“Get ... out,” I manage to choke out between sobs. I try to sound angry, but my voice betrays me. It’s thin and weak, filled with fear instead of fury.I should be angry.Iamangry, but right now, all I can feel is scared.
The door creaks open, and I feel my stomach drop. My legs are shaking so hard, I can barely stand. My heart is pounding so loudly in my chest, I’m sure he can hear it.
“Petra,” he says softly, stepping into the room. His voice is calm, soothing, but it does nothing to calm the storm raging inside me. “Petra, I’m sorry. I thought—”
“You thought I wanted you toattackme?” I scream, my voice cracking with emotion. I shove the shower curtain aside, using part of it to hide myself, but I need to look him in the eye. Tears continue streaming down my face as I glare at him through the haze of water and steam. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
He sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping as if my words have physically hurt him. But I don’t care. I don’t care if he’s sorry. I don’t care if he regrets what he did. He crossed a line, a line I never thought he would cross, and there’s no coming back from that.
I yank the shower curtain shut, and then I close my eyes, trying to block out the confusion, the whirlwind of conflicting emotions.DidI think he’d never cross this line?
Or did I ask him to do this?
My thoughts scatter in all directions as I search for some logical explanation, a reason why Saint would take things this far. I replay every conversation, every look, every word exchanged between us, desperately trying to make sense of the situation. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t find anything that justifies this.
No. I didn’t.
I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask him to break into my cabin in the middle of the night, to terrify me, to tie me to a chair.All I didwas tell him about the book, share the inner workings of my writing process. It wasn’t an invitation to scare the living shit out of me. It wasn’t supposed to be an open door for him to step into my life and confuse me so badly that I thought I was about to fuckingdie.
But here we are, and I can’t help but wonder ...Did he assume I wanted this?Did he think I was asking for this? For him to take over my life, my space, my thoughts?
Did I confuse him?
I don’t even know what to think anymore. I’m so wrapped up in the emotions of everything since he walked into my life, in the intensity of what’s been happening, that I don’t trust myself to make sense of any of it.
Do I even have the right to be angry at him for doing this?
The thought stabs at me, sharp and cruel. I hate that I’m questioning myself, hate that I’m doubting my own feelings. But the truth is, I don’t know if I have the right to be angry.
Somewhere deep inside, a small, shameful part of me wonders if this is what I hoped for. If, on some subconscious level, I craved this chaotic dark thrill.
Did I subconsciously want this to happen?
The question burns through me, leaving a trail of guilt and confusion in its wake. I don’t want to believe that I did. I don’t want to think that I somehow invited this madness into my life. But the doubt is there, clinging in the corners of my mind, whispering that maybe, just maybe, I’m responsible for all this.
I lean against the shower wall, letting the water cascade over me, mingling with the tears that won’t stop falling. I feel so small, so lost in this moment, trapped between wanting to lash out and wanting to curl up and disappear.
My sobs are quieter now, more resigned.
Did I even lock the front door last night?
The thought hits me like a punch to the gut.
No. I didn’t.
IknowI didn’t.
After Saint and I parted ways, I was so consumed by the rush of inspiration, so eager to get everything out of my head and onto the page, that I took my laptop to the bedroom as soon as I got home and I wrote until I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore.
I’ve been going on writing retreats for years, and in all those nights, I’veneverforgotten to lock my doors. But last night ... last night, I did.I left myself exposed, vulnerable. And now, standing in this shower, I’m paying the price for that mistake.
My hands are covering my face, my fingers trembling as I try to pull myself together. But then I hear it—the sound of the shower curtain being pulled back. My heart leaps into my throat, and I freeze, too terrified to even look. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to face him, not like this. But I can feel him standing here.
I’m angry.God, I’m so angry.
I’m embarrassed, humiliated by the way things have spiraled out of control. But beneath it all, I’m still scared—terrified, even. I feel so powerless, and the last thing I want is to confront the man responsible for all this.
“God, Petra.” Saint’s voice breaks through the sound of the water, soft and full of remorse. “I am so sorry.”
