CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
My laptop has been zero help.
When I searched the name Nathaniel Saint, I came up with nothing that would apply to this man. Absolutely nothing. A few dead ends—some obscure references to old obituaries, and even a couple of ancient business listings—but no social media presence, no birth records, no marriage licenses. At least not for a Nathaniel Saint younger than eighty years old.
He lied about his name. I know that much now.
The realization hits me like a ton of bricks, cold and heavy. Every conversation, every touch, every moment we spent together runs through my mind like a distorted film reel. My leg is bouncing wildly under the table, my nerves completely shot.
How could I have missed this? I feel like a fool, like I let him walk right through my life, leaving chaos in his wake, and I never even questioned it.
I’m on edge, so I stand up and begin to pace the length of the room, hoping that activity will help me focus, hoping that somehow, if I keep moving, the puzzle pieces will start to come together. But the more I think, the more scattered everything feels. My mind spins in circles.
If Nathaniel Saint isn’t his name, how am I supposed to figure out what his real name is? How do you track down someone who doesn’t want to be found? I have nothing to go on. No concrete information. I feel like I’ve been living in a dream, completely unaware that I didn’t even know this man’s real identity.
I rack my brain, trying to recall if he ever gave me any clues.
Something I could latch on to now. But I’ve never even asked him what his wife’s name is. Why didn’t I ask more questions? Why didn’t I dig deeper?
It’s as if I let myself get wrapped up in this fantasy without any regard for
reality, and now I’m paying the price.
Wait. The picture!
I freeze mid-pace, a jolt of adrenaline coursing through me. The selfie I took with him. Maybe I can use that. Maybe I can do an image search on Google and find something that will lead me to who he really is.
I rush back to my laptop, practically throwing myself into the chair.
My fingers tremble as I unlock my phone and find the image buried in my private folder. The picture of us together, both smiling, his arm draped casually over my shoulders. It feels eerie now, knowing that the man in the picture isn’t who he said he was. I quickly email the image to myself, my heart hammering in my chest as I open my inbox. The seconds it takes for the email to appear feel like an eternity, but once it’s there, I click on it without hesitation.
I download the image, my hands shaking as I do, and then upload it into a Google image search. I sit there, my breath coming in shallow bursts as I wait for the results to load, my eyes glued to the screen. The tension is unbearable, a knot tightening in my stomach with each passing second. I need this to work. I need answers. I need to know who he is.
I hit a dead end. Google image search won’t work on faces. Fuck.
I lean back again in my chair to think up another idea as I stare, helpless, at my screen. After a minute passes, an ad pops up, offering to do the search for a fee. It’s the first time I’ve ever been happy to see a pop-up ad.
I instantly click on it, fill out the information on the website, and pay the fee, knowing full well I’m probably being scammed and my identity is about to be stolen. But I’ll risk the fishy website for the truth.
Several images are returned to me, and I scroll through them closely, but none of them are of Saint. They’re all men who vaguely resemble him —some with similar bone structure, others with similar facial hair—but not him. I keep scrolling and scrolling, my frustration mounting, my hope slipping away with each failed match. It feels like every click is another dead end, another step further into this maze of lies.
And then, suddenly, I see a picture that makes my heart drop into my
stomach.
A picture that looks just like him.
My pulse quickens, my hands sweating as I hover over the image, too scared to click but too desperate not to. Please be him, I think, my mind repeating the words like a mantra. Please be him.
With a shaky breath, I click on the picture. The page it takes me to is a Facebook profile, but the page is private. Most of the information is locked away, but the name isn’t. Eric Kingston. I stare at the name, my mind racing, the letters blurring together as I try to process what I’m seeing. The
only thing available to the public is profile pictures—pictures that confirm without a shadow of a doubt that this is the man I’ve been calling Saint.
Saint is Eric Kingston.
Who is Eric Kingston?
There’s no history, no background—just this name and these pictures are all the profile allows me to see. What kind of man goes to such lengths to hide who he really is? My fingers hover over the mouse, itching to click through his friends list, to find something more, but there’s nothing to click on. It’s all locked away behind privacy settings. I’m left with nothing but his face and a name I’ve never heard before.
The reality of the situation crashes over me. I close my eyes and blow out a shaky breath, trying to steady myself, but it’s no use. The questions swirl around me like a storm, relentless and unforgiving. Who is Eric Kingston, and what does he want from me?
I close out of the private Facebook profile and move my mouse to hover over the tabs open on my browser. I need answers, and I’m not stopping until I find them. Without hesitating, I open up Google. My fingers fly across the keyboard as I type in the new name. Eric Kingston. I hit Enter, holding my breath as the search engine returns several hits.
I scroll through the results, scanning the names and descriptions, hoping something will jump out at me. I feel like a detective piecing together clues, but every step forward feels like I’m uncovering more of a truth I might not want. I want to know, but I’m terrified to know.
Finally, I come across a link for an Instagram profile with that name, my heart skipping a beat as I click on it. But as the page loads, my hope deflates almost instantly. Private. Again.
I curse under my breath, leaning back helplessly in my chair yet again, feeling a blanket of frustration settle over me. It’s like every door I open slams shut before I can get a good look inside.
But then I notice something on the Instagram profile that catches my attention. The display name lists a middle name: Merrell. That’s new. It’s another piece of the puzzle, another breadcrumb on the trail that leads to
who this man really is.
Eric Merrell Kingston.
I repeat the name silently to myself, committing it to memory, feeling a rush of anxiety mixed with determination. My pulse quickens as I realize how deep I’m getting into this. I reach for my wallet, my fingers fumbling
as I take out my credit card again. If there’s one way to get to the bottom of this, it’s through a background check. I can’t rely on social media alone. I need more concrete information—something that will give me more than a profile picture or a few vague details.
I open a background check website, the kind that promises a full report for a fee, and enter the information. I don’t know what I’m expecting, but I know I need to see this through. I can’t back down from this search now, not after everything I’ve learned. My knee is bouncing wildly under the table as I wait for the results to load, every second dragging on like an eternity.
When the page finally loads, I’m overwhelmed by the sheer number of results. There are so many Eric Kingstons. My eyes dart across the screen, trying to sort through the flood of names and profiles. Each one feels like a possibility, but none of them fit the image of the man I’ve been with. I scroll and scroll, looking at all the potential matches, growing more frustrated by the second. And then, I see it. One of them has the middle
name Merrell.
It’s him.
I click on the profile so hard I’m afraid I might’ve just broken my trackpad. My heart leaps into my throat as the page loads. I hold my breath, feeling like everything I’ve been searching for is right on the other side of this click. When the page opens, I see that it’s a LinkedIn profile.
His résumé has popped up in front of me. It’s all there, laid out in neat little sections, each bullet point revealing more about the man I’ve been sharing a bed with. I scan the page, my eyes racing over the details. He’s not a detective. He’s not even in law enforcement.
Eric is a fucking screenwriter.
I blink, stunned, as I process the information. He’s supposedly worked on several film projects, some of which I’ve actually heard of. My mind is reeling.
I scroll farther down the page, taking in more of his résumé. But nothing on this page reveals that he’s a detective. There’s no mention of law enforcement, no indication that he’s ever worked in that field. My brain is struggling to make sense of this conflicting information.
Maybe he’s undercover? The thought feels far fetched, but at this point, I’m grasping for explanations. Maybe he gave me a fake name because he’s not allowed to use his real one.
Maybe he’s deep in some undercover operation, and the reason there was nothing in the paper about the suicide and police chase is that it’s all classified. Maybe it’s something he wanted to keep out of the public eye, something too sensitive to be made known. It could explain why there’s been such a shroud of secrecy around him.
No, then him paying off Mari wouldn’t make sense. Him planting fake police lights around my yard. Even an undercover detective wouldn’t do that.
I realize I’m grasping at straws. Every theory I come up with feels like a stretch, but I can’t stop myself from thinking them through. I have to make sense of this. As long as there are still straws to grasp at, I’m going to
hoard them.
What have I gotten myself into?
I open up a new tab, my breath catching in my throat as I stare at the information in front of me. There it is—a phone number listed for Eric Kingston, bold and clear against the white backdrop of the web page. I pull up the contact information for Saint in my phone, my hands trembling as I compare the numbers.
I glance between the laptop screen and my phone screen, willing them not to match, praying that this is just some bizarre coincidence. But no. It’s a perfect match.
The realization hits me smack in the chest, knocking the air from my lungs. My phone slips from my hand, tumbling to the floor with a dull thud, but I barely register the sound. I stand up so quickly my chair nearly topples over. I pick my phone up from the floor and slip it into my back pocket, then take two steps away from my computer, as if the glowing screen has suddenly become threatening, as if the truth staring back at me might physically hurt me. The room spins around me, my thoughts racing in
frantic circles.
Why would he lie to me about who he is?
It makes no sense. Nothing about this makes sense. If he’s a screenwriter, does he have connections to people I know? Is he connected to the adaptation that I wish never happened? Is he connected to Allister McFuckity Fuckface?
How did he even know I was here? How did he know, before meeting me, to tell Mari that we were doing something related to my writing? I thought that was my idea, after I met him.
I replay it all in my head, searching for clues, for signs that I missed— signs that this man wasn’t who he claimed to be. But all I’m left with is confusion, a thick fog of unanswered questions clouding my thoughts.
I turn back to the screen, my eyes scanning the information. His address is listed in Los Angeles. Los Angeles. Hours away from here, miles from the small town where he claims to live. My stomach twists into a tight knot. Why would he pretend to live here?
At this point, I don’t care about the why anymore. I don’t care about anything except getting out of here. The panic rises in my chest, thick and suffocating, and all I know is that I can’t stay here another minute. I feel like I’m trapped in a nightmare, one I can’t wake up from. The walls of the cabin seem to be closing in around me, the silence suffocating.
I need to leave.
Now.
Adrenaline is surging through my veins as I rush to my bedroom. I don’t even stop to think about how best to gather my stuff. I just act, my movements frantic and desperate. I yank my suitcase out from under the bed. My fingers fumble with the zipper. There’s no time to be methodical. I don’t bother folding anything. I pull open the closet, grab handfuls of clothes, and toss them into the suitcase without a second thought. Shirts, jeans, shoes—it all goes in, crumpled and chaotic.
I throw open the dresser drawers and empty them in seconds, piling more clothes on top of the mess I’ve already made. The fabric bunches together, wrinkling under the weight of my toiletries as I toss them carelessly on top. Shampoo, face wash, toothpaste—it all lands in the suitcase in a jumble.
The whole time I’m packing, I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I’m crying now, the sobs quiet but uncontrollable, my shoulders shaking as the reality of the situation crashes down on me. The burden of everything I’ve done, everything I’ve let happen, feels unbearable.
How could I have been so reckless? How could I have been so blind?
I swipe angrily at my tears, but they keep coming as I struggle to think clearly. My hands are shaking so badly that I can barely grip the charger as I pull it from the wall. The cord slips from my grasp, falling to the floor with a clatter, and I choke back a sob as I shove it into the suitcase. My chest feels tight, my breathing shallow, and I feel like I might fall apart completely. How could I be so careless?
The question echoes in my mind, over and over again, but I don’t have time to dwell on it. I don’t have time to think about everything I’ve done in the past few weeks, the lies, the betrayal. It’s all too much. I grab my car keys off the dresser, the metal cool against my palm.
I know I’m leaving half my stuff lying around the cabin, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except getting out of here. Every instinct in my body is screaming at me to run, to put as much distance between me and this place as possible. I can feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears as I rush toward the bedroom door, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
I walk into the kitchen, my mind spinning, the panic still fresh in my veins. And then I scream.
The instinctual sound rips from my throat, but it does nothing to change the scene in front of me. Saint doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t turn around at the sound of my voice, doesn’t react at all. Instead, he’s standing at the table, his broad shoulders stiff, his back to me, staring down at my laptop screen. The very same screen that, just moments ago, revealed the truth to me about who he really is.
My heart constricts as I realize what he must be looking at.
I take a scared step back, instinctively retreating into the doorway of my bedroom, my thoughts a chaotic whirl as I try to map out any possible escape route. My eyes dart to the window. Could I make it out before he reaches me? The window isn’t that far, but it’s partially blocked by the bed.
I’m not sure I could get through it fast enough. The only other way out of this cabin is through the front or back door, and for both, I’d have to pass Saint.
I can feel the terror building in my chest, making it hard to breathe.
My hands are trembling as I bring them up to my mouth to stifle the cry that threatens to escape. I can’t let him hear my fear, but my body betrays me, shaking uncontrollably with each shallow breath.
Saint doesn’t move for a moment, but then he reaches out slowly, deliberately, and places his hand on the laptop. I watch, frozen, as he gently shuts it, the click reverberating in the deadly quiet of the room. It feels final, like a door slamming shut on any hope I had of getting out of here unnoticed.
He begins to turn around, his movements agonizingly slow, like he’s savoring every second before he faces me. My heartbeat continues to thunder in my ears as I take another step back, inching deeper into my
bedroom. When his eyes finally land on me, they don’t meet mine right away. Instead, they fix on my suitcase. His jaw clenches, the muscles in his face tightening as he processes what that suitcase means. His hands curl into fists at his sides as he shakes his head slowly, deliberately.
“You’re leaving?” he says, his voice low and controlled, but I can hear the undercurrent of something darker simmering just beneath the surface.
His tone isn’t one of curiosity. It’s an accusation, filled with disbelief and something far more dire.
His gaze is pressing down on me, but I can’t look him in the eye. I try to force the words out, but they come out as a whisper, barely audible over the pounding of my heart. “You aren’t a detective.”
The accusation hangs in the air between us, heavy and charged with the realization of everything I’ve uncovered. For a moment, Saint doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t try to deny it, doesn’t attempt to explain. Instead, he lifts his eyes from the suitcase to my face, his expression unreadable.
The silence stretches on, thick and suffocating, and the longer it goes on, the more terrified I become. I would rather he yell at me, berate me, anything but this cold, quiet stare.
His eyes bore into mine, piercing through the distance between us like those of a predator assessing its prey. His face remains expressionless, his body unnervingly still, but there’s something in the way he looks at me that chills me to the bone. It’s the kind of quiet that feels more piercing than any words could be, like he’s calculating his next move, deciding what to do with me now that the truth is out.
I try to take another step back, but my legs feel like they’ve turned to lead, unmovable. I’m trapped, and we both know it. I don’t know what to say, or how I could defuse the tension. No clever words come to me. The silence between us is louder than my scream, louder than any sound I’ve ever heard.
And then, “Why did you look me up?” He takes a small step toward me, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?”
My throat is dry, and I swallow hard, trying to find my voice. “You lied to me.” I’m embarrassed by the audible fear when I speak. “You lied about everything. I needed to know.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes. He takes another step toward me, and I instinctively take a step back, my back pressing up against the doorframe. I can feel the cold wood against my skin,
and the realization that I’m cornered sends a fresh wave of panic through me.
“You needed to know?” he says, his voice dripping with contempt.
“And what exactly did you think you were going to find?” He takes another step forward, closing the distance between us, his presence looming over me like a shadow. “Did you think knowing the truth would change anything?”
I shake my head, my breath quick and shallow.
“What are you going to do about it? Tell your husband?”
My mind is screaming at me to run, to do something—anything—but my body won’t cooperate. I’m frozen in place, trapped in this moment, with no way out. I feel the tears welling up in my eyes, but I blink them back, refusing to let him see just how scared I am.
“Are you . . .” I swallow hard, the fear making it difficult to speak out loud. My voice trembles as I force out the question that’s been clawing at the back of my throat since the moment I saw him standing there. “Are you going to hurt me?”
He shakes his head immediately, his expression one of almost offended disbelief. “What? No.” He answers me as though the question itself is ridiculous, as if I’ve completely misunderstood the situation. How could he possibly think my reaction right now is ridiculous? How can he not see how terrifying this is for me? I’m standing in the middle of a nightmare, and the man I thought I knew is a complete stranger. I have no idea who he is. None.
His name, his job, his life—it’s all been a lie. And now, there’s nowhere to go, and I’m painfully aware of how close he is.
I slide my hand into my back pocket, praying that I can unlock my phone without him noticing. My fingers fumble, slick with sweat, as I try to remember which side button to push to call an emergency number. I can’t let him see what I’m doing. I feel like I’m balancing on a cliff. One wrong move, and everything could fall apart.
I take another step back, slipping from the doorway and into my bedroom, trying to create more space between us, but it feels futile. “Why did you lie to me?” My voice cracks on the last word, a mixture of fear and anger laced into it. I need answers, but more than that, I need him to stay back. To give me time.
He takes a step forward instead, closing the distance between us once again. His expression is unnervingly calm as he says, “It’s what you wanted, Petra.”
The audacity of his words hits me like a slap. I can’t help but fume at that response, my fear momentarily drowned out by a flash of rage. “It’s what I wanted?” I repeat, incredulous. “I didn’t even know you existed before you showed up here pretending to be a detective!” My voice rises with each word, frustration bubbling over. “I know nothing happened out on the road that night. You lied about everything, and you told Mari you were here to help me write. How would you even know to say that?” The accusations and questions spill out in a rush, each one more desperate than the last.
He tilts his head slightly, narrowing his eyes at me, like he’s weighing how much to tell me. The gesture is chilling, his calm composure making everything feel even more surreal. “Do you not remember your words two nights before I showed up here?” he asks, his voice eerily soft.
My words? What is he talking about? My mind scrambles to make sense of his question, but nothing clicks.
The confusion must be plain on my face, because he takes another step toward me, his eyes locked onto mine, and says, “Your live video.” His tone is deliberate, like he’s explaining something simple to a child. “You said you wished you could experience the things you write about. You said your character was a cop. I brought that to you.”
The words are heavy and disorienting. This makes no sense. I try to process what he’s saying, but the pieces don’t fit together. If he showed up here pretending to be a cop because of the live video . . . that means he knew who I was before he ever walked through my door. He was watching the video as it was live? Two days before I even met him?
Which means . . . he’s been following me? He’s in my private group?
My stomach churns with the sickening realization that this wasn’t some random encounter. He’s been planning this. Watching me for God knows how long. How long has he been following me online? The thought makes my skin crawl.
My hand is still in my back pocket, my fingers desperately trying to figure out how to reach 9-1-1 on my phone without looking at it. I keep talking, my voice barely above a whisper, hoping he won’t focus too much
on the arm behind my back. “How long have you been watching me?” I need to keep him talking, need to buy myself time.
“Since the beginning.” His tone is casual, like he’s discussing the weather, but the words send a chill down my spine. “I already told you I’ve seen every one of your live videos. I just left out the fact that I watched them as they happened.”
I cover my gasp with my hand, the horror of what he just said sinking in. He’s been watching me for years, and I thought he just found me. I bring my hand to my chest, trying to steady my breathing, but the fear is overwhelming.
“Do you even have a wife?” I ask, my voice small, as if I’m afraid of the answer.
He shakes his head, smirking slightly. “Marriage isn’t really my thing.”
The simplicity of his answer makes me feel so naive, as if I should have been able to tell he wasn’t being honest. The lie about being married, the infertility, that was just another layer to his deception, another way to manipulate me. He’s been building this elaborate facade, and I fell for every bit of it.
I see it the second it happens. His gaze drops to my arm, the arm I’ve been trying so hard to hide behind my back. The moment of realization washes over his face, and my stomach drops. He knows.
Without thinking, I spin around and rush toward the bathroom. I can hear him moving behind me, his footsteps quickening as he realizes what I’m trying to do. My hands fumble for the bathroom door. My entire body is shaking, but I have to get the door locked. I have to make the call before he
gets to me.
I don’t make it.
Just as my fingers brush the cool metal of the doorknob, Saint’s grip clamps down hard on my arm. The force of it nearly pulls me off my feet, and before I can react, he yanks me back, the air rushing out of my lungs in a sharp gasp. My heart feels like it’s about to explode as I watch in horror while he rips my cell phone from my hand. Time slows, the adrenaline coursing through my veins, as I helplessly watch him glance down at the screen. His face tightens with anger when he sees the emergency number already pulled up, though not yet connected.
I was so close.
“I haven’t done anything wrong, Petra!” His voice is sharp, laced with fury, as he tosses the phone behind him with a careless flick of his wrist.
The sound of it hitting the wall makes me flinch. The next thing I know, he’s pushing my shoulders hard enough that I stumble and fall back onto the bed. I scramble, crawling frantically toward the headboard, trying to put as much space between us as possible. My mind is screaming at me to keep moving, to find a way out, but I’m cornered.
Saint stands at the foot of the bed, his hands flexing at his sides, his jaw clenched. The look in his eyes is unrecognizable, a mix of betrayal and fury. “What would you even tell them when they showed up here?” His voice is mocking, dripping with disdain. “That I role-played too well?”
“You’ve been impersonating a cop!” I shout, my voice shaking with anger and fear. Every word is like venom on my tongue. I can feel the rage boiling inside me, mixing with the terror, making my body tremble uncontrollably.
Saint throws his hands up in exasperation, letting out a bitter laugh.
“You wanted me to!” His voice rises, frustration boiling over as he glares at me. “Your online Q&As are like an open invitation into your life! You’ve told your readers for years what lake you come to. You let the whole world know when you’re here alone. You even answered my question when I asked if you would be willing to do something like this. You said, ‘I would do anything to be a better writer.’”
The realization hits me like a punch to the throat. Oh, my God. My pulse stutters in my chest, and I stare at him, wide eyed. He’s the one who asked that question? He thinks I was asking for this?
My stomach twists in revulsion as the reality of his delusion sinks in.
“That wasn’t an invitation to show up here and lie to me,” I snap, my voice cracking under the pressure of holding back tears. I want to scream, but my voice feels small, trapped under the crushing realization of just how far he’s taken this fantasy.
Saint’s eyes flash with something darker. His tone becomes flat, almost indifferent, as he says, “We’ve both been lying, Petra. You aren’t innocent in this.”
I shake my head, my body rigid with anger. “You attacked me in the middle of the night!” I spit the words at him, my fists clenching the blanket beneath me, knuckles white with tension.
“You asked me to!” he shouts back, his voice booming through the cabin, echoing off the walls like an accusation.
I shake my head adamantly, my whole body trembling with rage. He’s not turning this around on me. I didn’t ask for this. Just because I said in a live video that I wanted experience does not mean that was an invitation for him to actually locate me and act out some twisted fantasy he concocted in his head.
“You pretended to be someone you’re not,” I say through clenched teeth, my voice barely contained.
“So. Did. You,” he counters, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. There’s no apology in his tone, no recognition of the madness of what he’s done. He looks at me as though we’re equal, as if my desire for authenticity in my writing somehow justifies his actions.
“Stop saying I asked you to do this,” I say, my voice breaking under the strain. My hands shake as I grip the bed tighter, trying to ground myself, trying to stay calm, but I can feel myself unraveling. “What we agreed to do together is different from what you chose to do on your own.”
“Is it?” His voice is like ice, unflinching, and he takes a step closer, his eyes narrowing in challenge.
“I never lied to you, Saint!” I yell, my words desperate, grasping for some shred of control in this spiraling situation. “You knew who I was before you showed up here!” My voice cracks again, but I don’t care. I need him to understand that this isn’t the same—that he crossed a line.
He grips the back of his neck, his frustration mounting, his face twisted with anger. “You didn’t lie? Petra, you’re fucking married!” he roars, his voice filled with accusation as he closes the distance between us in three long strides. I instinctively scoot to the other side of the bed, trying to keep space between us, my pulse pounding in my throat.
“You’re a wife and a mother,” he spits, the words sharp as a blade, “and none of your readers know that. I didn’t know that. You pretend to be someone you’re not every day of your life!” His words cut deep, striking at the soul of the part of myself I keep private, the people I’ve carefully kept separate from my public persona.
I feel the sting of his words, but I refuse to let him twist this around. I won’t let him make me feel guilty for something that has nothing to do with what he’s done. “That’s not the same,” I whisper, my voice trembling, my eyes wide with fear and anger. But even as I say it, I feel the weight of his
accusation bearing down on me, forcing me to question myself, if only for a fraction of a second.
He stands at the edge of the bed now, towering over me, his eyes dark and unreadable. I can’t shake the feeling that something terrible is about to happen. I’m trapped, and we both know it.
I slide off the bed cautiously, my feet hitting the cold floor as I try to create some distance between us. We’re on opposite sides of the bed now, a temporary barrier between us, but it offers no real protection. My heart races, my mind grasping for a way out, but every path leads back to the same conclusion. I can’t outrun him.
“Can you blame me for trying to keep my life private?” My voice wavers as I speak, but there’s a desperation in it. “Look what happened with the little information I did put out there.”
My words hang in the air, but they don’t seem to faze him. He starts to move, slowly, deliberately, walking around the bed like a predator closing in on its prey. My pulse quickens as I realize the bed is no longer a safe barrier—it’s just a flimsy, meaningless divide between us.
My back presses against the wall, the cool surface grounding me in this terrifying reality. There’s nowhere to go. And now he’s right in front of me, looming over me with that same unnerving calm.
My mouth is so dry I can barely swallow, my palms damp with sweat.
I feel like a cornered animal, powerless, helpless. I know I’m no match for him physically—he already proved that when he grabbed me so easily. I force myself to keep my gaze on him, even though every fiber of my being wants to look away, to shrink into nothingness.
“We’re no different, Petra,” he says, his voice softer now, almost coaxing, as if he’s trying to make me believe it. His height makes me feel even smaller, even more vulnerable. His voice lowers further, like a whisper of temptation. “You needed inspiration. I gave that to you in more ways than you could have possibly contrived inside that head of yours.”
He leans in, his breath hot against my ear, and I feel my skin crawl at the proximity.
“And you loved it,” he breathes into my ear, the words dripping with satisfaction. “You’re welcome.”
The room feels like it’s closing in on me, the walls shrinking as I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the reality of his presence so close to me. But there’s no escaping it. I can still feel him there, his breath
brushing against my cheek, his body so close it’s suffocating. A tear slips from the corner of my eye, and I bite my cheek to keep from sobbing. I feel the slow, deliberate path the tear takes as it travels down my face and reaches my jawline.
I flinch when I feel his finger brush the tear away, the touch intimate and invasive. It sends a fresh wave of revulsion through me. He hasn’t stepped back, hasn’t given me even a sliver of space to breathe. I’m shaking now, but I force myself to stay still, to show as little of my fear as possible.
I’m not convinced I’m safe. I don’t feel safe. But I’m also not convinced he has any immediate plans to hurt me physically. There’s a terrifying ambiguity in the way he’s behaving, like he’s playing a game with rules only he knows. But knowing now that he’s not actually married—that he’s been lying about every part of himself—puts everything in a different light. It changes the stakes. He has nothing to lose if this affair comes to
light. Nothing.
But me? I have everything to lose.
The realization falls hard around me. My marriage, my family, my life —everything could crumble because of this.
I thought I was in a bad place before showing up here, but after the awful decisions I’ve made these last few weeks, I have sunk to a new low. I haven’t just reached rock bottom—I’ve burrowed myself through the rock and am now sinking into the earth’s mantle, on my way to the core. Down, down, down I fall.
In the midst of my spiraling thoughts, it comes to me. A title for this book. Woman Down. Because that’s what I am. How I feel. It perfectly describes the trajectory of my life, which will more than likely mirror Reya’s. If I survive this, that is. The book may never get finished because I have no idea if I’m safe or doomed right now.
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat painful as I force myself to meet his gaze. I can’t tell if he’s enjoying the power he holds over me or if he’s as lost in this twisted fantasy as I am.
“Are you going to tell my husband?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper, the question heavy with fear. It’s the one thing that could ruin me completely, destroy everything I’ve worked so hard to protect. If he tells Shephard, it’s all over.
He looks almost offended by the question, his brow furrowing as if the very idea is beneath him. “Do you really think I’d do that to you?” His
voice is sharp, almost angry, as if he can’t believe I would even suggest it.
But I can’t trust him. Not anymore.
“I have no idea what you’re capable of,” I say quietly, the truth of my words hitting me hard. I don’t know who this man is.
He’s quiet while his eyes trace every inch of my face as if he’s trying to memorize it, trying to burn this moment into his mind. His gaze lingers on my mouth, his lips parting slightly, and for a brief second, I’m reminded of his taste. I want to spit the taste out. I want to delete it from my memory.
I want every reminder of his touch and his mouth gone from my mind completely.
Saint leans forward, just a little, and brings his hand up to touch my trembling bottom lip with his fingers, the gesture almost tender. It’s as if he’s longing to kiss me again, a thought I can’t even fathom how he could be having right now.
“I’m capable of a lot of things,” he says softly, his voice thick with meaning. “But destroying you isn’t one of them.”
But you have.
I’m struggling to maintain control of my reactions, to keep my face neutral, my body still, but I’m beginning to think I might make it out of this cabin alive. I just have to keep my cool.
“Do me a favor, Petra,” he says, his voice dropping lower, almost a whisper. “When you finish this book, dedicate it to Saint, because he fucked that story out of you.”
His words hit me like a slap, and I gasp—an instinctual, visceral reaction. But it’s not fear that makes me gasp. No, it’s something much darker, something far more unsettling. I gasp because I shouldn’t be feeling what I’m feeling right now, but my body reacts in the complete opposite way from my mind.
My intellect is screaming at me to protect myself, to run. But my nerves and the warmth building in my stomach are craving the opposite. My body still wants him to touch me, to kiss me, to fuck me.
I hate myself right now. I hate that I feel like two different people, warring over a monster. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just run? Why can’t I push him away or do something other than stand here, frozen under his gaze?
Quit being stupid, Petra! This isn’t a fucking book.
“I want to leave,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. The words come out shaky, more uncertain than I intended. It’s the truth—I do want to leave.
My mind does, anyway.
He’s still staring at my mouth, his fingers grazing my lips with a touch so light it sends a shiver down my spine. His eyes flick back to mine, locking me in place with a gaze so intense it feels like he’s seeing right through me, like he knows exactly what kind of battle my body is waging against my conscience.
He completely ignores my request, as if I never said it, and instead, without warning, his tongue dives into my mouth with a heat that steals my breath away. The heat blends with my terror in a kiss that is equal parts passion and desperation, and for a moment, I’m stuck in it.
I don’t want to kiss him back. I don’t want to give in to the pull of him.
But my body betrays me, my lips moving against his as if they have a mind of their own. I feel the familiar rush of adrenaline, the desire coursing through me, and it scares me, like I’m not in control of my actions.
Petra, you are smarter than this. Stronger than this.
I press my hands against his chest, pushing him away from me with all the strength I can muster.
As soon as I break contact, he pulls back with a deliberate slowness that feels calculated. He takes a step back, creating a physical gap between us that mirrors the emotional one I’m desperately trying to put in place. For a split second, as our eyes meet, I see something in his gaze that I haven’t seen today—a flash of vulnerability.
It’s almost as if he doesn’t want me to leave. He’s hoping I’ll change
my mind, hoping I’ll stay.
But I won’t. I can’t.
He’s fucking insane.
I don’t waste a single second. The moment that gap opens, I move. I push off the wall, my pulse sprinting frantically as I rush toward the bedroom door. My hand flies out to grab my phone from the floor, and I snatch it up without pausing. I can feel the weight of his gaze on me, but I refuse to look back. I don’t want to see what’s in his eyes. I don’t want to know if he’s about to stop me.
I pocket my phone and grab my laptop from the table; my fingers grip it tightly as I head straight for the front door, swiping up my suitcase as I walk. My entire body is trembling, every muscle tense as I reach for the
knob, praying that he won’t stop me. I pull the door open with a burst of adrenaline and step outside, the rain hitting me like a wake-up call.
I don’t look behind me, not even for a second.
I toss the suitcase and the laptop into the back seat of my car with shaking hands. The panic is still fresh, still raw, but I’m moving on autopilot now. I throw myself into the driver’s seat and slam the door shut.
As soon as I’m inside, I immediately lock all the doors. The sound of the locks clicking into place feels like a small victory, but I’m not safe yet. I shove the key into the ignition and turn it with trembling fingers.
The engine roars to life, and I waste no time. I throw the car into reverse, my foot pressing hard on the gas pedal. Only then do I dare look up, my heart beating away in my chest like a drum.
Saint is standing in the doorway of the cabin, leaning casually against the frame. His eyes are locked on mine, watching me leave with a look I can’t quite decipher. There’s no anger in his expression, no rage. Just something calm, almost resigned. His posture is relaxed, his arms crossed over his chest, as if he’s content to just stand there and watch. But I can’t shake the feeling that he’s letting me go too easily, that there’s something I’m missing.
I keep my eyes on him as I back down the driveway, my heart racing in my chest. I want to make sure he’s not coming after me, that this isn’t some sick game where he chases me down.
Right before I turn the wheel to get back onto the road, he lifts a hand and waves, the gesture so nonchalant, so normal for such a terrifying moment. It’s as if our parting is just a casual goodbye, like two old friends, and I’m not fleeing, not running for my life with fear clogging my lungs.
My foot slams down on the gas pedal. The tires churn against the gravel, and I take off, speeding away from that cabin as fast as I can, my pulse hammering in my throat. The farther I drive, the harder the tears fall.
Every foot of space I put between my car and Saint releases more of the fear, more of the panic, until I’m choking on the sobs that have been trapped in my chest. I cry, hard, for miles.
I can’t wrap my mind around what just happened. How did I let it get this far?
I think about Shephard. About my girls. Their faces flash in my mind, and a fresh wave of guilt crashes over me. How could I have been so selfish? How could I have put them in danger like this? The thought makes
my stomach turn. What if he decides to come after them? What if my actions have made them targets in whatever twisted game Saint is playing?
I’m not even sure they’re safe from him, or that I’m safe from him, but he’s not following me, and I cling to that fact. I can only hope that his sick fantasy has played itself out, that he’s satisfied with whatever he got from me and that he won’t take it any further in the future. But that hope feels fragile, like something I’m clinging to out of sheer desperation.
I scream, startled, when a piercing, shrieking sound tears me out of my thoughts. My whole body jolts. For a split second, I think it’s him—that somehow, he’s found a way to follow me, to catch up to me. But then I
realize it’s just my phone.
It’s just my phone.
I blow out an unsteady breath, trying to calm my racing heart. My hand trembles as I glance over at the passenger seat, where the phone is buzzing violently. Shephard’s name flashes across the screen, and a fresh wave of tears stings my eyes. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have done something so terrible to a man who has been nothing but good to me?
I grab the phone, wiping at my eyes with the back of my other hand. I answer it, trying to keep my voice steady, trying to swallow the emotion that’s threatening to break through. “Hey,” I say, but my voice cracks, caught somewhere between a whisper and a scream.
“You okay?” Shephard asks, his voice filled with concern. The tenderness in his tone cuts through me like a knife, making it that much harder to keep it together.
I take a deep breath, forcing down the sob that’s building in my throat.
“Yes. Yeah.” My voice sounds brittle, like it could shatter at any moment. “I just—I’m not feeling well, so I’m on my way home early.” The lie slips out so easily, but it feels like a betrayal. Another layer of deception to pile onto everything else I’ve done.
“Oh. Okay.” There’s a slight pause, and I can hear the disappointment in his voice, but it’s masked by his concern for me. “I’ll tell the girls.
They’ll be happy, but I’m sorry you’re sick. Want me to make you some soup?”
Another tear spills down my cheek when he says that. How could I have done something so terrible to a man like him? A man who is willing to drop everything just to make me soup when I’m “sick.” I don’t deserve his
kindness. I don’t deserve him. I suddenly crave the boring. I want complacency. I’ll happily take the mundane over whatever this shit is I’m living through right now.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “Soup would be nice. I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”
“Be careful,” he says, his tone gentle, filled with love and concern.
“I will.” I take a shaky breath, wiping at my tears again. “I love you, Shephard.”
“I love you too,” he replies softly, and it’s like a punch to the gut.
I hang up the phone, but the tears don’t cease. When I come to a stop sign, I glance around, making sure there are no cars behind me. The road is empty. The world outside is quiet, peaceful, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself as I unlock my phone screen. My fingers move quickly as I pull up Saint’s contact.
Without hesitation, I block his number.
I let out a long, shaky breath, staring at the screen. It feels like a small act of defiance, a tiny step toward reclaiming control of my life. But it’s not enough. Blocking his number doesn’t erase what happened, doesn’t erase the fear that he could show up again. I can only hope that cutting him off like this will be the end of him. It has to be.
I pray that whatever this was, whatever game he was playing, it’s over now.
I’ve always known to be afraid of the obvious things like lions and bears, because those are things that present as dangerous. What I’m just now realizing is that I should have been more afraid of the things that have the capability of pretending they’re not dangerous.
Please, let him be finished with me.
