Chapter 18
eighteen
Jackson
The apartment feels wrong without them in it.
It isn’t quieter in a way that settles anything, and it isn’t empty either, because everything that’s happened over the last three days is still sitting in the space, pressed into the walls, into the furniture, into the air itself.
I can feel it every time I move, every time I shift my weight, every time I try to focus on anything that isn’t her.
I’ve been sitting at the table for long enough that my body has started to register it, a dull stiffness settling into my shoulders, my neck, but I haven’t moved because every time I do, I end up right back here anyway.
The video is still open and paused halfway through.
I don’t remember how many times I’ve watched it.
Enough that I know it without needing to.
Enough that I know exactly what’s coming before it happens, and still can’t stop myself from pressing play again.
Her body fills the screen as the footage continues, the frame shifting just enough to keep her centered, like whoever is holding the phone knows exactly what they’re doing and exactly how long to hold each angle for.
She’s lying on the bed. Not resting. Not still in a way that feels natural.
Just...there.
There’s something wrong with the way her body moves, or doesn’t move, something slightly out of sync with everything I know about her, like whatever he gave her has slowed the connection between her mind and her body just enough to make it obvious.
My jaw tightens as I watch it, my hand coming up to press against my mouth without me thinking about it, like that’s going to stop the reaction that keeps rising in my chest every time I see her like this.
The camera moves.
Slow.
Deliberate.
It drags across her, not rushed, not careless, taking its time in a way that feels intentional, like the person behind it wants whoever watches this to sit in it for as long as possible.
Then it reaches her collarbone.
I pause it.
I don’t need to watch it play out again to know what’s there.
My gaze drops to the screen, to the words that are still visible beneath the damage, to the way the cuts have been dragged across them without any attempt to make it clean or precise, like he kept going over the same place until it felt like enough.
Property of Jackson.
My tattoo.
Or what’s left of it.
The sight of it hits harder this time, not just because of what it is, but because of what it means. She chose that. She chose to carry that on her body, to mark herself in a way that tied her to me, and he put his hands on it like it meant nothing, like it was something he could just carve away.
Something slow and sick settles in my stomach, not sharp enough to burn out, just heavy enough to stay.
I drag my hand down over my face and force myself to keep looking, to not turn away from it even though every part of me wants to.
He touched her.
That thought lands differently now.
Not just possession. Not just that he has her.
That he put his hands on something that was mine and tried to erase it.
I hit play again.
The video continues, the camera shifting away from her collarbone, moving across her body again, the same slow, deliberate pacing, the same controlled movement that doesn’t feel random.
A small, persistent feeling that something about this isn’t new.
I frown slightly, leaning forward, my elbows coming to rest on the table as I watch the next few seconds more carefully, not focusing on her this time, but on the way the camera moves.
The angle.
The tilt.
The way it settles before continuing.
It feels...familiar.
I rewind it.
Watch it again.
Slower.
The same movement. The same slight shift before it steadies.
I sit there staring at the screen, trying to place it, trying to figure out where I’ve seen it before, because I know I have.
I just can’t...
The camera drags across her body again.
Across her shoulder.
Down.
And something clicks.
My hand stills on the table as I pause the video again, the feeling settling into something heavier, something more certain, even before I can fully name it.
I’ve seen this before.
Not just similar.
The same.
My chest tightens as I reach for my phone, already pulling up something I haven’t looked at since I looked into Lia’s past, something I didn’t keep, didn’t save, but still remember well enough to find again.
The sex tape her ex uploaded.
It takes a few seconds, then it loads.
I scrub through it without hesitation, my focus narrowing until I find the right section, the one that stuck the first time I saw it even though I didn’t know why.
I stop. Play. Watch.
The angle. The same tilt. The same slow drag. The same way the camera lingers just a second longer than it needs to.
My stomach drops.
I pause it.
Go back to Lia’s video.
Play it again.
Then back.
Then again.
I don’t need to keep doing it. I already know. The certainty settles in my chest in a way that doesn’t leave room for doubt.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
The word comes out low, tight, the kind that sits in your throat instead of releasing anything.
It’s him.
Paul.
Her ex.
I push back from the table, the chair scraping against the floor behind me as I stand too quickly, my body already moving before my thoughts have fully caught up.
All I ever had on him was a name. A mention.
Something buried in an article tied back to one of my mother’s companies, something small enough that I didn’t need it at the time, something I noted and left alone.
Now it’s everything.
I grab my phone and call her. It rings twice before she answers.
“Jackson,” she says, her voice edged with irritation at the hour. “It’s late. This better be—”
“I need information on someone.”
There’s a pause. A shift.
“That’s not something you call me for at this hour unless—”
“It’s a matter of life or death, mother.”
The words come out steady. Controlled. Even as everything underneath them isn’t.
Silence.
Then... “Who.”
“His name is Paul,” I say. “He was mentioned in an article connected to one of your companies. I’ll send you what I have. I need everything on him.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“What is this about.”
I don’t hesitate.
“Someone took Lia.”
The line goes quiet. Not disconnected. Just quiet.
When she speaks again, the irritation is gone.
“Send me everything you have,” she says. “Names, articles, anything.”
“I will.”
The call ends.
I move immediately, pulling together what I remember, the name of the paper, the mention I stored away, sending it all through without slowing down.
Then I start pacing.
I don’t think about it.
My body just moves.
Back and forth across the room, the phone still in my hand, the certainty sitting heavy in my chest, not fading, not shifting.
If anything, it sharpens.
I call Evelyn.
She answers quickly.
“Jackson? Is there news?”
“No,” I say, and I drag a hand through my hair, forcing myself to stay on track. “But I found something.”
She goes quiet.
“What.”
“I think Paul took her.”
The silence on the other end changes.
“…Paul?” she says. “Her ex?”
“Yeah.”
My grip tightens on the phone.
“I need you to tell me everything you know about him.”
There’s no hesitation.
“I’ll be right over.”
The line goes dead.
I don’t sit.
I don’t go back to the table.
I keep pacing, the space suddenly too small for the energy sitting in it, the certainty too solid to ignore.
The door opens behind me. I don’t turn straight away. I already know who it is.
I can feel it.
The shift in the room.
Their presence filling the space again.
I stop. Turn. Look at them.
And for the first time since this started, I have something that feels like a direction instead of a void.
“I know who took Lia,” I say.