Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
JORDAN
The glow from my laptop has turned soft and fuzzy, a halo of light as I stare past the screen, my thoughts getting the best of me.
Sabrina and I worked for a full hour together after her shower, with no distractions. We talked details, divvied up tasks, and mapped out a plan for tomorrow afternoon when we meet with Sherry again before heading back to the city.
But now I’m sitting in bed, and I can’t focus.
I keep thinking about everything.
About my impending nuptials with my ex-boyfriend on Friday.
About everything I told Sabrina.
About how insane it all sounds.
The worst part?
It sounds insane because it is.
Matt and I met up yesterday to apply for a marriage license. It was easy. Fast. In and out. Like ordering takeout, only cheaper.
I still can’t believe I told Sabrina about my dad. I haven’t talked about him with anyone but Matt and my therapists.
Ever.
Not since it all happened.
My fingers move across the mouse. I don’t know why I do it. I never know why I do it. But I type Nicholas Demetriou arrested into the search bar and press enter.
The article is still there. It’s always the first one to come up. I click on it.
My dad’s name. Federal charges. A mugshot I’ve memorized.
I scroll.
Straight down to the comments section.
I know I shouldn’t. But the ache is already there, heavy in my stomach like a rock.
Like heartache rotting in my gut. It’s the feeling I get anytime I think about him.
And for some reason, reading these always makes it worse and better.
Worse because I have to relive it. Better because it justifies my actions.
That need I felt to run. To disappear. To cut everyone out.
No wonder the daughter disappeared.
I click on the comment, opening the thread beneath it.
Heard she went crazy after this. Tried to off herself.
Poor thing. Can’t blame her. What a disgrace.
Mom couldn’t handle it. She sent her away and then took a bunch of pills herself. The whole family’s a mess. I’d do drugs too. lol.
People don’t steal like that unless something’s wrong at home. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
My jaw tightens, and a sting blooms behind my eyes. I blink fast, swallowing the knot in my throat.
I didn’t disappear. I didn’t try to off myself.
I did what I had to.
I survived.
I close the tab. Then open a new one and type Matthew Grayson charity gala Demetriou.
My pulse picks up as I press enter, like my body’s already programmed for what I’m about to see.
The article I’m looking for pops up immediately. Pictures of me and him right above it. I click it, heat activating in my chest. It’s all muscle memory at this point. Even after all this time. Though, it’s been a while since I’ve let myself go off this ledge.
There’s a large picture of Matt in an Armani suit, killing it, of course. I scroll. Past the text. Past the fluff. All the way to the end. To the picture of me beside him. God. We look happy. And we look good together.
Damn. We look good together.
I’m in a cream Versace gown with a high slit. My skin is practically glowing from our trip to Aruba. And the way Matt’s looking at me. Those eyes. That smile.
If you could sell love—touch it. Make it tangible.
It might look something like that.
I take a shaky breath and keep scrolling.
All the way to the bottom.
I told myself I’d never look at these again, and I haven’t. I didn’t need to. We haven’t been together since.
But things are about to change. And I need the reminder of what this costs.
Because the things Sabrina said?
There’s truth to them.
Women would kill to be in my position. That’s exactly why they hate me.
And I won’t let myself forget it.
Yummy.
He could do so much better.
I click.
Right? Demetriou trash. Did you hear about her dad?
I can’t believe he would even be seen with her. He’s so much better than that.
But is he? If he associates with people like her, what does that say about him?
I’d still do him. lol.
What does he even see in her? She needs a nose job and could easily lose ten pounds.
Climbing that social ladder.
My vision blurs, and I blink fast again, but this time the tears don’t stop. They slip, hot and relentless, down my cheeks.
I wipe at them with the sheet, but it’s useless. It doesn’t help.
Nausea hits, hard and sudden. Shit.
I move fast, barely making it to the bathroom before I’m on my knees, vomiting into the toilet.
“Fuck,” I cry.
My stomach convulses again, violently, like it’s trying to expel something deeper than food. Like it’s trying to purge the memories. The pain. The trauma.
There’s always been cruelty. The hardest part was knowing that many of them knew me personally. Girls from school. Women from church. People from my own community, hiding behind their screens and saying whatever the hell they wanted.
It was bad when my dad first went to prison, but it faded with time. The whispers eventually stopped. The gossip columns got bored. They moved on.
I didn’t.
I still haven’t.
I’ve tried. But every time I think the past is finally behind me—
I end up right here.
Hovering over a toilet.
My stomach clenches again, and I gag, dry heaving until my body finally gives up.
God, it hurts.
I spit into the toilet, swipe the back of my hand over my mouth, and force myself upright. Grabbing my toothbrush, I squeeze toothpaste onto the bristles and turn the water on. I shove it into my mouth and stare at myself in the mirror.
Well, shit.
I look wrecked. Damp hair. Red, swollen eyes. Tear-streaked cheeks.
I can’t do this.
I spit, rinse, turn off the water, and flip off the bathroom light. Then I crawl back into bed and collapse, staring at the ceiling like it might offer some comfort.
When Matt and I were off and on in our twenties, I handled the gossip. I’d done the work, and Matt had too. We were rock solid. I was confident. The occasional jab didn’t even touch me.
But then my dad was released from prison, and it was like everyone who had forgotten suddenly remembered. They remembered I was his daughter. And that I was the girlfriend of Matthew Grayson.
The narrative shifted overnight.
I was targeted constantly. Told I’d tarnish his name. That if I really cared about him, I’d let him go.
And the one person who refused to let me forget what my dad had done, who refused to let me move on, was the person whose opinion I let matter more than anyone else’s.
His mother.
She said that if I really cared about him, I’d let him go.
And eventually, I did.