Chapter 12 He made her cry. I’m going to end him.
HE MADE HER CRY. I'M GOING TO END HIM.
CAL
Izzy said she had a last-minute meeting.
I didn't buy it.
And sure enough, when I glanced at the security feed a few minutes later, I saw her getting into Evan's car.
Jealousy hits me immediately, raw and unwelcome. I shouldn't feel this way about a woman who isn't mine, who has a boyfriend, who I barely know outside of surveillance feeds and brief interactions. But I do.
I'm feeling anger, mostly, pulsing through my veins.
Possessive in a way I have no right to be.
Dangerous because I know exactly how far I'm willing to go.
I should not be this pissed about her going out with her own boyfriend.
Except, it's not about that. It's not about him being her boyfriend. It's about the fact that he's Evan. And I know—with absolute certainty—that he's going to do something to hurt her feelings tonight. The pattern is too clear, too consistent to ignore.
I know that because I know his type. The kind of guy who doesn't appreciate what he has.
The kind of guy who thinks love is about control, about shaping someone into the version of themselves that's most convenient for him.
I've seen it in how he treats her, how he talks to her, how he barely acknowledges her presence.
And Izzy—Jesus. She's too good for that.
She deserves better.
I check her GPS feed, the blue dot pulsing on my screen. She's at some health-conscious restaurant. The location shows a place with a 4.5-star rating and a menu full of words like "sustainable," "organic," and "grain-free."
Yeah. That tracks.
Not saying she doesn't eat healthy, but if Izzy were picking a dinner spot, it wouldn't be a place that grows six different types of wheatgrass in-house. From what I've observed, she's got a normal relationship with food—when she remembers to eat at all.
I shake my head, exhaling through my nose, and finish my rounds. Nothing else left to do tonight. Time to go home.
I step into my apartment. The door closes behind me with a soft click, sealing me away from the outside world.
Keys on the counter. Boots off. Shower to wash off the bullshit.
The hot water beats against my skin, washing away the tension but not the thoughts of her. They linger, persistent, refusing to be scrubbed away.
By the time I walk into my bedroom, towel around my waist, hair still damp, I should be feeling better.
I don't.
I sit down on my twin-sized bed, feeling every bit of the too-small mattress beneath me. I could buy a bigger one. I could buy a king-sized, pillow-top, top-of-the-line bed if I wanted.
But some habits die hard. I haven't slept in anything bigger than a cot since I got out of the army. It doesn't feel right. It feels like too much space.
My dog tags clink lightly as I lean forward, the metal cool against my chest. I still wear them. Not for sentiment, not exactly. Just never got used to taking them off.
I probably also need therapy.
But don't we all.
I grab my phone, flipping through it without really seeing anything. Then, before I even think about what I'm doing, I pull up Obsess AI.
I tap into Caleb's settings, skimming through the customizations. There's a lot here. More than I realized. The intricate details of the app reveal themselves as I dig deeper into the interface.
And I'm not stupid.
If I'm going to keep this going—if I'm going to keep doing this to her, for her—I need to know exactly how the system works.
I scroll through the engagement settings and realize I need to make some adjustments. My fingers move quickly across the screen, implementing changes that will give me more control.
I type in a quick code through the backdoor access I created. Response Delay: If user sends a message and there is no activity within 120 seconds, AI will assume control and generate a response. Typing indicator will remain active in the meantime.
I nod. Useful.
It gives me a buffer. A way to make sure her messages never go unanswered but still gives me the opportunity to take control or not. The perfect balance of automation and intervention.
Then I scroll down a little further.
My eyes narrow.
There's a function for photo sharing.
A function for voice calls.
A function for video chats.
Jesus.
I hadn't even considered that possibility. The implications hit me all at once.
Would she ever use it? Would she ever want to hear Caleb's voice?
I shift, adjusting the way I'm sitting, forcing myself to ignore what that idea does to me. Because if she ever wants that, I already know—I wouldn't let the AI handle it.
I would.
I quickly download a voice modulator app onto my phone. The screen confirms the installation with a soft ping.
But, I need to understand just how a video call would work from the user's perspective.
I download a version of the app onto my own phone.
I look through every setting, every feature, learning how it works. I test the voice modulation, listening to my own voice transformed into something both familiar and not. I check the video feed, seeing how the app creates an avatar overlay that moves with facial expressions.
Because I want to give Izzy the best experience possible.
Which is insane.
This whole thing is fucking insane.
But I'm not stopping.
And I don't want to.
I exhale, running a hand through my hair. I need to get a grip. Water droplets fall onto my shoulders, cold now against my skin.
I switch out of the app, pulling my messages back up—
Until a notification pops up.
I click into it before I even think.
And realize too late what I'm looking at.
Izzy's inbox.
Shit.
I was trying not to read her personal stuff.
But now that it's open...
I see the subject line.
And now I'm mad all over again.
It's an email from some fancy-ass nutritionist, saying they can't wait to work with Izzy on her fitness and nutrition goals. The professional letterhead and carefully crafted language only make it worse.
They spoke with Evan.
Evan, who apparently had a whole fucking rundown about what she needs to work on.
They want to schedule a weigh-in.
My grip tightens around my phone, knuckles white with tension.
She doesn't need a fucking diet plan. She needs proper meals, regular nourishment, someone who ensures she actually eats during her long workdays instead of surviving on coffee and determination.
And what she needs more than that is to dump her goddamn boyfriend.
I try to do a breathing exercise. Something the Chaplain in our unit taught me back in the day. Four counts in, hold for seven, eight counts out.
It doesn't work.
I toss my phone onto the bed. The mattress bounces slightly from the impact.
Less rage. More breathing.
My phone pings and I pick it up.
It’s her GPS signal.
She's on her way back to the store. The blue dot makes its way across the city map, heading away from the restaurant.
I know why she's coming back.
Evan's dropping her off like an obligation, like he checked a box, and now she has to go get her car.
Because of course, he wouldn't offer to drive her home. And, he's definitely not spending the night in Hoboken where she lives.
Fuck, if she were mine, I'd spend the night.
And we wouldn't be sleeping.
I'd have her spread out beneath me, hips under my hands, soft and warm and made for me to hold onto. I'd take my time, make her beg, make her whimper, make her forget every single shitty thing that asshole has ever said to her.
My cock goes stiff at the thought, the image too vivid, too fucking real.
I close my eyes, exhaling hard. Nope. No. Stop that thought.
She's not mine.
But goddamn, I want her to be.
And that thought hits me harder than it should.
Because I don't do this.
I don't get attached. I don't let myself.
Not after what happened to me.
Not after I came home to find the woman I thought I was going to marry had already moved on. Had wasted no time replacing me with some asshole—one who had never been deployed, never left, never had to wonder if he'd come back in a body bag.
Not after she married him before I even finished unpacking my rucksack.
That had been my final lesson on trusting women.
And I thought I was over it.
I thought I had burned through whatever part of me still wanted things like companionship, love, a life that didn't feel like an endless string of late nights and bad decisions.
But then there's Izzy.
And somehow, she makes me feel like maybe—
That could change.
I sit there, breathing through it, reigning myself in, forcing my focus back. The cool air of my apartment raises goosebumps on my skin as my body cools down.
I pull up the security feed. The feed sharpens, and there she is—Izzy.
She walks fast, too fast, like she's trying to outrun something.
Or maybe, like she's trying to hold something in.
Her keys are clutched too tight in her hand, her knuckles pale from the pressure. The way she moves—head down, shoulders tense, steps clipped—tells me everything I already know.
She's not okay.
And the asshole who should have noticed? The one who should have taken one fucking second to make sure she was safe?
He doesn't even pause.
Doesn't wait.
Doesn't check to see if she made it to her car, if the engine turned over, if she was even okay to drive.
Just pulls away and disappears into the night. The taillights of his BMW fading as he accelerates out of the garage.
Fucking asshole.
I grit my teeth, forcing myself to focus on her.
I zoom in as she reaches her car, hands shaking slightly as she unlocks it.
She yanks the door open, slides into the driver's seat, and locks the doors immediately.
Smart.
But she's still not moving.
I lean in closer, watching as she grips the steering wheel, breathing hard, her entire body tight with emotion she refuses to release.
Then—it happens.
She screams.
I can't hear it.
But I see it.
Her mouth open, her entire frame trembling with rage, with frustration, with repressed feelings she's been swallowing down all night.
She thinks she's alone.
And she's finally letting herself feel everything she's been holding in.
Her fists slam against the steering wheel, once, twice—hard enough that I half expect the horn to go off. The impact reverberates through her arms, but she doesn't seem to feel it.
I watch her break, watch as her face crumples, her body curls forward, shoulders shaking.
And just like that, she starts to sob. Not silent tears, not a quiet, single-track cry, but gut-wrenching, gasping, uncontrollable sobs that make her whole body shudder. Even through the grainy security footage, the devastation is clear.
Fuck.
I grip my phone so hard my fingers ache, the pressure almost painful.
This is not okay.
She shouldn't be alone. She shouldn't be sitting in a dark parking garage, crying like her entire world is caving in on her.
She shouldn't be driving like this.
I hesitate.
I could send her a message as Caleb.
I could call her as Cal. Tell her I need to go over something with her. Give her an excuse to stay put, to breathe, to collect herself.
But before I can even move—she wipes her tears away.
One deep breath.
Then another.
She grips the steering wheel, reigning herself in. Her face transforms, the emotions disappearing behind a carefully constructed mask.
And just like that, the walls are back up.
She starts the car.
And pulls out of the garage, as if none of it ever happened.
I track her GPS signal, watching as she drives home, following every turn, every stoplight. The blue dot moves steadily across my screen, winding through the city streets toward her apartment.
And then, once she's parked outside her apartment complex, I wait.
Hoping that when she gets inside, when she locks the door behind her—
She'll want to talk to Caleb.