Daniel gripped Olivia's arm firmly as he guided her toward another set of props he had arranged earlier. "Sit there," he ordered, gesturing to a small, turquoise, velvet divan. When she hesitated, he pressed harder on her arm, his fingers digging into her skin. "Now."

She sank onto the divan, her movements stiff and mechanical, doing just enough to comply. But it wasn't enough for him. "Relax," he snapped, stepping back to study her. His eyes narrowed as he tilted his head. "You look like a statue. I want you to drape yourself—lean back, cross your legs. Put your hand in your hair. Look at me like you want me."

Olivia didn't move. She sat rigidly, her hands gripping the edge of the divan as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. She refused to give him more than the bare minimum, refused to play into the fantasy he so desperately wanted.

Daniel's jaw tightened, irritation crossing his face. He stepped forward, grabbing her wrist and trying to position her himself, pulling her arm to rest against the back of the chair. Olivia resisted, pulling back just enough to make it clear she wasn't going to cooperate.

"Stop it," she said, her voice low but firm, though her heart raced. With a sharp yank, he forced her hand back into place. He loomed over her, his voice a low, dangerous hiss.

"You don't get to tell me no," he said, each word clipped, deliberate. "You'll do what I say, or I'll make you wish you had."

Olivia went still, the fight-or-flight instinct raging inside her, demanding action. But she had nowhere to run, nothing to fight with—except her own defiance. He wanted her docile. He wanted her broken. And, worse, he thought he had time to make it happen.

Her pulse pounded as his earlier words echoed in her mind. He wasn't planning to let her go. She wasn't about to play along, not for survival, not for anything. If he thought she was something he could keep, he was wrong. She would rather die fighting.

Daniel lingered too long, his fingers pressing into the soft skin of her wrist before he finally let go. He turned away, moving toward the table in the corner. The pile of clothes there shifted as he plucked something from the top—a sheer lace gown, delicate and nearly transparent.

Daniel held the dress up in front of her face with an almost thoughtful expression. "Put this on," he said flatly. "I want to see how you look in it."

Olivia stared at the flimsy scrap of lace. She knew what this was—another attempt to reduce her, to make her into something fragile, ornamental. But she wasn't fragile. And she sure as hell wasn't his. Her fingers twitched at her sides, her body screaming for action. Not yet. But soon.

"You know what?" she said, tilting her head as if considering. "I'm not doing this anymore. I'm not your little Barbie doll."

Daniel's laugh was sharp, hollow. "You'll do what I say, Olivia. Or else I'll make you."

She met his gaze, letting every ounce of her loathing show. "Fuck off."

His amusement flickered, then darkened into something colder. He didn't step closer this time. Instead, he just stood there, dress dangling from his fingers.

"You don't get to make the rules here," he murmured. "We've already established that."

Olivia felt the shift. The real danger wasn't when he lashed out—it was when he became calculating. And yet, she pushed harder.

"I said fuck off."

His smile disappeared. A slow breath, controlled. Then: "Put. It. On."

Olivia squared her shoulders. She was running out of time. She needed to make him reckless—needed him to slip. Her gaze darted to the table where the taser lay, just out of reach.

"Go ahead," she said, voice almost casual. "Try to make me."

His grip was like iron, fingers locking around her wrist. "You don't understand the position you're in, do you?"

She twisted, just enough to force him to tighten his hold, drawing him in. Closer. That's right.

"Oh, I understand perfectly," she said, forcing a smirk even as her pulse thundered. "You get off on control. You think this makes you powerful. But you're not. You're just a sad, pathetic man playing dress-up in his own little fantasy."

For a fraction of a second, something flickered in his eyes—pride bruised, ego stung. And that was all she needed.

His grip shifted, tightening as if he'd just realized she was playing him. He yanked her towards him, his breath hot against her skin. The dress crumpled in his fist, forgotten.

Olivia let herself go limp. Just for a second. Just long enough to make him think she was breaking. His grip loosened—not much, but enough.

Now.

She twisted, wrenching her arm free as she lunged—not for the taser, but for the table. If she could knock it off, send it clattering across the floor, she might have a chance—

The world exploded.

The door shattered inward with a deafening crash, splintered wood flying in all directions. A cacophony of voices filled the room, shouting commands, and the harsh beams of tactical flashlights sliced through the dim light.

"POLICE! DROP THE WEAPON! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!"

Daniel froze mid-lunge. His eyes darted wildly around the room, the confident predator now a cornered animal.

Elliot was the first through the door, his weapon trained on Daniel. "Don't even think about it," he barked. His voice was pure authority.

Olivia had dropped to her knees after lunging for the taser and she remained there, her body suddenly too drained to do more than watch as the moment unfolded. Relief slammed into her, sharp and dizzying—but beneath it, something hotter. Anger.

Daniel slowly raised his hands, looking stunned as Elliot advanced. The team swarmed in behind him, officers shouting commands and securing the scene. Within seconds, Daniel was forced to his knees, his hands wrenched behind his back as cuffs snapped into place.

Elliot holstered his weapon and moved to Olivia in one long stride, his expression softening as he knelt beside her. "Liv," he said, his voice quieter now, though urgency still underscored every word. "You hurt?"

She blinked at him, the adrenaline still coursing through her leaving her disoriented. Her hands trembled she tried to get up. "I'm okay, I'm good," she said, though her voice wavered.

Elliot's gaze swept over her, taking in the dress, the carefully curled hair, the way she looked like some eerie, manufactured version of herself. His expression darkened as he scanned for injuries. "You're getting checked out," he said firmly. He looked around the room, taking in every horrific detail like a punch to the gut. It was the kind of scene that might have looked glamorous in another context, but here it was wrong. Violent. Sick.

His eyes landed on the heap of clothes on the floor—Olivia's. Her bra and underwear lay on top, discarded like an afterthought. A bolt of fury shot through him, his breath hitching as his hands clenched at his sides.

"Olivia," he said, his voice taut with restrained emotion. "I'm calling for a bus. You need—"

"No." Her voice was sharp, unwavering, even as her fingers curled into fists. "I don't need one. I'm fine," she snapped, meeting his gaze head-on, a flash of defiance in her eyes.

He held her stare, searching her face for cracks in her resolve, but his eyes kept drifting back to the pile of clothes. His voice dropped, quieter now. "Olivia. Liv...did he—"

"No." The answer came instantly, firm and absolute, though her eyes shone. "No, Elliot. He didn't."

Relief hit him like a wave, but the tension didn't ease. He forced himself to focus. "Then what happened?" he asked, his tone softer now.

She exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders like she could shake it off. "He tased me. Over and over."

Elliot swore under his breath, his hands flexing at his sides. "Jesus, Liv..."

"I don't need—" she started, but his sharp look cut her off.

"This isn't up for debate," he said. He grabbed his radio. "Stabler. Scene secure. Suspect in custody. We don't need the bus."

He turned back to her, his expression softening just slightly, though the muscle in his jaw still ticked. "But I'm driving you to the hospital. Don't even think about arguing."

She exhaled a shaky breath and nodded reluctantly.

Elliot grabbed a blanket from one of the responding officers and draped it over her shoulders as he helped her stand. "Come on," he said softly. "Let's get you out of here."

As they walked to the car, Olivia's steps faltered, but she didn't reach for him; Elliot stayed close, his hand hovering near her back, ready if she needed him. She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, the fabric bunching in her fists.

When they reached the car, he opened the passenger door and steadied her as she climbed in, his touch light but deliberate. She sank into the seat with a slow exhale, tilting her head back, her breaths controlled, measured.

Elliot lingered for a beat, gripping the door frame as he looked at her. "We'll talk," he said, his voice quiet but certain. "When you're ready."

Olivia gave a small nod, her eyes closing for just a second.

Satisfied, he shut the door gently and made his way around the car, sliding into the driver's seat without another word.

Elliot kept stealing glances at Olivia as they drove. Her head rested against the window, her expression distant, but her body betrayed her. She was trembling violently, her muscles twitching faintly in her arms and legs.

"The twitching," he said quietly. "It'll subside. I've been tased a couple of times—it messes with your muscles, but it doesn't last forever."

"I know," Olivia said, her voice quiet but firm, her eyes locked on the shifting darkness outside.

Elliot's grip tightened on the wheel, his knuckles pale with tension.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath, but she caught it anyway.

She let out a dry, humourless laugh. "The tasing was the easy part."

His gaze flicked to her, sharp with concern. "I thought you said he didn't—"

"He didn't," she cut in, too fast, too forceful. Then, softer, wearier, "But it was humiliating. Every second of it."

Elliot stayed quiet, letting her words hang in the air. He wanted to press her, to ask all the questions swirling in his mind, but he knew better than to push her now. He glanced at her again, his eyes moving quickly from the elegant black corset dress she still wore to the angry, accusing marks on her skin. This was his fault. A heavy ache bloomed in his chest, full of everything he couldn't say. That he should've protected her. That he should've found her sooner. That if anything had happened to her he didn't know how he would've lived with it. He wouldn't have survived it.

Olivia stared out the window, her reflection a pale blur against the darkened glass. Slowly, carefully, she turned her head just enough to catch a glimpse of him. His hands were gripped tight on the wheel, his knuckles white. His jaw was set so hard she could almost hear his teeth grinding. He kept glancing at her, his eyes flicking in her direction like he thought she wouldn't notice. But she did. And she knew exactly what he was thinking.

He blamed himself.

She reached across the silence and straight into his soul.

"It's not your fault," she said softly.

He stole a glance at her, his heart catching in his throat, before quickly looking back at the road. She knew. She always knew.

Elliot didn't react right away. She wasn't looking at him, but she didn't have to be. He could feel her gaze on him even when she wasn't staring directly at him, could feel the way she always knew what was going on in his head. It was uncanny, how she could read him like that.

And yet, it shouldn't surprise him anymore. He'd spent years working with her, been her partner long enough to know she had a way of seeing straight through him. She could feel his guilt, his doubt, before he even acknowledged it himself.

"I should've known better," she continued. "It's my fault. Partners are partners for a reason. I never should've gone off on my own, no matter what he said."

Elliot felt a pang in his chest. If he was being honest with himself, he knew that part of her doing this—going off on her own, ignoring every rule—was because of him. Because she didn't trust him enough to share the load. Because, somewhere deep down, she felt like if she leaned on him, she might be a liability. Because—and here was the crux of it—she'd put her heart on the line and had been rejected.

It wasn't fair. But that wasn't the point. The point was, he wasn't going to make it worse by piling on.

Olivia exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her tangled hair. "I don't even know why. It was stupid. And selfish. And now—" She hesitated, blowing out a breath. "Now I'm probably looking at a suspension. Or worse."

"You made a bad call," he admitted finally, his voice quiet but steady. "But that doesn't mean this is on you."

He hesitated, then glanced at her again, his voice softening. "And for what it's worth? I don't give a damn about the rules. I won't use this against you. Ever."

That got her attention. She turned to him, searching his face, looking for something—judgment, disappointment—but finding only certainty.

A breath shuddered from her lips, and she nodded, just once.

The fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting area were harsh, but Olivia barely noticed them. Elliot stood at the counter, speaking quietly to a nurse, while Olivia sat in a chair nearby, trying not to focus on the tremors still running through her body.

When Elliot returned, he crouched in front of her, his eyes level with hers. "They're going to check you out. Burns, muscle damage, anything internal."

She looked away, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. "I don't want to stay here all night."

"You might not have a choice," Elliot said, softening. "They need to make sure there's no permanent damage. Especially with your heart."

She scoffed, the familiar edge of sarcasm creeping back into her voice. "My heart's fine. It's the rest of me that's broken."

Elliot's own heart sank to his toes, knowing that her heart was somewhere in pieces too, and he was the one who'd shattered it.

He leaned in closer, his voice soft but firm, as if he could reach her heart through his words. "Then let them fix it."

She didn't argue, didn't brush him off as she usually would. She simply nodded, the faintest sign of acceptance.

When the nurse came to take her back, Olivia glanced at Elliot over her shoulder. He gave her a small, reassuring nod. "I'll be right here," he promised.

The minutes dragged on. Elliot's leg bounced anxiously, his ears straining for any sound that might signal her return. When the double doors finally swung open, his head snapped up.

Olivia emerged, still in the hospital gown, her movements slow but steadier than before. Her expression was guarded, but when her eyes met Elliot's, there was a flicker of something softer; relief, maybe, or gratitude. He stayed.

Elliot stood as soon as Olivia's eyes met his. "What did they say?"

She only managed a quiet shrug, her eyes momentarily glassy. "I'll live," she said simply. "They just want me to take it easy for a while, but I'm cleared to leave if...if someone takes me home."

Elliot felt the words settle over him like a quiet ache. The idea that she had no one—no one to lean on, no one to come home to—was the saddest thing he could imagine.

He tilted his head, a flash of concern crossing his face, but he quickly softened it with a lightheartedness that he hoped would shield her from the truth. "You think I'm letting you out of my sight now?" He kept his tone casual, playful even, but his eyes didn't waver. He wanted her to know without saying it—that he was there, that she didn't have to ask, that he was already planning to take care of her. He made it sound like a joke, but it was the farthest thing from one.

Her gaze flickered up to meet his, and she seemed to catch the subtle message in his words. A faint, hollow smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but it was too weak to be real. She dropped her gaze again, almost as if she were trying to avoid letting him see how much it hurt her. "Guess I don't have much of a choice."

"Nope," Elliot replied, his voice low, tender, but still light enough to keep the moment from feeling heavy. "You don't." He stepped closer, brushing the back of her arm gently as he urged her toward the nurses' station. "Come on. Let's see about getting you out of here."

"Detective Benson, here are your things," the nurse at the desk said softly, setting a brown paper bag on the counter. Olivia's gaze darted to it, her expression distant as if she hadn't fully processed what was in front of her. She blinked, then looked up at the nurse, confusion clouding her eyes. The bag had her clothes, but they were the ones Daniel had chosen for her—the black corset dress.

Her fingers curled against the bag, but she didn't reach for it. The idea of putting it on again—wearing what Daniel had forced her to wear—felt like a betrayal to herself.

Elliot saw the change in her, the way she tensed, and his stomach tightened with understanding. He couldn't let her walk out of here in that. Without a second thought, he turned to the nurse.

"Is there any chance you could find a set of scrubs or something she could wear home?" Elliot asked, his voice firm, a quiet demand beneath his words. "Anything so she doesn't have to wear that."

The nurse nodded, sensing the weight of his request, and quickly disappeared down the hall to find something suitable. Elliot remained close to Olivia. He watched her, standing there, uncertain of how to handle something so simple as getting dressed as her muscles continued to tremor slightly. Her shoulders were slumped, eyes unfocused, and he felt the enormity of what she was carrying, how heavy it must be to feel so disconnected from her own body.

A few moments later, the nurse returned with a set of hospital scrubs. They were plain, nothing special, but at least they weren't a reminder of Daniel's cruelty. The nurse handed them to Olivia, who took them in her hands without a word. She glanced briefly at Elliot, as if gauging whether it was alright to change now, and he gave her a small nod.

Elliot's hand rested lightly on the small of her back as he guided her down the hallway. She didn't say anything, but she leaned into him—just enough for him to feel it.

When they reached the bathroom door, he opened it for her but didn't step away immediately. She turned to him, meeting his gaze head-on.

"I'll be fine," Olivia said, her voice even.

He didn't doubt her strength—he never had—but he also knew she wasn't ready to be alone just yet. He could see it in the way she held herself, in the way she hadn't quite let go of him.

So instead of walking away, he left the door ajar. Just enough. Giving her space without really leaving.

He positioned himself just outside, hands in his pockets, eyes on the hallway, but his focus stayed on the quiet beyond the door. He listened. He waited.

Minutes passed. Then, her voice, soft but sure.

"I'm ready."