Chapter Four
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Alessio
Two days passed after that. Anya brought up returning the money, but he had already saved the photos in his photo album.
Those photos were new, and he felt like a victim of thievery, not out of the goodness of his dignity but because he was not there to experience those moments with her.
It was irrational, yes, but the thought settled into the background noise that he couldn’t silence.
He wanted to hear about her summer job at seventeen, fresh in the work field and undoubtedly encountering unreasonable customers.
Would he have run his car’s tire over their toes? Probably.
He wanted to be there when she got her X-ray, holding her hand in the waiting room, preparing for the worst, even as she’d call him dramatic.
And he wanted to be there to see her topple over and laugh when she put on the inflatable tube suit because she’d laugh at the tiniest thing.
So, no, he would not return those photos.
Alessio never had a problem with spending money on Anya. It was his money, and not a cent of it had to do with his parents. The competitions he had been in were lucrative, and passive income from sponsorships and interviews added to his wealth.
He should’ve felt offended or angered when she asked if he was trying to entrap her or launder money through her, but all he felt was notable contentment because she was still the Anya he adored.
Sometimes, she’d do things and ask for forgiveness later; putting herself first was not her strongest forte.
She loved herself the most when she made decisions that benefited her despite looming consequences staring in her face. She was selfish when it came to loving herself, which blurred the already indistinguishable line with hate—the same way fire and smoke were inseparable and consumed everything around them.
“Oh, it’s 73 degrees?” a woman’s voice shrilled from across the dining table. “I usually keep mine at 65 because it’s better for the environment. But I get it, not everyone is used to layering up!”
Alessio tilted his head slightly to the side and followed the voice to the woman with dark highlights in her blonde hair.
Clara, he recalled distantly, and the tattoo of her name on the nape of her neck confirmed it.
One of her trio partners was beside him, chattering about being his hardcore fan, and held out his phone case for Alessio to sign. While he kept spewing elated worship, he dropped his name several times in a matter of minutes.
Cosmo. Cosmo. Cosmo. Cosmo. Cosmo.
Alessio had the urge to call him a mosquito. He was that annoying.
It seemed he didn’t want to be a forgotten constellation, but Alessio really wanted to turn him into an asteroid-level extinction event.
“This reminds me of when I started cutting back on using lights at home,” Clara’s voice pierced the tranquil atmosphere again. “I paid less for energy now. I bought candles, a little on the pricier side, but it’s nothing compared to the money and environment I’m saving.”
Anya shifted in her chair and drew up the collar of her pullover. She gave a weak smile; the clear message on her face nearly had a voice, but the woman rambled on about her impressive history with eco-friendly work.
Anya only asked how the trio met.
“Okay,” Cosmo quipped offhandedly, setting aside his phone and marker. “No signatures. Got it.”
When Alessio thought he’d go away, the man fired off another round of conversation on something he thought Alessio would be interested in. Through sheer luck or observation, he brought up the online chatter about Anya and him, where the fans were happily rooting for them.
“There was some hate, but overall, they were mostly happy someone adopted you.”
Alessio’s critical gaze tore through the pumpkin-spiced latte air. Cosmo shuddered and held up his hands defensively.
“Just quoting comments,” he cried loudly to deflect the blame. “I defended her for you, so don’t worry!”
“It’s none of your concern,” Alessio voiced, and the sickly-sweet air turned bitter. “She has me.”
Cosmo, being a staunch fan and having experienced years of his malicious tongue, gave a belly laugh and waved his hand dismissively.
“But you should look at the hate she was getting,” Cosmo added in a lower tone. “They’re more active under fan-made edits of you two. They’re saying you could do much better, she’s using you for clout, or she’s—”
“She still has access to everything,” Alessio said.
He made sure it was captured on the live feed.
It was the quickest way to dominate the internet, enrage aggressors, and leave fans speculating.
While he wanted nothing more than to let everyone know she was once his and would be again in the future, Anya was not ready for the storm a mere confirmation would bring.
Sometimes, he wished he didn’t respect Anya. But he did, so he refused to throw her to the wolves. News articles, magazines, and social accounts were mass reporting on any speculation between them.
Alessio wasn’t affected by it, mainly because he had no interest in sensualized gossip. It looked like Anya either wasn’t affected or didn’t know about the raging internet storm yet.
He’d wager a guess and say she knew since her job was mostly related to Meryl’s online presence.
“I used to wear those, but I switched to natural wool coats. They’re more sustainable and super warm!”
This was the third time he heard that woman, Clara, raise her voice. It was agony—his left ear filled with meaningless chatter, while his right ear burned with the sting of her snide remarks about a pointless piece of clothing.
Nobody cared.
“It was on sale,” Anya retorted while she exchanged a glance with the bald man beside Clara.
He covertly shrugged and went back to his gaming console. He was the third partner in the trio, and his name was inconsequential to Alessio.
“Still,” Clara chided as she sighed heavily with her hand under her chin. “It’s bad for your skin, too.”
Anya smoothed the tablecloth under the candleholder, her movements calm and deliberate, like she mastered the art of nonchalance. Meryl didn’t bother to hide her annoyance, rolling her eyes dramatically but keeping her mouth shut. Alessio thought she’d have lost it by now.
“I use lotion,” Anya answered, composed.
Clearly, she didn’t care about Clara’s opinion on what she wore, the space heater in her home, or the backhanded compliment about her plastic bottle’s design.
Then, everyone’s phone buzzed at the same time with a text message.
The director wanted a confession of a dark secret at this exact moment, and of course, this was an additional commission they’d get at the end.
Any last-minute requests after the contract had been signed incurred an additional charge, double the cost of a daily filming session. It was written in the contract when he signed.
There hadn’t been much drama the last few days. Everyone kept to themselves, which probably wasn’t what the director had hoped for. Now, he was ready to stir up some drama for backlash and attention.
“I lied about burying our family pet. I sold her to the taxidermist.” The console in the man’s hand lifted higher as if he wanted the system to malfunction and transport him into the game.
Clara snorted in shock and spouted nonsense in her moment of rage, but the man didn’t spare her a glance and told her to leave a message.
“Leave a message,” Clara mocked through her teeth.
She popped open the pen cap and scribbled chicken scratch on the back of his bald head, an insult, no doubt. The blue ink stood out against the gleaming surface with a tornado-shaped line underneath a word for emphasis.
Meryl admitted that, as a joke, she’d occasionally slipped one of her baby teeth under her brother’s pillow. Now, he still got weirded out by the thought of extra teeth hiding in his gums.
Anya, Clara, and Cosmo skipped it.
Everyone’s eyes fell on Alessio. He wasn’t going to indulge in the absurd assignment, but the nosiness in Anya’s eyes burned his refusal in his throat.
“Stalking.”
Cosmo’s arm slipped off the counter, Meryl spat out her latte, Clara’s stupefied retching followed by her scuffing chair, and the bald man’s hands shook on the console. They waited with bated breath for him to elaborate, but he simply cocked his head to look at Anya.
She wrinkled her brows, lost in thought, trying to figure out why he’d practically pointed the answer at her.
“Excuse me?” Clara squawked, inexplicably outraged on behalf of herself.
“You confessed to a crime on live TV,” Cosmo stated, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder.
Meryl grimaced and ruffled her hair in what seemed to be frustration and disbelief. Anya’s head turned from each person’s reaction and was as lost as the man engrossed in his game.
“Just to clarify, for the fans, I mean,” Cosmo said as he cleared his throat melodramatically. “Are you doing the stalking or being stalked?”
Alessio didn’t give them the satisfaction of an answer and left the room.
* * *
The heat was out.
The message arrived at one in the morning while Alessio was scrolling through comments on the show’s edited videos and live feeds. Surprisingly, the commentary was tamer than he’d expected. Most fans redirected attempts to dig into Anya’s private life and history.
Even so, his own fans noticed the double standard in how he treated Anya compared to everyone else. He thought he’d been subtle, sprinkling hints sparingly, but his body betrayed him through instinct and muscle memory.
Another message said to separate women and men into two rooms due to a space heater shortage.
His clothes clung comfortably while retaining body heat, and its fit allowed for movement.
Instead of heading to the designated area, he found himself in front of Anya’s door. The cold knob fought the circling heat in his palm, and it lost when he twisted the lukewarm metal.
How many times had he told her to lock the door before sleeping? And when would she learn to leave her ringtone on?
She slept like the dead. Apocalyptic survivors would’ve thought she was a corpse and moved on.
Most people assumed Alessio’s favorite view was the golden bullseye, but he never made archery into a career. It was merely a hobby, a time-passing habit that stayed with him for years, and a necessity to steer his unhealthy attention from Anya.
Without it, he’d fill his vacant rooms with her photos and things she left behind.
They were all wrong.
The moonlight slipped through the cracked curtains, casting a soft glow across her hip, and snuck through her delicate fingers. She slept peacefully, her blanket kicked to the foot of the bed.
His chest swelled heavily in exasperation.
Slowly, he knelt on one knee and brushed the fallen strands of hair from her face. Her faint exhale caused his fingers to stutter and freeze mid-brush. He cupped her cheek, his thumb gently tracing the delicate curve, and paused as the cold touch of her ear grazed against his palm.
This was his favorite.
At this perilous moment, Anya was his again. It was fleeting ownership and quashed the atrocious rage mindlessly escaping through his skin.
So vulnerable, so unaware, and possessively drowned in his scent.
He kissed her forehead, soft and brief. Her lips parted with a sigh, and she nuzzled into his hand. The tension in his chest barely fled after the next heartbeat.
A rough yank of the blanket from the bed didn’t wake her, nor did the swift wrap of her body inside the fabric. After she was hidden inside the blanket with only her head and feet visible, he took her into his arms and left the dim room, cozy from residual heat.
He was stopped in the hall by Meryl. Her entire appearance was disastrous. She smacked her tongue at the roof of her mouth when she saw who was in his arms, but she had her own blanket and pillow to carry, so she relayed the message about everyone staying in the common area until the rooms were prepared.
Alessio followed her lead and noticed they were the first to arrive. He could hear the ruffling and heavy thumps down the hall, but he paid no more attention to that than the camera on the wall.
Perhaps this was another ruse for content by the director.
Alessio put Anya on the couch and tucked her in the blanket, trapping her body in an intentionally awkward position. He shoved a sofa pillow under her spine for good measure.
“That looks petty,” Meryl resounded from behind.
“Really,” he expressed, almost lethargic. “I don’t want her to fall.”
“Right,” she copied his tone perfectly. “Just hope you haven’t forgotten who you are.”
Meryl threw her pillow onto the loveseat and placed her blanket on her lap before she took out her phone to search for something.
He took a seat at the end of the couch where Anya’s foot was, his weight dipping the surface, and her legs straightened a little to graze the side of his thigh. The muscles tensed, and the tingling sensation at the back of his neck settled into his fingers despite him curling them inward to stop himself from grabbing her ankle under the blanket.
The loud noises from the hall stirred Anya awake, confusion staying in her blurry eyes as she stared at the backrest. Her head tilted down to find the source of the noise, and their gaze met with such comedic horror in her eyes that he assumed she was caught red-handed sleeping on the job.
She squirmed as her face scrunched up adorably. He’d cocooned her too tightly, so there was no way she could free herself without his help.
“Your fans are asking why you went into her room,” Meryl inquired, her eyes straying from her phone to raise a gloating brow.
Anya would’ve slept through the cold if she wanted, but he knew she would feel under the weather sooner or later. He didn’t want her sick. It’d meant she had to rest and quarantine away from others, which was not why he joined this dreadful show.
“Were you going to carry her?” Alessio went with that instead.
She scoffed and switched to lean on the other side’s armrest. “Now, they’re demanding to know what she is to you.”
“And that’s not their business.”
The squirming had stopped, and he looked down to see uncertainty prancing in Anya’s eyes.
“Of all the people they could stan, they pick the most cynical and unlikeable one,” Meryl needled as she laughed rowdily at the comments on her screen. “I feel bad for the fans.”
“Don’t be.” His back cushioned nicely on the couch as he peered from the corner of his eyes to watch Anya secretly try to sink into the crevice of the plush. “I have no use for them.”
“Are they masochists?” Meryl snorted with disbelief. “Because they’re swooning over you.”
Anya managed to free one arm before she hurriedly did the rest. She threw the blanket down to her knees and wheezed, face red and chest heaving, and then a distrustful side-eye was thrown at him.
He blinked and deftly feigned ignorance.
“Why am I out here?” she asked.
“Sleepwalked,” Alessio and Meryl replied in chorus without an ounce of hesitation or guilt from lying.
“I was awake when you were talking, right?” Anya baited lightly.
“Didn’t notice,” Alessio taunted.
“Didn’t realize.” And that was Meryl’s coyness.
At that moment, the trio burst out from behind the hallway wall and stumbled into the common area. They were frazzled, dressed in clothes that weren’t theirs, and had starkly red marks on their calves.
They looked like hickeys.
Strange place for them, but that wasn’t Alessio’s concern.
“You guys are fast!” Cosmo laughed, scratching the back of his head.
His champagne silk top rose embarrassingly high, barely reaching his mid-stomach as it was several sizes too small.
Clara fiddled with her hair, attempting to tame it, while another man assisted, focusing on strands she missed. The unnecessarily strong urge to follow that arm up to a crooked wig on top of the man’s bald scalp was compelling.
“Viewers want to know if it was cosplay ,” Meryl interrupted with her usual candor to slap the intense elephant in the room.
“That’ll get the live banned,” Cosmo admitted sheepishly, his cheeks tinged pink. “Consensual, nonetheless.”
What had he done to understand the insinuation? Alessio did not deserve this.