Top to bottom insane.
Certifiably unhinged by any reasonable metric.
But… if you read between the lines and see the subtext underneath… it makes sense.
He didn't actually buy me. The auction was theater, carefully staged to make me feel something—anything—again.
The hunt wasn't real either. That maze was a retelling of something I loved dearly, but had to throw away because it broke all the rules and filled me with shame.
He didn't call me his good little slut because he thinks I'm some disposable fucktoy. He said it because he knew—somehow knew—that I needed someone to see the darkness I'd been hiding and call it beautiful instead of broken.
He did all that batshit crazy stuff because he...believed in me.
The man is sick. Absolutely fucked in the head to a degree that probably requires institutionalization and medication.
But hesawme.
He replaced my pathetic blanket fort, a literal representation of my own deteriorating mental health, with a luxury glamping tent.
He put up an actual Christmas tree and filled it with ornaments I chose and desperately wanted, but could never afford.
He left cookies and milk out for Santa, then took a bite and sip so I'd understand exactly what this was.
Not a cage.
Not a trap.
Agift.
And that's all before he started filling bank accounts with endless millions of dollars. So many fucking dollars, I'm probably going to prison for tax evasion because I just keep ignoring it.
I came here for two things and now it's time to go.
I push the laptop out of the tent as I scramble out, then go over to the little tree—completely brown and dead—and pick off all the ornaments, shoving them into my massive purse.
Then I take one last look around before leaving, closing the door behind me.
It's over.
Whatever Caleb was to me, it's done. I've moved on.
But the man deserves credit where credit is due.
Without him…
I can't even think it, but Imust.
Without him… I'd probably be dead.
I dumpeverything on my kitchen counter—laptop, dead ornaments, the weight of my entire former existence—and head straight for my bedroom.
I strip out of my sundress and dig through the activewear section until I find the black leggings with the mesh cutouts running down the sides and a matching sports bra that actually fits properly. There's a cropped hoodie too—charcoal gray, expensive fabric that moves like water.
In the mirror, I look... different.
Not just the platinum hair or the new clothes.
Something about my posture has changed. My shoulders don't curl inward anymore. I'm not trying to disappear into myself.
