Page 114 of Damsel in Disguise

Heads turn. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. A few people stop where they stand, staring at me as they’ve just caught a glimpse of a psychopath on the loose.

Parents pull their children closer, fingers tightening too hard around their small arms as they steer them away, their eyes never leaving me.

The female officer reaches for me again. “Ma’am—”

I shift, trying to slip past her grip, but she’s trained.

Her hand catches my arm, fingers locking in with practiced precision. For a second, resistance coils tight in my muscles, ready to snap.

Then I let it go.

I exhale slowly, forcing my body back into stillness, allowing her to cuff me and guide me forward.

Her grip doesn’t loosen—if anything, fingers press hard enough into my skin to leave a dull, throbbing ache. Thankfully, it’s not my left arm.

The cuffs click into place.

The male officer stays close on my other side, just within reach, close enough to intercept, to restrain if needed.

The space around us shifts while we walk ahead—people parting without being told, instinctively creating distance.

Eyes follow. Whispers begin to spread, crawling over my skin like an unwelcome bug.

I don’t look at them. My focus stays locked forward—my mind is calculating the distance from the exit points and timing.

Three steps to the left—crowd density thickens, too many bodies to push through.

Seven ahead—the main exit.

Two behind me. One at my side.

No clear break without escalation.

My eyes close briefly in surrender, shutting out the chaos, the weight of stares, the tightening grip on my arm.

I can’t get out of this mess.

The automatic doors slide open as we approach. A rush of cold air greets us on the other side. The noise of the terminal drowns out the second the door shuts behind us.

The transition is abrupt, jarring after the controlled environment inside.

A police car waits just beyond the curb.

They don’t slow down as they guide me toward it. The female officer’s grip shifts slightly, repositioning, more secure now as if she expects me to bolt.

I won’t.

I’m too sober from the fear that my family will know about how seriously I fucked up. They will know about the past that should’ve stayed between Asher and me.

The back door is already open.

“Get in,” the male officer says.

I lower myself into the seat. The interior smells faintly of leather and something sterile.

The door shuts beside me with a solid, final sound.

They follow in right away—the male officer sliding into the driver’s seat, the female taking the back seat beside me, her body angled just enough to keep me in her peripheral vision at all times.