I grab my phone, searching my messages again. The threat is gone. I hallucinated it.
I can’t tell Irvin about Emerson. He studies my every move like a lab rat. Honestly, I don’t blame him—I just accused a stranger of attacking Winter.
“I don’t think I’m well, Irvin. I-I keep seeing and hearing things again.”
“What else have you been seeing?”
I’m quiet, listening to the rain patter against the windows. I frown, shoulders slumping.
I lay my head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. “I’d rather not say.”
He traces a finger along the back of my hand. “I’m making you an appointment tomorrow with a psychologist.”
I sit up. “No. It won’t help. I don’t want to be put on different medication like before. I’m sorry I’m crazy.”
He strokes my cheek. “You’re not crazy, my princess. You had some trauma that you’re not dealing with. You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but you need to talk to someone.”
Usually, I’d be pissed at Irvin, but I need him more than ever. He’s right. I do need to see someone, but I don’t want to deal with my past right now. I know I suffer from PTSD, but I can’t be heavily medicated—I need to function. I have to face that I’m hiding my secret identity from my friends and him. Everyone would view me as a fraud. I work so hard to keep my past a secret, but it keeps slipping through the cracks. How long can I keep this up? I have no clue.
“Let me be strong for the both of us, my princess. Let me love you in ways you can’t.”
He kisses me and wraps his arms around me, pulling me even closer.
Burnt fireworks. Metallic blood burns my nose.
I jump out of bed and rush to the bathroom, emptying my stomach into the toilet.
Irvin enters the room and bends down, holding my hair while I continue to puke. I flush, grab mouthwash, swish, and spit.
“Thank you, Irvin.”
He nods and scoots me into his arms, placing me in his lap. I need his warmth, his safety. I let the tears flow, sobbing uncontrollably.
Irvin
Ilean back in the executive chair in my office. For the last week, I’ve been watching Lilac. I tried to reason with her about going to therapy, but she refuses. She said the psychiatrist will dope her up on medication. Everything adds up now: dissociative amnesia, flashbacks, hallucinations of smells. She has severe PTSD. She won’t open up to me, and she won’t tell me what happened in her past. I need to find out so I can help her.
She’s been throwing herself into schoolwork, keeping herself from thinking about Winter. Everyone on campus is on edge, and the news spread quickly about her friend. From what Jameson told me, parents who are part of the American Billionaire Club are debating pulling their children from the school if they don’t tighten up security.
Footsteps press against the wooden floorboard outside my office. No doubt, Lilac is spying on me. She does that often, listening to my conversations while I’m in my office studying for an exam. Right now, this class is kicking my ass, and it’s a struggle to keep my grades up because I hate school.
My phone rings. I tap the green button, then speakerphone.
“When is your next trial?” My father’s voice booms through.
I rub the back of my neck. The last trial almost destroyed my mind—the hallucinations, the pain when I thought Lilac was the one being gang-banged, the way they manipulated me into thinking she didn’t love me.
“Two weeks from now,” I answer, pushing myself off my executive chair.
I stare out the window as the wind whips through the tree limbs. The sky is cloudy, foggy, overcast. It’s usually like this in mid-February. I find peace in the gloomy sky. It soothes my soul.
“Have you found anything on her background?” my father sneers.
I wish he would drop it. It doesn’t matter anymore, and I’m already getting punished by the American Billionaire Club.
I grip the phone until my hand aches. “Why the fuck does it matter?”
Silence stretches. My father breathes hard.
