The Exception.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Getting Help.

The penthouse doors closed behind them as Fatima stormed in, her movements sharp and jerky, like she was trying to escape something invisible that had been chasing her for months. Ashanti followed cautiously, trying to read her sister's storm.

"Fatima, you can't keep running from your life!" Ashanti called after her, voice tense but steady.

"I'm not running, Ashanti. Please... don't start with me right now," Fatima shot back, her voice shaking, brittle, like a fragile thread stretched too far.

"You are! And I'm not gonna sit here and watch you tear yourself apart!" Ashanti's words rang out, echoing off the walls of the penthouse.

Fatima's hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her chest tightened, a knot of anger and frustration and fear coiling inside her. "Well... we can solve that, can't we? Get out!" Her voice cracked, breaking into something raw and unfiltered.

"Go! I'm tired of being smothered! Leave me the fuck alone!" The words tore through the air, punctuated by a sob that caught in her throat.

Ashanti's eyes softened, but she didn't retreat. "Imma go to my car to let you cool off, but I ain't leaving you, Fatima. That's not what sisters do." She pressed the elevator button, standing a moment longer, hesitant to vanish from her sister's storm.

Fatima turned away, sliding down against the wall until she hit the floor, her legs trembling beneath her. "FUCK!" she screamed, hot tears burning down her cheeks, uncontrolled and scalding. She covered her face with her hands, gasping. "Why me?! Why?!" Her breathing grew rapid, uneven. "I-I try to do everything perfect... why, God? Why?"

The silence that followed was suffocating, the penthouse suddenly feeling smaller, sharper, and unbearably heavy.

Her chest tightened. Each inhale felt shallow, ragged, as if the air itself had abandoned her. Panic clawed up her throat, sharp and insistent, a beast she hadn't felt in years—at least, not since before the shooting.

Her hands trembled, fingers curling into the carpet as if gripping it could tether her to reality. She rocked back and forth, faster and faster, trying to drown out the city noises outside, the hum of her home, even the faint echo of her own racing heartbeat. The walls felt like they were closing in, the ceiling lowering.

Her mind raced, desperate for an escape, and then—like a lifeline thrown across a stormy sea—she remembered his voice. Zac.

"Fatima... just focus on me. In... out... slow... steady..."

The memory hit her like a balm. His deep, calm tone, that low rumble of reassurance she had clung to countless times before, filled her mind. She pictured him kneeling in front of her, hand on her shoulder, eyes locked onto hers. She could almost feel his steady presence, the gentle rhythm of his breathing guiding her own.

Her body responded before her mind fully processed it. Her rocking slowed. Her shaking softened. Her hands, still clenching the carpet, loosened. She mimicked the pattern of his voice, drawing in a slow breath, holding it for a heartbeat, then exhaling with deliberate care.

"That's it... that's it, Tima. You're safe. You're here. You're okay..."

The room stopped spinning, if only slightly. The tightness in her chest eased, replaced by a cautious calm, fragile but real. Fatima's eyes fluttered shut as she focused entirely on that memory—on Zac being there, being present, when she had felt invisible to the world.

For a few precious moments, the penthouse wasn't empty. She wasn't alone. She let herself imagine his hand brushing a stray curl from her face, the faint warmth of his smile, the way he always made her feel anchored when the storm inside her became too much.