Chapter 5
IVY
Istare at my phone for a moment after I send it.
Maybe I will.
Three words. Casual. Easy.
But my heart is pounding like I just signed something in blood.
I toss the phone onto the bed and stand there in my towel, wet hair dripping onto my shoulders, feeling stupidly exposed.
The Miami humidity is getting to me, making me feel like I need to shower multiple times a day. Or maybe I’m just trying to scrub the trauma off me. To replace all the cells he touched, that are warped because of the things he did to me.
It’s ridiculous how small things can make my whole body react now. Like my nervous system recognizes escape before my brain does.
I get dressed quickly, pulling on my usual uniform. My armor.
I twist my damp hair into a messy topknot and force myself to look in the mirror. My face looks… wrong.
Not ugly. Not even tired. It’s more like I’ve been dimmed. As if someone applied a filter to my soul and turned the saturation down.
I blink at myself, searching for the woman I used to be—the woman who would walk into a room and own it. Laugh loudly. Feel comfortable in her body. Take up space without apologizing too much.
But there’s no trace of her. Instead, I see someone who looks like she’s waiting to be scolded.
My stomach twists. I hate him for that. I hate them for that.
I hate that I don’t even know who them is anymore because the faces blur together. Same pattern. Same slow erosion of my confidence until all that’s left is compliance.
I mean, the last one took it to a whole new level, but still.
I swallow and step into the hallway.
The apartment is quiet in the way it always is—not peaceful quiet. Controlled quiet. Like the air itself is listening.
From downstairs, I hear the familiar clink of ceramic. The espresso machine. The hiss of steam.
He’s in the kitchen again. Of course he is. Mainlining espresso as if the additional caffeine will afford him the last speck of enlightenment he so desperately seeks.
My feet hesitate on the first step. I don’t want to go down there. I don’t want to have to perform.
But I also don’t want him to come up here and make a comment about how I’m “hiding” again, like I’m a coward. Like I’m ungrateful. Like I’m a stray dog he took in and now I’m acting feral.
So I go down anyway.
Each step feels like walking into a courtroom.
The kitchen smells like coffee and something citrusy—some overpriced essential oil he’s probably diffusing because he’s obsessed with the idea of being the kind of man who “curates energy.”
Adrian is standing at the counter, bare feet, expensive shorts, T-shirt tucked in like he’s about to give a TED talk.
I’ll give it to him that he’s a handsome guy. But I know that doesn’t happen by accident. He’s fastidious about everything that goes onto his body—a plethora of lotions and serums bursting from the cupboards of the bathroom we share emphasizing the point—and just about everything that goes into it.
He doesn’t look at me when I enter. He’s staring out the window like he’s thinking something profound. Or like he wants me to believe he is.
I hover at the edge of the room. “Morning,” I say quietly.
He hums. Not quite acknowledgment.
A beat passes.
Then another.
He takes a slow sip of coffee, still not looking at me.
And then, finally, he turns his head slightly, like I’m a mild interruption.
“Did you sleep?” he asks.
It sounds like a normal question. But it isn’t.
I know him well enough to know it’s inventory.
It’s always inventory.
I nod. “Yeah. I mean… sort of.”
He makes a sound in his throat—almost disapproval.
I wait for the next question. It always comes.
“What are you doing today?” There it is.
My stomach clenches. “I have that online training thing at eleven,” I say, keeping my voice light.
He nods slowly, as if evaluating. “Good,” he says. “You need structure.”
I force a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Yeah.”
He turns back to the counter and starts rinsing his mug, taking his time like he’s making the moment last on purpose.
Then, casually—“Did you set an alarm?”
My throat tightens. “Yeah,” I lie.
Or not quite lie. Because I did set one.
I just don’t trust myself to hear it. Or to remember what it means when it goes off. Sometimes I stare at a reminder like it’s written in another language.
It’s humiliating.
He doesn’t respond right away.
Then he finally looks at me fully. It’s brief, but it’s more than a glance. A full scan.
“You look tired,” he says.
It sounds like concern, but it lands like an accusation.
I shrug. “Just… a lot going on.”
He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms.
“You know,” he says, “you really have to stop letting your mind control you.”
He says it like he’s handing me a gift. Like he’s offering wisdom. Like my trauma is a character flaw and not the aftermath of something that happened to me.
“I’m trying,” I say.
My mind spins. What else could I be doing? I’ve found a therapist. I’ve scheduled an intake appointment. I’ve been walking, working out, reading the books, listening to the podcasts. Healing doesn’t happen on demand. It doesn’t come in a two-day shipping box.
He nods, satisfied, like I’ve confirmed the correct answer. Then he gestures toward the living room. “Come sit,” he says. “I want to talk.”
My chest tightens. I don’t want to talk. But it isn’t a request. With Adrian, it never is.
I follow him into the living room and sit on the edge of the couch, perched like I might need to flee.
He sits across from me, legs spread, coffee balanced in his hand like he’s posing for a magazine.
He studies me for a moment. Then he says, “I’ve been thinking about you.”
My stomach flips. Not in a good way.
“I think you’re still in victim mode.”
The blood drains from my face.
He says it gently, like he’s being careful. Like he’s doing me a favor by telling me something hard.
Like he isn’t casually punching me in the throat.
“I—what?”
He waves a hand, as if I’m missing the point.
“You’re still operating from fear,” he says. “Like you’re waiting for something bad to happen. But you have to understand… you create your reality.”
My hands curl into fists in my lap. Nails digging into skin.
He smiles slightly, like he’s proud of himself. “Your energy is heavy,” he continues. “It affects the whole space.”
I blink hard. I can’t even respond.
What do you say to someone who invited you into his home and now acts like your trauma is an inconvenience to his vibe?
He takes another sip of coffee. Then leans forward. “And I need you to be more intentional about healing.”
There it is again.
Healing.
He loves that word. It makes him feel like a saint. Like a guru. Like he’s doing something noble instead of what he’s actually doing—policing my existence.
I nod, because I don’t have the strength to fight. “I am,” I say.
His eyes narrow. “But are you?”
My body folds in on itself. That old reflex—the one that makes me shrink, placate, say whatever keeps the peace.
Because peace is survival.
“I’m doing as much as I can,” I repeat.
He leans back, like that’s the answer he wanted. “Good,” he says. “Because I can’t carry you.”
My chest goes cold.
Carry me.
As if I asked him to.
As if I’m not already paying for this in humiliation.