twenty nine
There were flowers everywhere.
Bouquets lined the entryway-roses, peonies, lilies, flowers I didn't even know the names of. They spilled from vases in soft pinks and creams and reds, like the whole place had been transformed into some kind of apology. The scent hit me like a punch. Sweet, expensive, overwhelming.
But I couldn't take it in.
I couldn't take anything in.
My shoes dropped to the floor with a soft thud. I walked past everything-past the flowers, the chandelier, the kitchen with a bottle of champagne chilling in the ice bucket. None of it registered. It all felt fake. Not because it wasn't real, but because I wasn't. Not anymore.
I went straight to the shower.
The light in the bathroom was too white. Too sterile. It buzzed in the corners like it was trying to expose me. I didn't want to see myself. I didn't want to see anything. I avoided the mirror like it might strike me.
I peeled my clothes off in slow, mechanical movements. Each layer felt heavier than the last. Like they were part of a costume I couldn't wear anymore. When I got to my socks, my fingers trembled. I had to sit on the edge of the tub just to pull them off.
I stepped into the shower before the water had even warmed.
It didn't matter.
The cold hit me like a slap, but I welcomed it. At least it made me feel something.
I sat on the built-in bench, the tile uncomfortably cold under my thighs, and drew my knees to my chest.
The water thundered down around me, steaming now but somehow still not enough.
I rested my cheek on my kneecap, arms wrapped tightly around my legs like I could hold myself together through sheer pressure.
I didn't cry at first.
Not really.
Just sat there, blinking, breathing. Letting the steam blur the edges of the night. Letting my hair get heavy with water, my skin wrinkle and prune. It didn't feel like my body. None of it did.
But eventually, the tears came.
And once they started, they didn't stop.
They poured out in waves-quiet at first, then gasping. My face pressed into my knees. My chest caved in like it was trying to fold me into nothing. The sound of the water drowned everything else out, but it didn't drown out the way I felt. If anything, it made the silence inside me feel even louder.
Like I wasn't real.
Like I was some stupid girl who'd let herself believe she could have something permanent.
Something true.
Something that would survive the way people looked at me. Talked about me. Touched me like I was less than.
Even with all the things he said to me, I'd still let myself love him.
And that was the worst part.
I loved Brooks.
But I hated what being with him made me feel about myself.
Like I was an anchor tied to someone trying to float.
Like I was always one headline away from ruining him.
I cried until the skin on my knees stung from the pressure of my own face. Until my throat was raw and my stomach ached from the heaving.
The water never turned cold.
That was the worst part.
It stayed warm, almost too warm, like it was trying to be kind. Like the world didn't understand I didn't want kindness right now. I didn't want softness. I wanted to disappear.
I don't know how long I stayed there.
The grout lines in the tile blurred into nothing. The steam clung to my lashes. I watched drops fall from my elbows, one after the other, hitting the bench between my feet like clock ticks.
I only moved when my fingers started to go numb. The pads of them were so shriveled it looked like someone else's hands.
I turned the water off.
The silence rang in my ears.
I stepped out and the air hit my skin like ice.
I didn't dry off. Didn't bother with a towel.
I walked back into the bedroom, bare and dripping, water trailing behind me on the hardwood floor like breadcrumbs.
I slid under the covers naked, skin flushed and aching, my hair soaking into the pillowcase.
My body didn't feel like mine.
My chest ached. My throat burned. My mind wouldn't stop spinning-round and round in a loop of every horrible word, every terrible thought I'd buried about myself over the years.
The things he'd said weren't new. They were just louder. Like he'd taken every quiet insecurity I'd ever whispered to myself and screamed them back at me with a smile.
I curled into myself, a shaking, silent knot.
And then I felt it.
A hand.
I flinched violently, jerking back, eyes wide.
"Hey-hey, hey. It's just me," a voice said, low and careful.
I couldn't breathe. My vision blurred. My whole body went rigid.
"It's me," he said again.
But I was already panicking.
My lungs collapsed in on themselves. I couldn't get air. I couldn't get anything.
My fingers clawed at the sheets like they could anchor me, but the bed spun beneath me. The room shrank and expanded all at once.
"Amira-breathe. Please, baby, breathe for me."
I couldn't.
I couldn't find the floor. Couldn't find my hands. I couldn't hear anything but the sound of my pulse crashing in my ears.
"Hey-look at me." His hands cupped either side of my face, gentle but firm. "You're okay. You're safe. You're here with me. It's over."
It wasn't over.
It was still happening-in my head, in my chest, in the way my body wouldn't stop shaking.
"Shhh, baby, it's okay." He pressed his forehead to mine. "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm right here."
My lips parted in a soundless sob.
I tried to speak, but my mouth didn't work.
He wrapped his arms around me slowly, letting me feel every inch of his warmth, his presence. "You're not alone," he whispered. "You're not alone."
I don't know how long we stayed like that-his hands on my face, his body curled around mine, his voice trying to anchor me back to the surface.
Eventually, the trembling slowed.
My breathing evened out.
But I didn't speak.
I just stayed there, half-curled into his lap, the blanket twisted around my damp body like armor.
The silence stretched.
Brooks didn't press. He just held me.
One hour passed.
Then another.
His hand moved in slow, steady circles over my spine, like he was trying to smooth out the parts of me that had come undone.
I was still curled under the blanket, knees pulled in, hair damp and clinging to my cheeks.
I didn't know if I'd stopped crying or if I'd just run out of anything left to give.
Brooks shifted a little behind me. Gently, like he was afraid I might break again. His hand slipped up to brush my hair away from my shoulder, fingertips grazing the side of my neck.
He stilled.
I felt it in the way his breath caught-just barely-but enough.
A second later, I felt the blanket shift. Just a little. Just enough for his palm to find the bruise blooming over my arm.
When he spoke, his voice was low. Tight.
"Amira."
I didn't answer.
"What happened to your neck?"
His fingers moved gently, reverent over the damaged skin.
I stayed quiet.
Then, sharper this time-"Amira."
"I'm fine," I whispered.
"Don't do that." His voice cracked. "Don't brush this off."
His hand hovered, like he didn't know if touching me again would help or make it worse.
I turned my head the other way, trying to bury deeper into the pillow. "It's nothing."
His hand closed gently around my forearm-not rough, but insistent.
"Don't minimize it."
My throat tightened.
He sat up straighter behind me. "What happened?"
I didn't answer.
"No," he said again-quieter now, but with steel in it. "I need you to tell me what happened."
Something in me broke open.
I exhaled, shaky. "It was someone from the gala. I didn't realize at first."
Brooks didn't speak.
"He asked for me at the club. In a private room. Said he'd been thinking about that night. That look I gave him. I didn't realize it was him until I got in there."
My voice caught, and I paused to gather it.
"He had videos. From the social club. Security footage-of us. In the pool."
Brooks's whole body tensed behind me.
"He threatened to leak them. He said I was lucky someone like you even looked at me."
"He said... CNN, Fox, all of them would love to run a story about a stripper in bed with the president's son."
I curled in tighter.
Brooks reached for me again, and this time, I let him. His arms came around me from behind, slowly pulling me upright until I was sitting, trembling, in his lap. My body sagged against his, wrecked.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Because the silence between us was charged now-furious and fragile and thick with every unsaid thing.
"He grabbed me," I said finally, my voice breaking as the tears came. "By the neck and my arm. Like I was nothing. Like I didn't matter just because I'm a dancer."
Brooks inhaled sharply-like it hurt to breathe.
His arms tightened. "I'm here."
"I swear to God, Amira, whoever he is-he's done. He's already done."
I didn't realize I was crying again until I felt the warm slide of tears down my jaw. It was quieter this time. Not the gasping, broken sobs from earlier-just a silent, steady unraveling.
Brooks hadn't moved, his hand resting gently on my thigh, his thumb tracing small circles into my skin like he was afraid to push, afraid to stop.
"I just..." I started, then shook my head. "The worst part of all of this is that it's true."
His head lifted slightly. "What is?"
"What he said," I whispered. "The way he looked at me. Like I'm something cheap. Like I don't belong anywhere near you."
His whole body tensed. "Don't-"
"No," I cut in, wiping at my face. "You know it, too. Maybe not out loud, but somewhere-somewhere you have to feel it."
He opened his mouth, but I kept going.
"Your parents hate me. They don't even know me and they already think I'm some liability you're dragging around. Your mother couldn't even look me in the eye when we met. And your father-" I broke off, the memory burning.
"Amira-"
"The staff at your building? The doorman won't even make eye contact unless you're with me. And when you are, it's like he's trying to solve the math in real time. Like it doesn't compute."