The morning sun filtered through Gift's kitchen blinds, casting slatted shadows over the half-empty mugs of tea. Emily sat hunched at the table, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. The left side of her face throbbed beneath a hastily applied layer of concealer, the skin beneath still tender and flushed.
Gift leaned against the counter, arms crossed, her gaze sharp and unyielding. She'd known the moment Emily texted—"*Can I come over?*"—that this wasn't about a spilled latte or a burnt casserole.
"Say it," Emily murmured, staring into her tea. "You warned me."
Gift sighed, pushing off the counter to sit across from her. "I didn't want to be right, Em." She reached for Emily's hand, but Emily flinched, pulling back.
"He… he slapped me," Emily whispered, the words brittle. "Again."
Gift's jaw tightened. "*Again*? So last night wasn't the first time?"
Emily hesitated, then nodded. "Remember that party in college? When he thought I was flirting with Liam?"
"The time he dragged you out by the wrist and left a bruise?" Gift's voice rose. "Or the time he *actually* slapped you for laughing at some guy's joke? Yeah, I remember. I also remember telling you to run."
"I thought he'd change!" Emily's voice cracked. "People *do* change, don't they?"
Gift leaned forward, her tone softening but firm. "Sometimes. But not him. Not when he's been showing you who he is since day one. A cheater. A liar. A man who thinks his fists are punctuation marks." She paused, her eyes narrowing. "Did you really believe he'd stop? Or did you just *hope*?"
Emily's throat burned. She'd asked herself the same question in the hollow hours after David left. "I thought love was enough," she said quietly.
"Love isn't a Band-Aid for broken character," Gift replied. "You gave up your career, your *life*, for someone who's always treated you like an option. Even before the wedding—remember when I caught him texting that girl from the gym? '*Once a cheater*,' I told you. But you said he'd 'grown.'"
Emily winced. She'd buried that memory, just as she'd buried the receipts, the late-night calls, the lipstick-stained collars. "I wanted to believe him," she said, tears spilling over. "I wanted… *us*."
Gift's resolve wavered. She rounded the table, pulling Emily into a fierce hug. "You still have *you*," she murmured. "And that's enough. More than enough."
For a long moment, Emily let herself crumble, her tears soaking into Gift's sweater. When she finally pulled back, her voice was steadier. "What do I do now?"
Gift brushed a strand of hair from Emily's face, her thumb grazing the hidden bruise. "You walk. No—you *run*. And you rebuild. Not for him. For *you*."
Emily stared at her tea, now cold. The reflection staring back was unfamiliar—fragmented, yet flickering with something she hadn't felt in years: resolve.
"He'll try to come back," Gift added. "They always do. But you're not that girl anymore, Em. You're not ashes."
Emily's fingers curled around the mug. Somewhere in the apartment, a clock ticked, steady and unrelenting.
"No," she said quietly. "I'm not."
Outside, the storm had passed, leaving the sky washed clean. Emily stood, her shadow stretching long and unbroken across the floor.
The phoenix, it seemed, had finally begun to rise.