Chapter Twenty-Three
I t starts off small.
A phone pointed in my direction at the market, the flash going off before the person quickly ducks behind a stand.
A group of women whispering and glancing my way in the café as I sit by the window, trying to enjoy a quiet moment reading over my upcoming lesson plans.
I tell myself it’s nothing; that it’s just people talking, nothing to do with me.
But the way they burst out in laughter the moment I turn away makes my stomach twist violently. When I glance up again, they immediately look away, their giggles fading into awkward silence.
I try to brush it off as I pack up my things, but I can feel their eyes on my back as I leave the café.
By Wednesday, it starts happening at work.
I walk in the teacher’s lounge to top up my bottle of water, only to find some of my colleagues huddled by the coffee machine. The moment they see me, they freeze.
“Morning, Olivia,” one of them says, her smile overly bright, her tone a little too cheerful.
“Morning,” I reply with a nod, keeping my voice neutral .
I turn to leave, but I see them exchange a look out of the corner of my eye before they lean back toward each other, resuming their hushed conversation.
The knot in my stomach tightens.
During class that day, it’s the students.
I catch them whispering behind their textbooks, their glances much more obvious. A group of boys snicker near the back, and I hear one of them mutter Santi’s name before his friend elbows him. They burst into barely suppressed laughter.
Midway through the lesson, one of my best students raises her hand.
“Since we were doing work on our hero’s, it made me wonder: have you ever met anyone famous?” she asks, her voice full of fake innocence.
The question catches me off guard, and I just about manage to stumble through a vague response about how living in different places means you have the opportunity to meet lots of interesting people.
The class doesn’t let it go as easily as I hope, though. Giggles ripple across the room, and I hear whispers behind me as I write on the board.
By the time the bell rings, my nerves are shot.
On Thursday, things escalate when I stop by the bodega on my way home to grab something for dinner and re-stock on a few items. As I’m leaving, a woman who I absolutely do not recognise approaches me just outside the building, calling me by name.
I freeze, clutching my bags tighter as my brows pull together. I’m sure I don’t know her, but I don’t want to be rude in case I’ve just forgotten her face .
“Yes?”
She practically beams, her accent thick as she speaks. “Olivia Bennett? You’re dating Santiago Ortiz, right?” she asks, her voice rising with excitement. “Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s you! What’s he like? Is he as nice as he seems? How did you meet?!”
Her questions come rapid-fire, leaving me no time to respond. My heart pounds as I stammer out a polite excuse, apologising and mumbling to her about being in a rush before I dart out of the door and walk at lightning-speed back to my apartment building.
I slam the door shut behind me, and my chest tightens as I drop my bags to the floor. My breaths come shallow and fast, and I rest the back of my head against the door for a moment or two while I steady myself.
How did this become my life?!
By Friday, it’s undeniable.
I step outside to head to work - pointedly setting off twenty minutes earlier than usual in the hopes of not bumping into anyone on my way there - only to be stopped by an older man lingering near the front of my apartment block.
He’s holding a large, expensive-looking camera in his hands, its strap looped casually around his neck. His stance is relaxed, but his sharp eyes scan me like a hawk sizing up its prey.
“Olivia?” he calls out, his voice cutting through the quiet of the early morning. He steps forward, his tone suddenly more insistent. “Olivia Bennett! Can I have a moment of your time?”
I freeze mid-step, my stomach dropping like a stone.
He knows my name.
And he knows where I live .
“Olivia, I just need a quick comment about your relationship with Santiago Ortiz,” he presses, taking another step closer.
His camera dangles against his chest, and I can see the lens cap is already off, ready for action.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have anything to say,” I reply, my voice tight as I force myself to keep walking.
He doesn’t take the hint.
“Oh, come on,” he says, his tone turning sharp. “Just one question. You’ve got to have something to say. How long have you and Santiago been seeing each other? Did you meet before he broke up with his last girlfriend, or did you lure him away?”
A wave of irritation rushes through me, and despite myself, I turn to look at him, my voice trembling with a mixture of anger and disbelief. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs, unbothered. “That’s what people are saying. I thought you’d want to set the record straight.”
I shake my head, my pulse pounding in my ears. “I have nothing to say to you,” I repeat firmly, picking up my pace.
But he continues to follow, his footsteps quickening behind mine.
“Are you going to be moving in with him?” he presses, his voice rising. “People are eager to know what kind of woman Santiago Ortiz is dating. It’s got to be serious if he’s bringing you to matches.”
I clench my fists as I attempt to up my pace.
My whole body feels hot, like every inch of me is under scrutiny.
“Please leave me alone,” I say through gritted teeth, forcing myself not to look back at him .
But his persistence is relentless.
“Come on, Olivia,” he says, sounding more frustrated. “Just one comment, one photo. Help me out here!”
I turn sharply at the corner, and thankfully, the man doesn’t follow this time. His voice fades into the background, but the damage is already done.
My hands tremble as I clutch tightly to my work bag.
I glance around nervously as I walk, suddenly hyper-aware of every person on the street.
Are they looking at me? Do they know who I am?
Will someone else try to stop me?
Thankfully, I finally reach the school only a few minutes later, though my mind is racing as I step through the gates.
He knew where I lived.
He wasn’t asking questions out of curiosity, either. He was digging, looking for something - anything - so that he could twist my life into a story.
The whispers, the stares, the questions… it’s all too much.
Something has got to give.
∞∞∞
After a long day of trying to push my encounter with the pushy prick of a photographer out of my mind, I sit on my couch, my phone open and waiting.
I’ve been debating whether to call Santi for most of the day, unsure if I want to burden him with how overwhelmed I feel .
But as the anxiety creeps back in, I give in and dial his number.
“Olivia,” he says, answering quickly. “I’ve been waiting. Did you not see my texts? Are you okay?”
I let out a shaky breath.
“Not really,” I admit. “I... well. I mean, I did see your texts, yes, I just haven’t had much chance to reply. Work was so busy, and…”
I inhale through my nose, pushing through my natural instinct to pretend that everything is absolutely fine all of the time.
“I had a run-in with someone this morning. A photographer. He was waiting outside my building.”
“ What ?” His voice sharpens instantly. “Outside your apartment? I - wait. Did he say anything to you?”
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing hard. “He asked a lot of questions about us, about you - about me . He wouldn’t stop, even when I told him I had nothing to say. Several times.”
Santi curses under his breath in Spanish. “Did he follow you?”
“I - yes, kind of,” I reply, my voice trembling. “He didn’t follow me to work or anything, but he walked after me for a little bit. But… he knows where I live, Santi. How on earth does he know that?! It feels so bloody intrusive.”
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line.
When Santi speaks again, his voice is calm, but firm.
“I should’ve anticipated this,” he says. “I’m so sorry, Olivia. I didn’t think it would escalate like this. Especially not so quickly.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say. “I just - I don’t really know how to handle this. I’ve never been in this kind of situation, and I almost feel like my life isn’t mine anymore. Does that make sense?”
“It does,” he says softly. “I know it’s hard, and I know this isn’t what you signed up for, and I hate that you’re being dragged into it just because of me.”
“It’s not your fault,” I tell him. “It’s because of us . And I don’t regret being with you, Santi. It’s just... overwhelming. That’s all.”
There’s another pause, and I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking.
“Where are you now?” he asks.
As if he doesn’t already know the answer.
It’s a Friday night - where else would I be?!
“At home.”
“Okay. I want you to come to my place tonight.”
His voice is gentle but insistent, and I frown at the phone as though he can see me through it.
“What?” I blink, caught off guard. “No, Santi, it’s fine. We’re seeing each other tomorrow, you don’t have to -”
“Olivia,” he interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’d feel better if you were here. If you stayed here. Here, I have security. I’d know you are safe, and I wouldn’t have to worry about someone trying to bother you.”
I chew on my bottom lip as I quickly think it over.
Santi’s been to my apartment plenty of times, and it’s always felt more than comfortable. Familiar, even. Having him here has been a nice balance; a way to keep things grounded and intimate - like our very own personal bubble.
The thought of stepping into his space - whatever luxury that may be - makes me nervous.
“I mean, I don’t… I just don’t want to impose,” I say, unable to think of a real, logical answer.
We’ve been dating for almost four months now, and I’ve been his girlfriend for two. There’s no reason I can come up with for why I shouldn’t, or can’t, go to his place for the night.
“You could never impose,” he says, his tone softening. “And I’d honestly feel better having you here, Olivia. Please .”
The sincerity in his voice chips away at the last of my hesitation.
“Okay,” I agree before I can second-guess myself any further. “I’ll stay.”
“Perfect,” he says, the relief audible in his tone. I almost smile despite the circumstances. “I’m just finishing off here, but I’ll text you the address and have someone come to pick you up. I’ll meet you there, okay?”
“Alright,” I reply.
“Thank you,” he says softly. “And don’t speak to anyone other than the driver. Don’t give those pieces of shit anything.”
“I won’t,” I agree.
“Alright, baby. I’ll see you soon.”