She deserves better than texts and closed doors.
And fuck, I want to claim her. Mark her. Make sure she knows she’s mine. Like I did during the nights we used to have together.
But I can’t. Not when I look like this.
I try to tell myself she was never really interested in my money or my looks.
That she wanted the man underneath.
So the scars shouldn’t matter, right?
Problem is, I’m not sure the man underneath exists anymore.
I stare at the message again. At the drawing of stick-figure me being brave.
Maybe Nico’s right.
Maybe I will get bored of hating myself eventually.
Maybe I’ll even learn to love what’s left.
But not tonight.
46
Jess
The bar Ethan picked is the kind of place that thinks vintage typewriters on shelves and a chalkboard menu written in aggressive lowercase equals personality. Which, to be fair, I’ve definitely filmed content in worse locations.
Jag dropped me off twenty minutes ago and has the Range Rover waiting outside at the curb. Living under Marco’s security detail means I don’t go anywhere alone anymore. Not that I’m complaining. The protection feels necessary even if it’s a constant reminder that my life has become something requiring armed escorts.
We’re tucked into a corner booth. My brother is nursing a beer, while I have something that tastes like grapefruit tried to fight tequila and lost.
“So,” Ethan says. “How’s the therapy going?”
I take a sip. Wince. “Dr. Hale is very patient with my inability to process trauma.”
He gives me that look. The one that says he knows I’m deflecting again. “Jess.”
“It’s helping,” I admit. “Ben, too. She’s havingfewer nightmares. Still anxious but managing. Going to school really helps a lot. And at home, the breathing exercises actually work sometimes.”
“And Marco?”
There it is. The question I’ve been dreading.
I stare at my drink. “No therapy. At least not that kind. Hedidgo to a mirror circle thing earlier in the week.”
Maybe Ethan will think that counts as an intervention.
My brother’s eyebrows raise. “Mirror circle?”
“Peer support group for people with facial trauma. Neli convinced him to go.” I don’t mention that I convinced Neli to convince him. That feels like too many layers of manipulation to unpack right now. “He texted me about it. Said he went.”
“He didn’t tell you in person?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“And you still haven’t seen his face?” he presses.
