I scrambled up, slipping on the slick floor, my limbs flailing. I ran.
As I ran past the living room where we had fucked on the rug I realized that every inch of the house was tainted. Every surface held the ghost of their touch, and now those ghosts were laughing at me.
The bedroom.
I slammed the door and threw the bolt.
But the sound was still there. The speakers were powerful enough to punch through the walls.
"Is that a heat? Look at the floor!"
"Get out," I sobbed, tearing at the t-shirt I was wearing. It smelled like Daniel. Sandalwood and lies. I ripped it off, fabric tearing. I couldn't have it on my skin. I couldn't havethemon my skin.
I was naked again, shivering in the cold air, but the scent was still there. Bourbon. Chocolate. Spice. It had seeped into my pores. They had marked me. They had branded the merchandise before putting it up for auction.
Refuge. I needed a bunker.
I threw myself at the door of the en-suite bathroom.
It was the only room in the house without floor-to-ceiling windows. Just a small, high frosted pane for ventilation.
I slammed the door and locked it. Then I dragged the heavy teak towel hamper in front of it. Then I grabbed the bathmat and shoved it into the crack under the door.
I huddled in the furthest corner, wedged between the toilet and the bathtub, my bare back pressed against the cold slate tiles.
This was my safe space. This was where Anders had washed me. Where he had looked at me with those piercing blue eyes and told me I wassustainable.
Liar. Liar. Liar.
I squeezed my eyes shut, rocking back and forth, my hands clamped over my ears.
But the psychological warfare was precise. The audio wasn't just noise; it was a trigger key.
Flash.
I wasn't in the bathroom.
The smell of slate and expensive soap vanished, replaced instantly by the cloying, suffocating stench of floor wax and stale popcorn.
The light shifted. The grey gloom exploded into the blinding white glare of stage lights.
I was eighteen. The microphone stand was digging into my palm. The heat was a tidal wave crashing over my head, pulling me under.
Don't look at them. Don't look at the crowd.
I turned my head to the left, seeking an anchor. Seeking authority.
In the memory, Anders was sitting in his chair behind the podium. He was wearing his charcoal suit. He was looking at his watch.
He looked up. He met my eyes.
But this time, in the flashback, he didn't freeze. He smiled.
It was a cold, shark-like smile. He held up a phone, the camera lens pointed right at me.
Smile, Tessa,the phantom Anders whispered, his voice merging with the recording outside.Think of the engagement metrics.
"No!" I shrieked, banging my head against the tile wall behind me. "I’m not content! I’m a person!"
