I walk to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of butterscotch bourbon, but don’t drink it. Instead, I stare at the amber liquid, thinking about choices and consequences.
Everything that’s happened; from that first meeting at the bookstore to today’s violence, has led us here. Now I have to trust that when Lila knows the whole truth, she’ll understand why I did what I did. And maybe, if I’m incredibly lucky, she’ll forgive me for the parts where I failed her.
I set the untouched bourbon aside and pick up my phone again. There’s work to do. Eli needs to be put away for a very long time, and I have resources that can make that happen. Amanda Finley deserves justice, and Lila deserves freedom. I can help with both.
It’s time to step out of the shadows and into the light. Whatever comes next, I’ll face it head-on, without masks or hidden cameras. Just a man trying to make amends for his mistakes and prove he’s worthy of a second chance.
For Lila, I’d do anything.
26
Lila
The hospital room ceilinghas exactly forty-three tiles. I’ve counted them three times now, tracing the fluorescent lights that make everything too harsh, too real. My ribs scream with every breath, a constant reminder of how close I came to never breathing again. The hospital gown scratches against my skin, and I can feel the weight of bandages wrapped around my wrist. But it’s the weight of my phone in my good hand that feels heaviest of all, the messages it contains, the decisions I need to make, the future waiting on the other side of these sterile walls.
I shift slightly, wincing as pain shoots through my side. The doctor said I have two broken ribs, a sprained wrist, and enough bruises to make me look like a walking watercolor painting. Plus a mild concussion that has my head throbbing in time with my heartbeat. All courtesy of mylovinghusband.
My eyes catch on a small black dome in the corner of the ceiling. A security camera. I stare at it for a long moment, wondering if he’s watching. Not Eli… they wouldn’t let him near computers in jail, but my other watcher. My stalker. My masked man.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you today. I should have been there sooner.’
His text still burns in my mind. Hours later, and I’m still not sure how I feel about it. Grateful? Angry? Confused? All of the above, plus a heavy dose of painkillers making everything fuzzy around the edges.
The camera’s small red light blinks steadily, a mechanical heartbeat. Is he watching me now, seeing me broken and bandaged? Something in my chest aches at the thought, and it’s not just my ribs. But then I remember his last message:
‘Take all the time you need…I’ll be here when you’re ready.’
No, he wouldn’t watch me like this. Whatever else he might be, he’s decent enough to give me privacy when I’m at my most vulnerable.
The room feels emptier without Mia and Valerie. They stayed as long as they could, Mia holding my hand while the doctor explained my injuries, Valerie pacing by the window, fury radiating from her like heat. Mia left first, apologizing profusely about some family emergency. She wouldn’t say what, just promised to be back first thing tomorrow. Valerie stayed longer, only leaving after I’d gotten that text and insisted I needed rest.
“I’ll be back at eight,” she said, gathering her purse. “With coffee and those croissants you like from the bakery by the print shop.”
“You don’t haveto—”
“Shut up,” she cut me off, but gently. “I’m bringing you croissants. Deal with it.”
I smiled then, despite the pain it caused in my bruised cheek. Having friends who love me enough to bulldoze through my protests is a luxury I’d forgotten I deserved. I would do the same for them.
Now, alone with the steady beep of monitors and the distant sounds of the hospital at night, I can’t stop my thoughts from circling back to him. To my stalker. My protector? The man who’s been watching me for months, who touched me on those steps, who made me feel alive in that VIP room.
I should be horrified by him. That’s what any normal person would feel. But nothing about my life has been normal for so long that the thought of him. Of his hands on me, his voice in my ear, brings a warmth that has nothing to do with my injuries.
‘I’ve removed all of his spyware from your phone. He can’t track you or read your messages anymore.’
I check my phone again, scrolling through the messaging app. It looks the same as always, but something feels different. Lighter, somehow. For years, I’ve typed every message with the awareness that Eli might read it. Now I could text anything to anyone, and he’d never know. The freedom is dizzying.
The TV remote sits on the bedside table, just within reach of my good hand. I grab it, needing a distraction from the throbbing pain that’s starting to break through the medication. The TV mounted on the wall flickers to life, sound low enough not to disturb the quiet of the hospital night.
A game show where contestants scream over spinning wheels. Click. A cartoon with bright colors that hurt my eyes. Click. A cooking competition where someone’s crying over a fallen soufflé. Click.
Nothing holds my interest. My mind keeps drifting back to the moment at the top of the stairs. Eli’s face twisted with rage, his hands in my hair. The sickening feeling of falling, of impact after impact. The certainty, in those seconds, that I was going to die.
I turn off the TV, plunging the room back into semi-darkness, lit only by the machines monitoring my vitals and the soft glow from the hallway. In the sudden quiet, a question pounds in my head, louder than the pain: How the fuck did I let it get this far?
Ten years. Ten years of my life given to a man who could throw me down a flight of stairs and then try to rape while I’m that bloodied and bruised. A man who tracked my phone, read my messages, controlled my bank accounts. A man who made me believe I deserved nothing better.
I wasn’t always this person. Before Eli, I had dreams, ambitions. I laughed easily. I made decisions without checking with anyone first. I wore clothes I liked instead of clothes he approved of. When did I disappear so completely into his shadow?
