manipulative. always has been.
My chest tightens—not fear. Annoyance. Like a mosquito whining near my ear when I’m trying to sleep.
I scroll further.
you don’t survive like that unless you enjoy the fire.
people like her don’t heal. they adapt.
I stare at the words, pulse ticking louder than it should.
Declan?
Maybe.
Or Dean. That bitter, wounded little man still clinging to relevance like lint on a dark coat. He always hated that I learned faster than he did. That I left him behind. I think of our pathetic little life in El Segundo. It feels like a lifetime away now.
I lock the phone, then unlock it again, as if the words might rearrange themselves while I’m not looking.
They don’t.
For a moment—just a sliver of time—I feel something close to rage. Hot. Sharp. Clean.
Then it clicks into place.
Enemies. You don’t get enemies unless you matter. No one throws stones at an empty stage. The tension in my shoulderseases. Villains are just protagonists with better lighting. People love to hate what they can’t control.
I think of Harper—the face of my redemption story. Her smile plastered on the podcast branding, her eyes wide and innocent and nauseating. When Harper speaks, the room goes reverent, like she’s reading scripture instead of trauma. They nod. They soften. They believe her—no footnotes, no follow-up questions.
Funny. I’ve got scars that required stitches, not sympathy, but apparently mine don’t photograph as well.
Every day I watch her wear my role like it was misplaced luggage, and the thought lands sharp and certain: there’s only room for one survivor in this story—and I didn’t claw my way out just to be an understudy.
I’m still scrolling when the mattress shifts.
Blake slides into bed beside me, warm and solid, his arm draping over my waist like it belongs there. He presses a kiss into my hair, unhurried. I’m not sure how we ended up here—intimate, almost tender, hovering on the edge of more—but I find I like it.
A lot.
“What are you doing up?” he murmurs.
“Reading my fan mail,” I say.
He hums, amused. “The unhinged kind?”
“The kind where I’m apparently evil incarnate.” I tilt the phone so he can catch a snippet. “I’ve been promoted from misunderstood survivor to manipulative fraud.”
He laughs—low, genuine. “Finally. I was wondering when they’d catch up.”
I glance at him. “You’re not alarmed?”
“No.” His fingers trace slow, idle circles against my hip. “I like your dark side. It’s honest.”
“That’s a dangerous thing to say.”
“I’m a dangerous guy,” he says easily, then leans in, his mouth brushing my ear. “Besides—people only come for you when you’re winning.”
I set the phone on the nightstand, screen down. The world can wait.
