I grip the silk scarf more tightly, twisting it between my fingers. The smooth fabric bunches and wrinkles under my touch. “What else is there? If you know what they did, how would you want to figure this out? You can’t make this undone. You can’t erase what happened.”
You can’t make them unsee what theysaw.
And even if they weren’t the ones who took the AR, I can’t think too long about what else they saw while they were watching mefor weeks.
Me looking like garbage, taking a shower, doing… self-care.
Fucking hell.
Did Oliver watch while Jamie made me come with his voice?
Did the others?
Ugh.
“True,” Mr. Donovan interjects. “But they probably didn’t mean it like you think. You should listen to them. Give them a chance to explain.”
So much for they’re on my side.
“I shouldnothing,” I snap, my voice harsher than intended. The pent-up anger and hurt spill out. “Theyshouldn’t have done this. They had no right.”
“Yes, okay, you’re right,” Morgan concedes. “But come back. Let us help you through this.”
“I have a room for you,” Mr. Donovan offers. “You can stay here as long as you need. I promise I won’t let him come to you. You’ll be safe here.”
I lean against the wall, sighing and closing my eyes. It’s tempting, so tempting to give in, to let them shelter me.
But I can’t.
I can’t go back.
“I appreciate the offer, but no thank you. Seattle was a nice dream, but the dream is over now,” I whisper.
“Amelia—” Morgan starts, but I cut her off, my resolve hardening.
“No, it’s fine. Really, it is.”
As if on cue, Mother’s voice pierces through the wardrobe door, sharp and demanding. “Amelia Charlotte, stop dawdling around in there. We’re going to cut that rat’s nest you’re calling your hair.”
“Was that your mother?” Morgan asks, alarm evident in her voice.
Mr. Donovan’s tone grows urgent, almost pleading. “You have a place with us. You don’t have to stay there.”
“The grandmas and the grandpa, remember?” Morgan asks, and a bittersweet hurt blooms in my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, trying not to choke on the emotion. “And thank you, it was nice having friends for a bit.”
“Amelia, stop—” Morgan’s voice sharpens with rising frustration and desperation, but before she can finish, I hang up and shut off my phone.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Stepping out of the wardrobe, the weight of the conversation presses down on me like a heavy cloak.
“Finally,” Mother chides. “We don’t have the entire day.”
My feet feel leaden as I cross the room, sinking into the cushioned seat at the vanity that is already pulled out for me. Before me, an array of makeup products, a dizzying assortment of bottles, tubes, and palettes is splayed out.
“May I?” The stylist asks as she stands behind me with a brush.
