Chapter 28 Ledger
LEDGER
The night hums with something sharp and invisible, thrumming beneath her silence, beneath the thick, suffocating weight that’s settled between us.
She sits beside me in the passenger seat, frozen, fingers digging into her knees as if anchoring herself in place.
Her head stays low, tilted just enough to avoid me, like she’s afraid of what might surface in my eyes if she dares to look.
Watching her shrink away guts me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I want to reach for her. Apologize. Wipe the smudged streaks of mascara from her cheeks. But I hold back, not ready to see her flinch after laying myself bare to her again.
The violent truth of who I am sits between us now, undeniable. No rewriting it. No pretending. No shrinking it down into a lie that makes me easier to forgive.
Had it not been for her voice cutting through the fog of rage I was entangled in, I would’ve bashed that guy’s head into the pavement right along with his phone, unwilling to stop until blood was spilled as payment for every tear that she shed.
That’s the kind of savage monster that I am.
Aria shouldn’t be around someone like me. She’s too good. Too pure. Always setting herself aside to see the good in others, even when it costs her. That kind of blind hope is easy to recognize. The same way predators recognize prey.
It’s why I’m drawn to her.
Showing up there was selfish, but I’ve gotten good at justifying anything when it comes to her.
I convinced myself it didn’t matter as long as it went unnoticed.
That over time, she’d pick up the pieces I shattered and build something normal again.
That the memory of me would fade. Or maybe I was always lying to myself.
Maybe her noticing is exactly what I wanted.
Because I’m selfish.
The wheel digs into my palms as I squeeze, tension braced behind my teeth. I grind it down before the words slip out, before it shows and startles her more than she already is.
Her clutch buzzes in her lap, and she startles, spine snapping back against the seat, reflex overriding the poise she’s force into place, a fragile performance of control. It might’ve fooled someone else, but not me.
She doesn’t move. Her rigidity settles back in, breath held tight, like she’s bracing for whatever I’ll say. The buzzing continues.
“Answer it,” I say, low and even, catching the slight turn of her head in my periphery. “Whoever it is, tell them you’re fine.”
She nods, carefully reaching for the bag with trembling fingers and dragging it lower on her thigh before clicking it open. My eyes stay fixed on the road, but I hear her swallow as she taps into her phone, then sets it aside.
Her fingers twitch again, returning to the edge of her pink satin dress where it hugs her lap, a faint tremor running through them. Subtle, but there. She doesn’t lift her head.
The silence festers between us, weighted and loud with everything neither of us is saying.
Then, quietly, a faint jolt of panic threads between her words. “Where are we going?”
It’s barely more than a whisper, stretched thin, almost breathless. It slips free as I round the corner, and I catch the way she stiffens. This isn’t the way to her house.
It hits me now just how vulnerable she is. How alone she must feel right now, sitting in this car with me, no clue as to where we’re headed.
Not knowing if I’ve changed my mind.
If I’m taking her away again. This time for good.
Her life rests completely in my hands, at the mercy of whatever depraved compulsion I keep finding in myself. It’s up to me whether I crush what’s left of her…or set her free.
A low growl sounds from beside me, pulling my attention back. She’s gone still again, hands knotted in her lap, knuckles straining white.
“Do they not feed you at these things?” I grumble, veering into a random plaza with a burger joint tucked in the back.
Her voice is light and feathery when she responds. “I didn’t stay long enough, I think.”
I would’ve missed it if I hadn’t been so focused on her every breath.
I know nothing about prom, aside from the fact that I skipped mine my senior year to arrange my parents’ funeral. That was the day I crossed paths with Antonio.
The day I stopped being the carefree kid I used to be.
It died with them, buried beside the illusion of a life I hadn’t realized was already rotting from the inside. Well hidden behind closed doors.
I’ve been hollow ever since. Numb in places I didn’t know emotion could reach. Grief, rage, desire. It all had sunk so deep that I stopped checking if it was still there. I sealed it off years ago, locked behind years of willful avoidance and silence.
No one’s ever come close to dragging those feelings back to the surface the way Aria has.
Before her, I’d been detached from everything, including my own connections. That’s why I stayed tethered to The Ringer for as long as I did.
That’s the thing about survival—it keeps you breathing, but it comes at a price. It strips you down, corners you, forces you to make trades you can’t come back from. One day you look up and realize you’ve dug in too deep. An endless hole void of light.
Little by little, your heart hardens. What once felt unthinkable doesn’t even make you blink anymore. You come to expect the worst. And what’s worse than that—you stop caring.
Aria might think I spared her because there’s something worth salvaging in me. That it means I still have something left to give.
What she doesn’t understand is that once a soul begins to decay, it doesn’t stay contained. It spreads, slow and silent, until it swallows everything in its path.
I’ll ruin her. And I’ll never forgive myself for it.
A renewed anguish sears my chest as I round the back of the building and pull up to the intercom.
My eyes flick across the menu, scanning fast to avoid stalling longer than necessary. I rattle off item after item, working down a mental checklist, covering every base I can without pausing to ask what she wants, and then pull forward to the pickup window.
It’s best we avoid sparking anyone’s interest while we wait.
All it takes for trouble to ensue is a single wandering pair of eyes sneaking in looks through my car, probing and making assumptions about why I have a young, disheveled girl who looks like she belongs in high school sitting beside me, her makeup streaked, distress still etched across her face.
It doesn’t look good for me. Especially when you tie in our clashing attire, her refined yet still distinctly youthful dress stark next to my casual black t-shirt and jeans.
I angle my body to block her from the camera overhead as we wait. No one else needs to see her. Talk to her.
With my attention now fully locked on her, my gaze dips to the swell of her chest beneath the tight neckline, the pink fabric pulled taut, accentuating the rise and fall of her breath.
That same pink bleeds upward, into her chest, along her throat, across her cheeks, until the flush echoes the flaming glow from the photo. The one I just deleted. The one that was meant for me.
She swallows, mustering the courage to meet my eyes again. “You showed up.”
A vein pulses in my hand where it grips the wheel. Only then do I realize how tightly I’ve been holding it.
The woman behind the window appears just then, pulling me out of whatever I intend to say.
Her voice is flat and tired as she passes over a grease-soaked, piping hot paper bag.
She doesn’t seem like the observant type, her brain scattered from the late-night shift as she fumbles with the receipt, slipping it over without another word.
I shift gears, pulling out of the line as an incoming car takes our place. Silence hangs between us as I search for some place quiet to park.
“Eat something.”
There’s a large spread of options for her to choose from, but I find myself second-guessing the order again, wondering if she’d prefer something else.
The bag rustles beside me. “Thank you.”
I give a small nod like it’s nothing. The least I can do is not send her home hungry after ruining, arguably, the most important night of her year.
“You should’ve told me he was threatening you,” I say, my jaw tight.
She looks down, fixated on the steaming bag over her lap. The fries jut out the top, filling the space with the warm, salty scent of the potatoes, stirring a hunger I hadn’t noticed until now.
“I thought I could handle it,” she says.
“It doesn’t matter,” I clip, easing the car into a shaded lot beside a foreclosed strip mall.
The lettering on the windows is partially peeled, and the atmosphere quiet, private enough to park.
“You never take your chances with any guy. Ever. And you especially don’t try to go up against them on your own. You should’ve told somebody.”
Anybody.
It didn’t even have to be me.
What would she have done if I hadn’t been there? If I hadn’t intervened? Rage simmers in my veins, thundering in my ears as flashes of his hands on her flood my mind, shaking her like she was his possession.
I should’ve ripped his head off.
“You weren’t really going to hurt him, were you?” she asks, her voice small. Hopeful.
My heart splinters as I bite down my response, suddenly hyperaware of how much I don’t want to disappoint her. The truth is there aren’t any limits to what I’d have done if it had gone farther.
“Not any more than he would’ve deserved,” I finally say.
She captures her bottom lip with her teeth, not pressing me any further. I can tell it’s so she won’t have to hear what she already suspects I’d say instead.
We sit in silence, our focus drifting back onto the food, her nibbling at a few fries to quiet the rumble in her stomach while I inhale one of the burgers.
As the night tunnels to a close, my decision settles in, solid and final. Aria can’t keep going through life the way she was. Not alone. She needs someone in her corner, watching out for her, even if that someone is a relic of violence with blood on his hands. I’m all she’s got.