‘I hate you!’ I scream, slashing through his racks of ties.

I’m bordering the level of psychosis that Miller has shown all too often in recent days, and I only relent when every piece of his clothing is a mess of torn fabric. Then I fall to my arse, exhausted, my breathing laboured, and stare at the piles of ruined material surrounding me. It wasn’t a given that my mission to destroy all of his masks would make me feel any better, and it doesn’t. My hands feel raw, my face is stinging, and my throat is sore from screaming my way through my task. I’m as big a wreck as the mess I’ve caused. Shuffling back, I find the cabinet that sits in the centre of Miller’s wardrobe and slump against it, my shoes lost amid the mess, my dress riding up to my waist. I just sit there in silence, heaving and panting, for the longest time, wondering . . . what now? Being destructive might momentarily divert me from thinking, but the relief is short-lived. There will come a point when I’ve destroyed everything, possibly even myself. Beyond recognition. Then what will I do? I’m teetering on the edge of self-annihilation already.

I let my head fall limply back, but jump when a loud crash rings through the apartment. My body stills, my breath catching in my throat. Then the hammering starts. I’m immobilised by a familiar fear, just sitting here listening to the persistent bangs on the front door, my eyes wide, my heart fighting to break free from my chest. I look around at the mess surrounding me. And spot the knife. Picking it up slowly, I watch the blade glimmer as I turn it in my hand. Then I stand on shaky legs. Perhaps I should hide, but my bare feet start moving of their own accord, my hand gripping the handle of the knife tightly. I wade through the remnants of Miller’s clothes towards the racket, cautious, wary, until I’m tiptoeing down the corridor and emerging into the lounge. I can see across the room to the entrance hall, and I can see the door physically moving with each hard bang.

Then the banging stops and an unnerving silence falls. I go to step forward, choking down my fear, determined to face the unknown threat, but halt when the mechanical lock on the door shifts and the door bursts open on a loud curse.

I stagger back in shock, my pulse bursting through my eardrums, making me dizzy and disorientated. It takes a few frightening moments to register what I’m confronted with. He looks unbalanced, a shocking thing for me to claim after the time I’ve just spent in his wardrobe. He’s a wreck, heaving and sweating, almost vibrating with anger.

He hasn’t seen me. The door is smashed shut and his fist thrown into the back of it, splintering the glossy wood, making Miller roar when his knuckles split open, and me stagger back in alarm.

‘Fuck!’ His expletive bounces around the colossal open space, hitting me from every direction, making me cower on the spot. I want to run to his aid or shout at him to notice that I’m here, but I dare not speak. He’s completely unhinged, leaving me wondering what the cause is for his violent lash-out. His own interference? I stand, distressed and disturbed, as his back heaves and the echo of his boom fades. It’s only mere seconds before his shoulders visibly tense and he swings his messy body to face me. The perfection that is Miller is lost. The lump in my throat explodes, choking me, and I bite down on my lip to stop a sob from slipping past my lips. The sweat trailing down his temples is dripping onto his jacket, but he’s unbothered by the potential of his posh suit being dampened. His eyes are wild as he stares at me; then he throws his head back again and yells to the ceiling before collapsing to his knees.

His head drops in defeat.

And Miller Hart cries – massive, body-jerking sobs.

Nothing could cause me more pain. Years of holding his emotions in check are pouring out of him, and I can do nothing more than watch, my heart aching for him. My own agony has made way for the torture this confounding man is suffering. I want to hold him and comfort him, but my legs weigh a thousand tons and refuse to carry me to him. I’m useless. I try to speak his name, but achieve nothing but an agonised gasp.

A lifetime passes. I cry a lifetime’s worth of tears and so does Miller, except for him it’s probably literally. I’m beginning to wonder if he’ll ever stop when his injured hand lifts and roughly brushes over his stubbled cheeks, replacing the tears with smears of blood.

His head rises, revealing a blemished face and blue eyes rimmed in redness. But he won’t allow them to focus on me. He’s doing everything to avoid making eye contact with me. Agitated, he pushes himself from the floor and moves towards me, making me retreat, but he passes me, still avoiding my eyes, and makes for his bedroom. After tossing my weapon on the round table in the hallway, I finally convince my dead legs to move and follow him. He strips out of his jacket, waistcoat and shirt as he strides across his bedroom, heading for the bathroom. His clothes are being tossed aside, his bedroom floor scattered in garments that are being torn from his body. Halting at the foot of the doorway to his bathroom, he kicks his shoes and socks off and then yanks his trousers and boxers from his legs, leaving him naked, his back shimmering in sweat.

He doesn’t venture any further, standing silent in the doorway, his head lowered, his muscled arms outstretched to grip the door frame. Not knowing what to do but knowing I can’t bear to see him in this state any longer, I begin to approach him gingerly, until I’m close enough to smell his manly scent mixed with the clean sweat that’s dripping from his body.

‘Miller,’ I say quietly, lifting my hand and reaching for his shoulder, but when I tentatively rest my hand on his flesh, I have to resist yanking it back on a gasp. He’s boiling hot, but I don’t have to withstand the burning heat for too long. He hisses on a flinch, making me wince at his rejection, and paces to the shower, stepping in and turning it on.

He’s frantic in his task. After grabbing the sponge and loading it with shower gel, he carelessly tosses the bottle to the floor before scrubbing at his skin. I’m alarmed, not only by his uncharacteristic show of untidiness, but also by his urgency to clean his body, and so harshly. He’s scrubbing, working the sponge everywhere, rinsing and reloading with more shower gel. Steam is quickly engulfing the huge space, telling me the shower is far too hot, not that he seems affected. ‘Miller.’ I take a few paces, getting more and more concerned the steamier the room becomes. ‘Miller, please!’ I slap my palm on the glass to try and get his attention. His hair is sopping and hanging all over his face, hampering his vision, but he’s not deterred. There’s a mixture of terror and anger being injected into the desperate motions of the sponge flying across his body. He’s going to blister himself. ‘Miller, stop it!’ I try to enter the shower fully dressed, but jump out when the water makes contact with me. ‘Shit!’ It’s scorching hot. ‘Miller, turn the water off!’

‘I can’t stand it!’ he yells, scooping the shower gel from the floor and squeezing the bottle all over his chest. ‘They make my skin crawl! I can feel them through my clothes!’

My breath catches in my throat, his words registering loud and clear. But that’s the least of my worries. He’s going to injure himself terribly if I don’t get him out. ‘Miller, listen to me.’ I try for a calming tone, but my voice is anxious, and I cannot help it.

‘I have to be clean! I need to remove every trace of them from me.’