Emily
I woke up slowly.
Not the gentle kind of waking, but the kind where awareness seeps in through discomfort. My body ached—deeper than soreness, deeper than fatigue. It was the kind of ache that reminded me of everything I didn't want to think about yet.
I stared at the ceiling for a moment, blinking, breathing.
Get up, I told myself. Just get up.
But my limbs felt heavy, uncooperative. I shifted slightly, and the ache sharpened, radiating through my lower back, my thighs, my shoulders. I pressed my lips together, annoyance flaring.
This is ridiculous.
I reached for my phone on the bedside table, more out of habit than intention.
The screen lit up.
Three notifications.
Unknown number.
My stomach sank.
I opened the messages.
I'm missing you already. What do I do?
My fingers tightened around the phone.
Another message, sent minutes later.
Are you asleep?
And then—
I should probably just tie you to me so I won't have to worry or miss you. What do you think?
I stared at the screen.
For a long moment, I didn't blink.
"He's definitely a psycho," I muttered aloud.
I dropped the phone onto the bed like it had burned me and pressed my palms into my eyes. My heart was already beating faster, irritation and something dangerously close to unease creeping into my chest.
Why was he sending messages the moment he dropped me off?
No—worse.
Why did a part of me expect it?
I grabbed the phone again, jaw tightening. I refused to reply to the messages themselves.
Instead, I typed.
Did you know about the arrangement Nathan's mom made?
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
The reply came seconds later.
Of course. You were the slow one for not decoding why they wanted you to stay the night.
My chest tightened painfully.
I felt stupid. Exposed. Played.
My fingers hovered, then moved sharply.
Then why did you spend the night with me?
This time, there was no reply.
Instead, my phone rang.
I hesitated.
Then answered.
"Emily," Adrian said, his voice low, intimate, like we were picking up a conversation that had never ended. "I need to hear your voice."
"That's not an answer," I snapped.
He exhaled softly, like he was smiling. "I asked you. Many times. I didn't force you."
My grip tightened. "I was drunk."
There was a pause.
"And?" he said calmly.
"And I wouldn't have let you touch me if I'd known about the arrangement," I shot back. "I would never have—"
"You wanted me," he interrupted, his voice hardening. "That's what matters."
"No," I said sharply. "What matters is that you knew."
Silence stretched between us, heavy and deliberate.
Then his tone shifted—lower, darker.
"What matters now," Adrian said slowly, "is that you belong to me. And that isn't going to change."
Something inside me snapped.
"You don't get to decide that," I said, my voice shaking with anger.
"I already have," he replied.
I ended the call.
My hands were trembling as I stared at the blank screen.
For a second, I just sat there, breathing hard, the room too quiet, my thoughts too loud.
Then I opened my messages again.
Typed Nathan's name.
Why didn't you tell me about the arrangement?
The reply came slower this time.
I thought you knew. It was obvious.
I stared at the message.
Obvious.
My throat tightened.
I dropped the phone onto the bed and laughed once—a short, hollow sound.
"Of course," I whispered. "I'm the idiot."
I lay back, staring at the ceiling again, this time not blinking as memories replayed themselves with cruel clarity.
My father's face at the party—too careful, too guilty.
Lily hovering nearby, trying to mask her spite, failing spectacularly.
The way the mothers had exchanged looks. Lingering glances. Silent understanding.
Nathan's mother asking about my night.
Again.
And again.
How did I not see it?
How did I miss something so obvious?
The answer came uncomfortably fast.
Because I was watching Adrian.
The realization hit me like a blow.
Every time he had looked at me, spoken to me, leaned in just slightly too close—I had been pulled in. Distracted. Engrossed.
Did he really affect me that much?
I sat up abruptly, pushing the blanket off with more force than necessary.
"This is dangerous," I said aloud.
Dangerous didn't even begin to cover it.
Adrian wasn't just a mistake. He was temptation, a bad judgment.
Being clear-headed is the only weapon I have, I told myself firmly.
I kicked the blanket away, anger fueling my movements as I stood. My body protested again, aching sharply, but I ignored it.
I wouldn't let him reduce me to someone who reacted instead of thought.
Not again.
I crossed the room, pulled open my wardrobe, and began getting dressed with sharp, deliberate motions.
No softness.
No hesitation.
Whatever game Adrian thought he was playing, I needed to remember one thing above all else:
I wasn't his.
And if he thought otherwise, then he was about to find out just how wrong he was.