17. Nalini
Chapter seventeen
Nalini
After forcing Jack into the bedroom at The Inn-Between with strict orders not to leave the room until he sobered up, I was exhausted.
I asked Mrs. Peters, the ancient owner of the place, to let me know if Jack started causing issues and sat in the silence of my car.
I wasn’t surprised to hear what Jack had to say about me, but I was surprised at how loud his words echoed through the house.
And once Cassidy started listening, there was nothing I could do to stop her.
Jack had tried to pick a fight the entire car ride, and the strong scent of whisky had me fighting my gag reflex the entire time he was next to me.
I was furious at how he’d talked about me, how he treated his brother, and most of all, the fact Cassidy had heard everything.
And yet, despite how much pain Jack had caused, I felt bad for him.
The version of Jack I knew was self-destructive, but he'd also been full of life and charisma it was hard not to forgive him.
Now, he was just a shell of his former self.
It took twenty minutes of sitting in silence in the parking lot before I drove home to my apartment, and another twenty minutes of convincing myself it was safe to go in without having to clean up another of Jack’s messes.
It’d been an emotional day: both the highs and the lows, and the awful reminder that my fears about the Raines were, in fact, valid. It was horrible, and somehow at the same time not as bad as I’d expected. It'd stung, but it was also predictable.
I wondered if Jack was trying to make me snap, to stoop to his level so I’d finally be the villain he’d painted me as. He wanted me to be as horrible as he was, so he could blame me for his problems. Or he just wanted everyone to be miserable. One of the two.
For the first time, I truly saw how the RaineFall fandom saw me, reflected in Jack’s words and actions — and honestly, it was a miracle I hadn’t snapped under the pressure back then. I’d protected myself better than I’d thought. And then I wondered what my life would've looked like if I’d snapped?
An entire plot formed in my mind: a mystery, a girl who’d been turned into a villain by society, and everyone assumed she was the murderer — but she wasn’t. I ran to my door, startling Sylvie enough she almost fell off her favorite branch, terrified I was about to lose the story.
It was my story, and it wasn’t. It had the torture I’d gone through from the forced exposure, while also exploring what might've happened if I’d let my fury out.
If I chose to keep my name on the book, I knew the hook from a marketing perspective: I just had to incorporate the rockstar world everyone associated me with.
It didn’t matter I had nothing to do with the industry; instead, it let me imagine how things would be different if I did.
I hadn’t felt a story come alive like this since high school, and I was terrified I’d lose it. I spent hours working, my attention split between a loose outline in a notebook and constantly refilling paper into my typewriter.
The story was simple: the main character was accused of the murder of her rockstar ex-boyfriend, who'd used her to skyrocket to fame, only to betray her. The red herrings, the twists, even the murderer came to me so quickly it felt like I’d been granted water after years of not being able to drink.
I’d never wanted to write about my pain; I'd always thought nobody would want to hear my side of the story. And to a degree, that still seemed true. But instead of anxiety, I found myself filled with relief I could tell my story, even if nobody wanted to hear it.
The world had wanted me to crash and burn, and instead I’d let myself dim to flickering embers. But now? I was awake, and I was ready to let my passion burn.