Chapter 47
Chapter Forty-Seven
Rayne
DK takes my hands in his. The shift is loud. Five seconds ago, I thought I was here to anchor him through whatever had put that tight, exhausted strain on his face. Now I know he’s anchoring me. My pulse starts to tick higher.
If it were something posted on Bayside Truth Watch, Anika would already be blowing up my phone. So, this is worse. Something that called DK away for hours.
“Just say it.”
His hands tighten around my fingers. “Let’s sit down, Luna.”
“I don’t want to sit.” Fear bats against my ribs, but I push him anyway. “I want to know. Please don’t protect me. I can handle whatever it is.”
He nods, though his hands shake around mine. “Diablo got an anonymous email today with… photos of you.”
“Photos?” The question comes out as a choked gasp.
“I’m so sorry, baby.” His voice is low and gruff. “Four of them. Claiming they were taken from an adult subscription page.”
A chill runs through me, turning my skin ice cold. “They’re fake. I’ve never had an account. I’ve never posted or shared pictures of myself that would be compromising in any way.”
“I know that.” He rubs my arms, but his touch feels a million miles away. “I dug deep to prove it to Gabriel. He’s not going to use them. The story is a slanderous fabrication. But, Luna…” He pauses, swallowing hard. “The photos aren’t fake.”
The room tilts. DK knows every inch of my body. If he believes they’re real—
Oh my God. “Show me.”
He hesitates, but knowing there’s no choice, he leads me over to the kitchen island.
I’d only ever seen his rental through FaceTime.
Now I’m finally here, standing in the space where I’d often imagined us cooking dinners together, brewing morning coffee, sleeping in his bed.
Never in my worst nightmares did I imagine standing here for this.
DK guides me onto the stool and enters a long password before he pulls up the email with a few clicks of the mouse.
I inhale a strangled breath and read: Urgent! Rayne Webber has an adult account. The subject line was engineered to ensure Diablo wouldn’t ignore it.
Dear Mayor Diablo,
I’m not from Bayside. I have no vested interest in your campaign or Ms. Webber’s.
My only concern is transparency in politics.
Voters, myself included, want honest stewards.
I’m certain your opponent is the same woman who had an adult page several months ago.
I was a subscriber who saved screenshots of her performances before the account was deleted.
My wish is not to harm Ms. Webber. It’s simply to shed light.
Voters have a right to know who she is before Election Day.
Please find a link to the photos here.
I trust you will handle this matter appropriately.
Regards,
A Concerned Citizen
The disguise is the only thing that’s transparent in this message. I can feel Hollis in every calculated word. His signature tell has always been feigning concern while simultaneously chopping you off at the knees.
I hover the mouse over the link, afraid of what I’m going to find. But I have to know. I count myself down in my head. Three, two, one… click.
The first picture materializes. My breathing accelerates, gusting like a harsh wind inside my chest. DK settles his hand against my back, giving me what comfort he can.
Except there is none for this.
I scroll to the next photo. Then the third. By the fourth one, my hand is trembling so bad the mouse is wobbling all over the rubber pad. I recognize every picture.
Because I took them.
A year ago. I remember sitting on my bed with the phone balanced on a makeshift stand, trying to appreciate a body I’d spent years criticizing.
The same body Hollis consistently reinforced was wrong.
Never outright. Just little comments. Little cuts.
Tiny observations. The kind of psychological warfare that draws blood bit by bit, and leaves lasting scars.
He did it with my appearance, with my ambition, and with my desires.
I had already started therapy by then. I knew he was slowly but surely killing my spirit.
Everyone who loved me saw it long before I did.
Therapy wasn’t only a way to find my confidence to leave him.
It was a way to find myself. My therapist told me I needed to learn how to see myself through my own eyes independently of anyone else’s.
I’d done a couple of months of mirror exercises and words of affirmation before I took to the camera.
It was going to be a journaling of sorts.
A way to capture my progress, and get deeper in touch with my fatness…
my vitiligo… my desires. I remember how long it took to psyche myself up to pose.
To just let myself go. Silence all those tapes that told me my body deserved judgment.
I pushed myself to get into it—not just the way I looked, but the way I felt.
Trailing my fingers over my soft, two-toned skin, tracing the spots, squeezing the rolls and the weight of my breasts that sagged a little without a bra.
Running my fingers down the faded beige stretch marks that had grown with me from adolescence.
I touched the plump thickness of my thighs that rub together when I walk, and I slid my hands between them.
Desire was part of appreciating myself. The shape of my pussy, the hood of my clit, the slickness against my fingers—the camera caught it all.
Me, enjoying myself and my pleasure. Alone.
Not for attention. Not for anyone’s validation. Not for a man.
For me.
It was tangible proof that I existed beyond his opinions. Proof that my body belonged entirely to me. Proof that my desires were my own. Without shame.
And he stole them.
At some point, without my knowledge and without my permission, he used my security code, got into my phone, and copied something that was mine.
The violation cuts deep. It cuts straight through my center. I’m not even aware I’m crying until DK pulls me into his arms. I let myself break. Grief. Hurt. Betrayal. Mourning the version of me who stayed with a man like that for far too long.
But as the tears fall, I’m reminded that what I learned through that dark period shaped me into a stronger, resilient 2.0 version of myself.
I lift my damp face from DK’s chest and tell him everything.
We move over to the couch. Sometimes the words come out choked with fresh tears, other times with anger.
Whatever I give him, he listens. Holding back his own anger to create a space I need to get it all out.
He tells me he already knew Hollis had never taken those photos.
“They were far too beautiful and powerful for me to believe he was there with you.”
Hearing that, I fall in love with him all over again.
As the grief burns off, it’s replaced by a determined fury.
“Hollis thinks he has leverage,” I say, my voice sturdier now.
“He thinks he gets to dictate when or if these photos become public.” I shake my head with a hard line.
“If therapy taught me anything, it’s that true healing begins when you stop surrendering your power to the person who hurt you.
” I’m scared as hell, but I don’t hesitate. “I’m going public.”
“Luna—”
“I know it might not be the smartest political move,” I interject before he tries to stop me. “But I need to do this for myself. And for anyone else who ever had their privacy stolen from them.”
“I wasn’t going to argue or try to talk you out of it.” His thumb brushes away a tear. “I was going to tell you that every time I think it’s impossible for you to get any more amazing, you say, No, boo, watch this.”
The lightness to the moment is exactly what I need. I laugh at his imitation of me and hug him hard.
“I’m with you, Luna,” he murmurs against my hair. “Always.”
I ease back slightly, giving him a smile full of love and gratitude. DK isn’t just a man who shows up. He’s a man who stands firmly by my side, who gives me a boost whenever I begin to falter, who believes in me, who celebrates me, who has my back. Period.
I squeeze him tight one last time, consolidating our strength. Then, sitting side-by-side at the kitchen table, we dial my dad and Anika on FaceTime, fill them in on the situation, and begin planning tomorrow’s press conference.