Without thinking, I spin around and rush toward the bathroom. I can hear him moving behind me, his footsteps quickening as he realizes what I’m trying to do. My hands fumble for the bathroom door. My entire body is shaking, but I have to get the door locked. I have to make the call before he gets to me.
I don’t make it.
Just as my fingers brush the cool metal of the doorknob, Saint’s grip clamps down hard on my arm. The force of it nearly pulls me off my feet, and before I can react, he yanks me back, the air rushing out of my lungs in a sharp gasp. My heart feels like it’s about to explode as I watch in horror while he rips my cell phone from my hand. Time slows, the adrenaline coursing through my veins, as I helplessly watch him glance down at the screen. His face tightens with anger when he sees the emergency number already pulled up, though not yet connected.
I was so close.
“I haven’t done anything wrong, Petra!” His voice is sharp, laced with fury, as he tosses the phone behind him with a careless flick of his wrist. The sound of it hitting the wall makes me flinch. The next thing I know, he’s pushing my shoulders hard enough that I stumble and fall back onto the bed. I scramble, crawling frantically toward the headboard, trying to put as much space between us as possible. My mind is screaming at me to keep moving, to find a way out, but I’m cornered.
Saint stands at the foot of the bed, his hands flexing at his sides, his jaw clenched. The look in his eyes is unrecognizable, a mix of betrayal and fury. “What would you even tell them when they showed up here?” His voice is mocking, dripping with disdain. “That I role-played too well?”
“You’ve beenimpersonatingacop!” I shout, my voice shaking with anger and fear. Every word is like venom on my tongue. I can feel the rage boiling inside me, mixing with the terror, making my body tremble uncontrollably.
Saint throws his hands up in exasperation, letting out a bitter laugh. “Youwantedme to!” His voice rises, frustration boiling over as he glares at me. “Your online Q&As are like an open invitation into your life! You’ve told your readers for years what lake you come to. You let the whole world know when you’re here alone. You even answered my question when I asked if you would be willing to do something like this. You said, ‘I would do anything to be a better writer.’”
The realization hits me like a punch to the throat.Oh, my God.My pulse stutters in my chest, and I stare at him, wide eyed. He’s the one who asked that question?He thinks I was asking for this?
My stomach twists in revulsion as the reality of his delusion sinks in. “That wasn’t an invitation to show up here and lie to me,” I snap, my voice cracking under the pressure of holding back tears. I want to scream, but my voice feels small, trapped under the crushing realization of just how far he’s taken this fantasy.
Saint’s eyes flash with something darker. His tone becomes flat, almost indifferent, as he says, “We’ve both been lying, Petra. You aren’t innocent in this.”
I shake my head, my body rigid with anger. “You attacked me in the middle of the night!” I spit the words at him, my fists clenching the blanket beneath me, knuckles white with tension.
“Youaskedme to!” he shouts back, his voice booming through the cabin, echoing off the walls like an accusation.
I shake my head adamantly, my whole body trembling with rage.He’s not turning this around on me.I didn’t ask for this. Just because I said in a live video that I wanted experience does not mean that was an invitation for him to actually locate me and act out some twisted fantasy he concocted in his head.
“You pretended to be someone you’re not,” I say through clenched teeth, my voice barely contained.
“So. Did. You,” he counters, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. There’s no apology in his tone, no recognition of the madness of whathe’s done. He looks at me as though we’re equal, as if my desire for authenticity in my writing somehow justifies his actions.
“Stop saying I asked you to do this,” I say, my voice breaking under the strain. My hands shake as I grip the bed tighter, trying to ground myself, trying to stay calm, but I can feel myself unraveling. “What we agreed to do together is different from what you chose to do on your own.”
“Is it?” His voice is like ice, unflinching, and he takes a step closer, his eyes narrowing in challenge.
“I never lied to you, Saint!” I yell, my words desperate, grasping for some shred of control in this spiraling situation. “You knew who I was before you showed up here!” My voice cracks again, but I don’t care. I need him to understand that this isn’t the same—that he crossed a line.
He grips the back of his neck, his frustration mounting, his face twisted with anger. “You didn’t lie? Petra, you’refucking married!” he roars, his voice filled with accusation as he closes the distance between us in three long strides. I instinctively scoot to the other side of the bed, trying to keep space between us, my pulse pounding in my throat.
“You’re awifeand amother,” he spits, the words sharp as a blade, “and none of your readers know that.Ididn’t know that. You pretend to be someone you’re notevery day of your life!” His words cut deep, striking at the soul of the part of myself I keep private, the people I’ve carefully kept separate from my public persona.
I feel the sting of his words, but I refuse to let him twist this around. I won’t let him make me feel guilty for something that has nothing to do with what he’s done. “That’s not the same,” I whisper, my voice trembling, my eyes wide with fear and anger. But even as I say it, I feel the weight of his accusation bearing down on me, forcing me to question myself, if only for a fraction of a second.
He stands at the edge of the bed now, towering over me, his eyes dark and unreadable. I can’t shake the feeling that something terrible is about to happen. I’m trapped, and we both know it.
I slide off the bed cautiously, my feet hitting the cold floor as I try to create some distance between us. We’re on opposite sides of the bed now, a temporary barrier between us, but it offers no real protection. My heart races, my mind grasping for a way out, but every path leads back to the same conclusion. I can’t outrun him.
“Can you blame me for trying to keep my life private?” My voice wavers as I speak, but there’s a desperation in it. “Look what happened with the little information I did put out there.”
My words hang in the air, but they don’t seem to faze him. He starts to move, slowly, deliberately, walking around the bed like a predator closing in on its prey. My pulse quickens as I realize the bed is no longer a safe barrier—it’s just a flimsy, meaningless divide between us.
My back presses against the wall, the cool surface grounding me in this terrifying reality.There’s nowhere to go.And now he’s right in front of me, looming over me with that same unnerving calm.
My mouth is so dry I can barely swallow, my palms damp with sweat. I feel like a cornered animal, powerless, helpless. I know I’m no match for him physically—he already proved that when he grabbed me so easily. I force myself to keep my gaze on him, even though every fiber of my being wants to look away, to shrink into nothingness.
“We’re no different, Petra,” he says, his voice softer now, almost coaxing, as if he’s trying to make me believe it. His height makes me feel even smaller, even more vulnerable. His voice lowers further, like a whisper of temptation. “You needed inspiration. I gave that to you in more ways than you could have possibly contrived inside that head of yours.”
He leans in, his breath hot against my ear, and I feel my skin crawl at the proximity.
