She hesitates. Just for a second. Then, she nods. “Of course.”
It should satisfy me.
It doesn’t.
She isn’t pushing me away, not really. But she’s keeping something for herself.
AndI hate it.
The nightwithout Olivia is brutal.
Sleep comes in restless, shallow cycles, my body reacting to the absence of hers before my mind even has the chance to process it. The bed feels cold and empty.
My arms twitch with the phantom sensation of her curled up against me—the warm press of her breath against my chest, the rhythmic rise and fall of her body as she sleeps. I turn onto my side, then onto my back, then onto my stomach, trying to find some position that doesn’t make me feel as though I’m missing a limb. It’s useless.
At one point, I grab her pillow and pull it against my face, inhaling the lingering traces of her scent. But it isn’t enough.
My mind won’t stop spiraling. Is she sleeping as restlessly as I am, or is she perfectly fine without me? Does she miss me, or does she relish the space she has taken for herself? Is this just one night apart, or is it the beginning of something worse? A slow, creeping withdrawal, a reclamation of a life outside of me?
The thought fills me with a sharp, visceral panic, the kind that has my pulse spiking and my breathing growing uneven. I try to push it down.She is mine.She said so. She loves me.
But love isn’t enough. Not when I know how fragile it is, how easily something good can be ripped away.
I reach for my phone before I can stop myself.
This is a habit I should have long abandoned. There is no need for this anymore—Olivia is willingly mine, in every way that matters—but I can’t fight the compulsion.
I pull up the tracking data from her necklace first.
The moment the screen loads, my chest eases marginally. She hasn’t taken it off. Not once since the day I fastened it around her neck. It is a comfort, the smallest reassurance that she still belongs to me, still carries a piece of me with her—even when she chooses to spend her time elsewhere.
She’s at her dorm. Exactly where she said she would be. That should be enough.
It isn’t.
My fingers move before I can talk myself out of it, pulling up the clone of her phone.
I scan quickly. Messages from Carolyn and Sophie. Her mother. Nothing unusual. My pulse steadies.
Until I see a name I thought I’d buried.
Landon.
My pulse hammers. A hot, sinking dread mixes with rage, swirling low in my gut like poison.
The conversation is from days ago, an exchange of impersonal New Year’s greetings.Harmless.
But Landon is not harmless. Not to me. Not to her.
He’s the boy who lingered too long. Who pushed too far. Who waited in the wings hoping I would fail.
I should stop. I should put the phone down. I should close my eyes and let exhaustion take over.
But Landon’s name echoes in my head like a warning. A presence I thought I’d eliminated—resurfaced.
So, I do something I told myself I wouldn’t anymore. Told myself I no longer needed to.
I open the security feed.
