Chapter 6
IVY
Istare at the carpet.
Adrian keeps talking. “And…” he adds, like he’s casually adding a footnote to my life. “The way you called the police the other day. Because your ex’s father got in touch with you. Why do you think you did that?”
“Because… that’s what you’re meant to do when someone violates a restraining order?” My voice comes out thin, wrong. “Report it to the authorities?”
He shakes his head, like I’m naive. “Ivy,” he says, “I really think you’re trying to stay attached to this guy. I think a part of you secretly likes the… drama.” He draws the last word out like it tastes good.
My stomach clenches. Bile rises up my throat. “No! That’s—” I swallow. “That’s what you’re supposed to do.”
He shakes his head again. “You had a choice to let all that go when you moved here,” he says. “Have a clean start. But you’re clinging to it. Like you get something from it, even if it’s not good for you.”
I feel myself shrink against the couch.
He shifts topics now, as if he’s done something benevolent. Masculine and feminine energy. Women unconsciously sabotaging their own freedom. How I’m addicted to chaos.
His voice becomes background noise—not because I’m bored.
Because I can’t stay present in a room where I’m being quietly dismantled.
I start to form a to-do list in my head. Thank god for my job, giving me a reprieve from his constant monitoring. A sense of self. My PR clients aren’t condescending to me, they listen to my advice about social media. They let me go to work for them. They trust me to know what I’m doing.
My phone buzzes on the cushion beside me. I glance down.
A message.
Soren.
My body reacts—sharp and immediate, like it recognizes oxygen.
I tilt the screen toward myself.
Soren:
You should. I’d show you the best food in the city.
We’ve never really messaged like this.
My throat tightens, but it’s different this time. Not humiliation. Something almost warm.
I can’t help it. I smile. A real one. Small, but real.
Across from me, Adrian stops talking.
I look up.
His eyes are on my phone—and not casually. He looks irritated, entitled to know who it is.
“What’s that?” he asks.
My stomach drops.
“Just a message,” I say.
“From who?”
The question lands like a slap.
“It’s… Soren.”
He frowns. “Soren who?”
I hesitate.
Why am I hesitating? Why does my body feel like it’s doing something wrong?
“Soren,” I repeat. “An old friend from college.”
He watches me for a beat too long.
Then he laughs softly, like I’ve said something cute. “Mmm,” he murmurs. “Old friend.”
I don’t like the way he says it—like he doesn’t believe me. Like he’s already decided what it means.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Be careful,” he says.
“With what?”
“You’re vulnerable right now,” he says. “Men can sense that.”
The irony is so sharp it almost makes me dizzy.
Men can sense that.
Says the man who’s been treating me like a burden and a pet and a project.
Says the man who didn’t tell me there was a camera in the living room. With audio. And laughed when he finally admitted it—after I’d done my therapy intake in that exact room, spilling my guts about everything I’ve survived.
Says the man who calls me downstairs like I’m a dog. Who parades me around publicly when it suits him—always making sure my outfit is “right,” that I’m presentable enough to match his story about himself when we rub shoulders with his superficial friends and colleagues.
He hides behind “I’m not attracted to you, to women,” like it absolves him of treating me like property.
But it’s really not that different.
He continues, calm and patronizing. “I’m just saying, you’re not in a place to make impulsive decisions.”
My fingers tighten around my phone. “I’m not making a decision,” I say, failing to keep my voice neutral. “We’re just talking.”
He nods slowly. “Good,” he says. “Because I don’t want to see you spiral again.”
Again. Always again.
As if my suffering is a loop I enjoy repeating. As if it isn’t something done to me. As if I’m not still bleeding.
He smiles like he’s said something wise.
Then he stands abruptly. “I have a call,” he says. “Try to keep your energy light today.”
And he walks away, just like that, leaving his words hanging in the air like smoke.
I sit there, frozen, chest tight, hands trembling slightly.
Then I look down at my phone again. Soren’s message is still on the screen.
I’d show you the best food in the city.
It’s such a normal sentence. So harmless.
And yet it feels like a door.
Like something that exists outside this apartment—outside this constant monitoring.
Outside this invisible leash I didn’t agree to wear.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
Type. Delete. Type again.
My heart races.
I can’t remember the last time I felt… wanted. Not used or merely tolerated. Wanted.
Finally, I hit send.
Me:
That actually sounds great. I haven’t had amazing food in a long time.
His reply comes almost immediately.
Soren:
Then it’s settled. You’re not staying there.
When can you come?
I’ll make it easy.
My brow furrows slightly. I still don’t remember telling him or general social media anything about where I’m staying—anything to make him sound this sure about how unhappy I am here—but he seems adamant that I need to leave.
And I mean, where’s the lie?
My pulse spikes.
It’s insane. I barely know Soren. We haven’t spoken in years. We never dated—we never even really hung out as friends. It was just that one night where we met.
But there’s a comfort in being connected with someone on socials for so long. It’s almost as if you get a sense of who they are, a safety in being able to observe them from behind screens. And seeing his very occasional posts has kept him in my mind.
I’ve always found him intriguing, and definitely good-looking. He caught my attention from the first time I met him. Someone I’ve wanted to know more about.
We’ve just been in different places, in different phases.
Something about the certainty in his words—it’s settled—makes my body unclench for the first time in weeks. Like someone is taking the decision out of my shaking hands and saying, I’ve got you.
It should scare me. How easily I’m letting him take control. How good it feels to not have to decide anything for myself. But it doesn’t, and I hate how much I crave it.
I look around the living room. The couch. The bougie decor. The expensive minimalist furniture. The camera in the corner I try not to think about.
My throat tightens.
The truth rises up in me, sudden and undeniable.
If I stay here much longer, I’m going to disappear.
Not physically. But in every way that matters.
My fingers tremble as I type.
Me:
Soon, maybe.
When I hit send, it feels like I’ve done something dangerous. Something rebellious. Something I’m not supposed to do. Like I’ve just taken my first breath after being underwater.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at the screen, chest heaving slightly.
“Get out,” I whisper.
And I don’t know if I mean the apartment.
Or myself.