space with practiced eyes. “Back exit?”
The barista, a college kid with purple hair, looked confused. “Uh, employee exit through the kitchen?”
“We’ll take it.” Roman pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “For your trouble. And you never saw us.”
The kid’s eyes widened. “Dude, are you—”
“He’s no one,” Juliette cut in. “Please. We just need to leave quietly.”
Something in her voice must have convinced him. He jerked his head toward the kitchen. “Through there, take a right, door’s at the end of the hall. Alarm’s broken so it won’t go off.”
They ran.
Through the kitchen—startled cooks shouting after them—down a narrow hallway that smelled like garbage and grease, out into an alley. Roman grabbed her hand and they sprinted, turning corners randomly, putting distance between them and whoever was in that sedan.
They finally stopped three blocks away, both breathing hard, pressed against a brick wall in an alley that definitely wasn’t safe but felt safer than being exposed on the street.
“What the hell was that?” Juliette gasped.
“A warning. Or surveillance. Or both.” Roman’s eyes were hard, dangerous. “Someone wanted us to know they’re watching.”
“The people from your past?”
“Probably.” He pulled out his phone—burner, Juliette noticed, not a smartphone. “I need to make a call. Set up a meeting. This ends now.”
“Roman, no—”
“It’s the only way.” He cupped her face with his free hand. “I’m not letting them terrorize you. Whatever they want from me, I’ll give it. But they don’t get to scare my wife.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Maybe. But at least you’ll be safe.” He pressed a hard kiss to her forehead. “Stay here. Don’t move. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
He walked away before she could argue, phone already at his ear, voice low and urgent.
Juliette stood in the alley, alone, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might burst.
The apartment door creaked; Roman’s key turned in the lock, the sound making her jump even though she’d been expecting it.
This was her life now. Running through alleys. Being followed. Watching her husband make deals with dangerous people to keep her safe.
She’d married him to save her family.
But who was going to save her?
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