Chapter 21
Chapter
Twenty-One
OREN
The first text comes mid-morning.
Unknown number: Miss me, Ore-O? Bet you do.
My stomach drops. No name. No picture. But I know that cadence, that smug curl of words. Vince. And, of course, no one else turns my name into my least favorite cookie.
I shove my phone face-down on the desk and try to keep working, fingers hovering uselessly over the keyboard. Every sentence I type reads wrong. By the time the second text comes—
Unknown number: Can’t hide forever.
—my throat’s so tight I can barely swallow.
I shut the laptop, needing to get away from my desk.
Check-in time with Keane comes and goes without a word.
I silence the group chat blowing up with a recap of last night.
No coffee—what’s the point, when my nerves are already sparking like live wires?
Instead, I drag my weighted blanket from the bed, cocoon myself on the couch, and flick on cartoons.
The bright voices and goofy sound effects blur into background noise, a flimsy shield against the way Vince’s words echo in my head.
The phone buzzes again but I don’t look. Afternoon slants into evening. My limbs feel heavy, my chest a mess of static. Still I stay buried, blanket tight, hoping if I don’t move, maybe I’ll disappear. Or the world outside will.
Until a knock echoes from my door.
I freeze under the blanket, heart pounding loud enough that whoever is on my doorstep can likely hear it.
“Oren?” Keane’s deep voice laced with concern. “It’s me.”
My heart lurches. For the first time all day, I take a breath that actually feels like air.
Another knock, softer this time.
“Sweetheart? I just wanted to check in. You missed our call.”
His voice isn’t sharp. Not worried in the way that makes me feel like a problem. Just… careful. As though he’s handling glass.
I tug the blanket tighter, staring at the flickering cartoon characters.
He waits. Long enough that I almost think he’s gone. Then, gently: “I’m not leaving unless you tell me to. But I’d rather stay. Even if we just sit on the couch and don’t talk.”
My throat burns but I don’t answer.
“Not gonna push.” His voice is soft, a hand smoothing down ruffled feathers. “I just… I need to know you’re okay. Knock on the door if you want me to stay outside. Or open it if you want me closer.”
The silence stretches. The only sound is the cartoon theme song. My hand shakes as I finally toss the blanket off, feet cold on the hardwood. I shuffle to the door. My fingers hesitate on the lock.
With one last deep breath, I twist it open just enough to see his face.
Keane stands there with a paper bag in his hand. His expression softens the second he sees me. Not with pity, but relief, warmth. Like I’m exactly who he came for.
I’m afraid to let him in. Afraid to drag him into my mess, my past, into the shadow Vince still casts. Afraid Keane will take one look at the baggage I carry and decide I’m not worth the trouble. Too complicated. Too broken.
But now that he’s here, standing in my doorway with his patient eyes and constant presence, all that fear softens into something else. A pull. A want.
I just want to melt into his strong arms and let him make it all better.
Isn’t that what Daddies do?
All at once, I can’t hold back anymore.
I stumble forward and fall into Keane’s arms, burying my face against his solid chest. His arms wrap around me instantly. His shirt smells of soap and the faintest trace of cologne, strong and simple, like him. I squeeze fistfuls of fabric, clinging tighter than I mean to.
“Easy, baby,” Keane murmurs against my hair. His voice rumbles through his chest, deep and low, grounding me. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
A sob shudders out of me before I can stop it. “I didn’t wanna drag you into this.” My words are muffled, shaky. “Didn’t wanna scare you off.”
Keane tips my chin up with one big hand until I’m forced to meet his eyes. Calm. Certain. No hesitation.
“Nothing about you scares me, Oren.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “Not your past. Not your mess. You hear me?”
I nod, throat tight, and whisper, “I didn’t know if you’d still want me.”
He presses a kiss to my forehead, firm and sure. “Want you?” His laugh is soft. “Baby, I came running.”
And just like that, my whole body melts.
Keane’s gaze sweeps the room—cartoons still murmuring on the TV, the messy cocoon of blankets on the couch, my phone buzzing silently against the desk, desperate to be heard.
He steers me gently toward the couch, steady hand at the small of my back.
“Sit, baby.”
I sink into the nest, pulling the blanket over my lap like a shield. Keane crouches in front of me, his eyes searching and impossible to dodge.
“Tell Daddy what’s wrong.” His voice is calm, not demanding, but leaving no space for hiding either.
I shake my head, chewing my lip, heat creeping up my neck.
He reaches out and covers my fidgeting hands with his big ones.
“You don’t have to be brave right now. You just have to let me in.”
My chest squeezes. The buzzing phone rattles against the wood again, louder this time, and Keane’s eyes flick toward it. He doesn’t push. Just waits.
I swallow hard. My voice comes out tiny. “It’s… him.”
Keane’s jaw tightens, but his touch stays soft. “Vince?”
The name tastes like poison on my tongue, but I nod.
“Alright,” he says, low and even. “Then we deal with Vince. But first, we take care of you.”
The blanket suddenly feels too heavy, suffocating. I shove it down and blurt before I lose my nerve.
“He’s texting me. From some random number. I didn’t answer, but I know it’s him. The way he says things—like he knows me, like he owns me. As if I’ll just… crawl back if he snaps his fingers.”
My chest heaves. I can’t look at Keane, so I stare at the cartoon characters bouncing across the screen.
“He said I’d regret leaving. That nobody else would put up with me. That I’ll come running when you get tired of me, just like everyone else does.”
The words tumble out as jagged as broken glass. My throat burns.
“I thought I was past this, but I—I can’t stop hearing him in my head. And I hate it, Keane, I hate that he still gets in.”
There’s a pause, long enough that panic flares hot in my stomach. Then Keane’s hands are on my face, firm but gentle, tilting me to meet his eyes.
“You listen to me, Oren. That man doesn’t own you. He doesn’t get to define you. He doesn’t get to breathe your air unless you let him, and I know you’re stronger than that.”
His thumbs sweep across my cheeks, and only then do I realize I’m crying.
“You’re mine now,” Keane murmurs with feeling. “My boy. And I don’t walk away.”
The dam inside me cracks, relief flooding out with more tears. I fold forward, burying my face in his chest, clinging as if I’ll drown if I let go.
“When I first started talking to you online, and then when I met you, I worried I couldn’t be what you needed. That I wasn’t wise enough, experienced enough of a Daddy to give you what you need, but now, now I know I’m exactly what you need.”
His words settle all my insecurities and fears about being too needy, too Little, too… everything Vince made me question about myself.
I let him scoop me up into his lap as though it’s the most natural thing in the world—knees under my thighs, head tucked into his collarbone—and let my breathing slow against him.
My face is still damp from crying, small and trembling, and I feel that fierce, stupid protectiveness radiating off him, strong enough to make my chest ache.
He rubs slow circles on my back and talks out loud, calm and soft, running through a plan. I hang on every word, letting his steadiness sink into me.
“Okay,” he says. “First thing, whatever number texted you, don’t respond. Ever. Don’t feed this.”
I nod, burrowing closer.
“Second, screenshots. Every message, every call, every voicemail—timestamp it and back them up. Email them to me, copy them to a throwaway account we control. I’ll put them in a folder.” His hand threads through my hair. “If it escalates, we’ll have everything we need.”
“Third, block. Block the number, block the account. Change your privacy settings—Instagram, Twitter, whatever. Don’t post where you are.”
I shiver at the thought, and he hums encouragement.
“Fourth, physical protection. Change any door codes he might know. We’ll check your building cameras. We’ll adjust routines if we have to.”
I tighten against him.
“Fifth, witness and documentation.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Write dates, times, exactly what he said. Small details matter. If he shows up anywhere, get plates, take pictures, call me and call the police.”
My eyes widen; the weight of it makes me gulp.
“Sixth, legal steps.” He lets it sit. “Harassment report if this keeps up. Restraining order filings—handled by me. Anything criminal—threats, stalking—that’s a different track. My team will be on it immediately.”
Relief trickles through me.
He rests his chin over my head. “Seventh, community. Adiel knows. I told him to watch for Vince. We’ll tell mutual places you go—bookstore, cafés. Stay close to your friends. They’ll keep you shielded too.”
“Eighth—”
“There’s more?” I ask, still shaky but trying to stay strong.
“Don’t engage. Never respond, even to taunts. If he escalates, I deal with the words. You deal with being okay.”
I let out a laugh, half sob, half grateful. “You’re a walking handbook.”
“Lawyer handbook,” he corrects, but it’s soft. “And Daddy handbook, apparently.” He kisses the top of my head. “Practical first. Then the rest—counseling, security, sleeping arrangements—whatever makes you feel safest.”
I murmur into his shirt, “Stay.”
“I’m not going anywhere tonight,” he promises. “If you want me in the morning while you block and back up everything, I’ll be there. Next to you while you change all your passwords? I’ll be there.”
The promises stack up, sensible and measured, and I drag in a ragged breath in hopes it shores up my courage.
“Do you want me to call Adiel now?” He brushes his thumb over my knuckles. “Or should we grab screenshots first—messages, call logs, anything with Vince’s number—then I’ll call so Adiel has details?”
I lift my head, eyes burning but focused. “Call him. Just… stay with me while you do.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m staying. Always.”