Chapter 8
IVY
Idon’t move for a long time. Just sit there on the couch, phone in my hand, staring at Soren’s last message like it’s doing something to me.
When can you come?
It shouldn’t feel like this. It should be a normal question. But it doesn’t land that way.
It lands like something opening.
And my reply—Soon, maybe—sits underneath it like I already stepped through.
Adrian’s footsteps echo upstairs. A door shuts. His voice carries a second later—low, warm, practiced. Like he’s incapable of being cruel. Like I imagined the rest.
I exhale slowly. I don’t realize I’ve been holding it until it leaves me.
My hands are shaking. Not a lot. Just enough.
I stare at them like they belong to someone else. I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m not cheating. Not lying.
So why does it feel like I am?
I stand anyway. Move through the dining room. The hallway. Up the stairs. Quiet without meaning to be. Like I’ve learned how. Like I’ve always known how.
And I hate that.
In my room, I close the door behind me. The click is louder than it should be. Too final. Too deliberate. But my body loosens the second I hear it.
I sit on the bed, open my laptop, and pull up flights.
Ravelle.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. This is stupid. Reckless. Impulsive. Exactly the kind of thing Adrian would say I shouldn’t do.
I think about staying. About another week here. Another month. The air that never quite moves. The constant awareness of being watched, even when I can’t prove it. The way I’ve started second-guessing everything I think. The way I’ve started shrinking.
My throat tightens. I type in dates.
Soon.
That’s all I know.
The flights populate. Prices. Options. Too many choices. My brain stutters over all of it.
I don’t trust myself to pick correctly. That’s also a newish development. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe I just notice it now.
The fog has been extra bad lately. I lose time. Forget what I walked into rooms for. Start sentences I can’t finish.
And every time it happens, it hits the same way—sharp, humiliating, final. Like proof. Like evidence I’m becoming someone I don’t recognize.
My phone buzzes. I grab it too fast.
Soren:
Seriously. Come.
Even if it’s just for a long weekend.
You need a reset.
Send me what you’re looking at. I’ll book it.
My eyes sting. It’s ridiculous. He doesn’t know me like that.
But the way he says it—you need a reset. Like it’s obvious.
Like it’s allowed.
The idea of it is freeing. I can almost feel the sense of relief.
Something in my chest cracks open. And the offer—just like that, no hesitation. I can’t remember the last time anything was offered to me without conditions attached.
Without something expected back.
I should text a friend to reality check this. To tell me if this is insane. Someone who would ground me.
But instead, for one second, I let myself feel it. What it would be like to be chosen. Taken care of. Wanted without being evaluated.
Me:
I might actually cry. I feel like I haven’t breathed properly in months.
I immediately regret sending it—he must think I’m a complete basket case at this point—but he replies instantly, before I can unsend.
Soren:
Then let me take care of it.
My stomach flips, sharp. Like I nearly stepped off something high.
Let me take care of it.
I should question that. I should slow down.
Men don’t fix things. They break them.
But this doesn’t feel like that. It feels… easy. Too easy. Like slipping into something warm. Like being remembered.
I glance at the door even though it’s closed, because my body still expects interruption. Still braces for it.
“Just get out,” I whisper.
I click the cheapest flight. Don’t overthink it. If I stop, I won’t do it.
I know that pattern too well. I’ll rationalize. Minimize. Tell myself I’m dramatic. Tell myself I can survive a little longer. And then I’ll look up and realize I lost another year.
I go to take a screenshot, and the door handle moves.
I freeze. Everything in me goes still. My heart slams so hard it hurts.
The handle turns. The door opens.
I snap the laptop shut. Too fast. Too loud.
Crimson floods my cheeks like I’m a teenager caught with a cigarette in her bedroom.
Adrian stands there. Already inside. Like the closed door was no more than a suggestion. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Too quick. I hear it as I say it.
He steps further in. Doesn’t ask. Leans against the frame like he belongs here.
Like I don’t.
His eyes flick to the laptop. Back to me. Slow. Tracking. “I could feel you withdrawing again.”
My stomach drops.
He says it lightly. Like a joke.
It isn’t.
“I’m just tired,” I say.
He nods. Like I’m predictable. Like I’m boring. “I’m going out later,” he says.
I don’t ask.
So he keeps going. “There’s a cacao ceremony downtown.”
Of course there is.
“I thought you might want to come.”
I can already feel it. The performance. The people. The way I’d have to stand there beside him, smiling. The way he’d evaluate my outfit, my hairstyle, before we left.
“I have a seminar thing later on,” I say. Careful. Neutral.
His eyes sharpen. “You always have an excuse.”
Heat climbs my throat. “I don’t.”
He shrugs, like I’m not worth arguing with. “Suit yourself.”
Then his gaze shifts. My phone. Back to me. “Who were you messaging?”
My heart kicks. “Just a friend.”
“That’s vague.”
“Soren again,” I say.
Because lying feels worse. Because he punishes that. Even though he shouldn’t have the right to punish anything.
That’s not how friendship is meant to work.
Something changes in his expression. Interest. Something else underneath it.
“Still?” he says. “Right. I realized who it was after our last conversation. Soren—that weird guy from college? How did you even know him? Didn’t he major in computers or something?
” He says it like he’s filing it away. Like it means something to him now.
“He was kind of hot now that I think about it. Unique,” he mutters to himself.
“We met at a party. It’s not a big deal, we’re just chatting.”
He quirks a brow. “This is what I mean,” he continues. “You’re reaching outside yourself for validation.”
My nails press into my palm. “I’m not.”
“Looks like you’re looking for rescue.”
The word hits hard. Because it’s close enough to the truth to sting. And far enough to feel like an accusation.
“We’re just talking.”
“Okay,” he says. Smug. “Just… be mindful.”
I want to scream. Instead, I nod.
He lingers. Waiting. For what, I don’t know. Maybe an apology. Reassurance. Submission.
When he doesn’t get it, he turns. “And Ivy?”
I look up.
“Don’t make impulsive decisions right now.” A beat. “You’re not stable.”
The door closes behind him.
I stare at it, my whole body shaking now.
Not because I believe him. Because some part of me still reacts like I should.
I open the laptop, my hands still unsteady. The flight is still there waiting.
I don’t stop this time.
I just move.
Screenshot. Send.
My heart is racing like I’ve done something irreversible.
Soren replies immediately.
Soren:
Hang on. Booking it now. What’s your DOB? Frequent flyer? Known traveler number?
No hesitation. Like he’s been waiting.
I send him the info.
Minutes later, a screenshot.
Soren:
Does this look right?
I check over the details and thumbs up the picture.
Then another.
BOOKING CONFIRMED.
One-way.
I stare at it, my breath catching.
This doesn’t feel real. Like I just stepped sideways into a different version of my life.
Me:
Thank you. But one-way?
Pause.
Soren:
Yeah, not being weird. It’s just usually cheaper to book last-minute out of Ravelle. Something about flight path routing.
I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s his city. I’m sure he knows what he’s talking about.
Me:
I guess I’m coming to Ravelle.
I’ll have to do some work while I’m there. I hope that’s okay.
The reply comes instantly.
Soren:
Good.
No problem at all re work.
I’ve got you now.
I read it twice. Something tightens in my chest. Not fear or anxiety, but something heavier.
I’ve got you now.
I should push back. Say I’m not something to be got. That I’m not looking for a savior.
That I got myself out.
That I always do.
But I’m tired. So tired. And right now, it feels like relief.
I close my eyes. Picture the airport. The plane. The moment the door shuts and I’m not here anymore.
For the first time in months, I feel something like hope.
I open my eyes. Look around the room. At the space I never fully unpacked in, because I never believed I’d stay.
My throat tightens.
“Watch me,” I whisper.
Because this time I’m not asking.
Not waiting.
Not shrinking.
I’m leaving.