"I followed you all the way to Portland.” He pulls out his phone, taps the screen. "Want to see what I found?"
The video is dark and grainy, shot from a distance. But it's unmistakable. Julian and me in the parking lot in Portland. His mouth on mine. My hands gripping his jacket.
Fuck.
Rage bubbles up through the fear. "You're spying on me now?"
"I had a good reason!" His voice explodes through the apartment. "Since apparently you're a slut who can't be trusted!"
"It was one kiss! I pushed him away!" I point out. "You saw it with your own eyes."
"Did you want to fuck him?"
"No! God, no. It was just that one kiss, and I—"
"Do you have feelings for him?"
The question slams into me with the force of a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. My mouth falls open, but no sound comes out.
He stares at me, his gaze intense.
I try again, my lips forming shapes around words that won't materialize. My throat feels like it's closing, constricting around the truth I can't—won't—admit. Not to him. Maybe not even to myself.
The silence stretches between us, heavy and damning, and I watch Daniel's expression shift from fury to something far more dangerous: understanding.
His hand cracks across my face.
The world tilts. My head smashes against the counter edge. White-hot pain explodes through my skull. I crumple to the floor, hand flying to the wound. When I pull it away, blood covers my fingers.
Daniel stares down at me. No regret. No remorse. Nothing but cold calculation.
"Things are going to change around here." His voice stays eerily calm. "You clearly can't be trusted anymore. I'll need to keep a much closer eye on you."
I can't breathe. The room spins. Blood drips onto the hardwood.
This is it. The moment I become her—that broken girl from years ago, the one who ended up pinned down and helpless in a situation she couldn't control. The girl who kept asking why, over and over, searching desperately for an explanation that would make sense of the senseless. The girl who felt dirty afterward, no matter how many showers she took. Beaten down, not just physically but in every way that mattered. Wronged by someone she should have been able to trust. The girl who felt sick to her stomach, who wanted to crawl out of her own skin, who couldn't recognize herself in the mirror anymore.
I have to leave. Tonight. Now.
But when I try to move, fear paralyzes me.
"Come on." He extends his hand. "Let's get you cleaned up."
In the bathroom, he dabs at my wound with gentle fingers, applies antiseptic, and bandages it carefully. Sweet. Tender. Like he didn't just split my head open.
"You might have a concussion." His tone stays matter-of-fact. "I'll watch you tonight. You shouldn't sleep."
He shows no remorse. Acts like nothing happened.
My head throbs. Everything feels fuzzy and distant and wrong.
I sit frozen, unable to speak, unable to process that this is my life now.
Exhaustion settles into my bones like cement. Every muscle aches. My head pounds where it split against the counter. I keep my movements slow, careful, like I'm walking through water.
Reeves appears beside me, arms crossed, watching. "You look like death."
"Thanks." I force a smile that doesn't reach my eyes.
