Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The front door hangs off its hinges like a broken jaw, glass all over the dirty, tiled entrance floor.
I stand frozen, taking in the carnage. Red spray paint screams across the walls—words that make my skin crawl; CUNT, PRICK, ASSHOLES. And threats too: WATCH YOUR BACKS!
Framed movie posters lie shattered on the floor; Tom Cruise and Paul Newman stare up at the ceiling with cocky smirks, surrounded by jagged glass.
The pool tables.
Oh, God, the tables. All of them, slashed, green felt torn to ribbons like someone took a blade to them with pure rage.
The bar's destroyed—bottles smashed, liquor pooling on the floor.
Chairs and tables toppled like a hurricane ripped through.
At least the TVs are intact. The light fixtures too.
Small mercies.
Cops mill around, snapping photos, scribbling notes. Their voices blur into white noise. Reeves stands near the back, talking to an officer, his jaw tight, hands balled into fists.
I sink into the nearest booth, legs giving out. The leather's unscathed, thank God. I run my hand over it, grounding myself.
This is my fault.
All of it.
Tears spill over before I can stop them. Hot, angry, guilty tears that blur the wreckage in front of me. My stomach churns violently, threatening to empty itself right here.
A hand touches my shoulder.
Greg.
Of all people.
He kneels beside the booth, his usual cocky swagger nowhere in sight. "Hey. You okay?"
"This is my fault." My voice cracks. "All of it."
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is. If I hadn't—"
"Stop." His tone is firm but gentle. "That psycho did this. Not you."
I shake my head, swiping at my eyes. "Reeves wouldn't be dealing with this if I hadn't—"
"Liza." Greg grabs my hand, squeezing. "Listen to me. We're gonna fix this. All of us. Together. Insurance will cover most of it, including the days we're shut down. It'll be okay."
I desperately want to believe him. "You really think so?"
"I know so." He grins—just a little, just enough. "Besides, Reeves has been wanting to replace that felt for years. Now he's got an excuse."
A weak laugh escapes me. "You're an idiot most of the time, but you have your moments."
"Oh wow, Gee, thanks, Liza."
Maybe Greg's not so bad after all.
One of the officers approaches—a woman in her forties or so with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense expression. “Are you Liza?"
I nod, wiping my face with the back of my hand.
"I'm Officer Mendez. My partner and I need to ask you some questions about the suspect."
I swallow hard. "Okay."
She gestures to the booth across from me, and I slide over. Her partner—a young guy with a buzz cut—pulls out a notepad.
"We understand you have a history with Daniel Ross?”
My chest tightens at the sound of his name. "Yeah. He's my ex. My landlord, too, technically. Was."
"Walk us through it."
So I do. The whole ugly story spills out—how we met, how he seemed perfect at first, how he slowly became controlling, then violent. The slap. The letters. The black roses. The attack in the parking lot just days ago.
Mendez listens without interrupting, her expression unreadable. The younger cop scribbles furiously.
"We filed a restraining order," I add. "It should be in the system."
"It is," Mendez confirms. "We'll be talking to Mr. Ross about that as well."
"So you can arrest him?" Hope flickers in my chest.
She shakes her head. "Not yet. We don't have enough evidence to prove he did this."
My stomach drops. "What? But who else would—"
"The security cameras were smashed," the younger cop interjects. "Inside and out. Whoever did this knew what they were doing. They knew where the cameras were and took them out first."
"One camera outside caught footage," Mendez adds. "Three men, dressed in black. But the angle's bad—we can't identify anyone from it."
Three men.
Just like the convenience store robbery.
My blood turns to ice.
"We'll question Mr. Ross,” Mendez continues. "See if he has an alibi. But without concrete evidence linking him to the scene, we can't make an arrest."
"So what am I supposed to do?" My voice rises. "Just wait for him to come after me again?"
"You have a restraining order. If he violates it, call us immediately." Her tone softens. "I know it's not what you want to hear, but our hands are tied right now."
I slump back against the booth, defeated.
Daniel's always three steps ahead.
And he knows it.
We order Thai food again—our favorites—cashew orange chicken, and ginger chicken. The irony isn't lost on me. Same meal Daniel and I had that day he threw a phone in an aquarium.
Julian unpacks the containers in silence, his jaw tight.
I can't keep it in anymore. "I need to tell you something."
He looks up, those dark eyes reading me instantly. "What happened?"
So I tell him. Everything. The smashed door, the spray paint, the slashed tables, broken bottles everywhere. How the cops have nothing concrete on Daniel. How he'll probably get away with it.
Julian sets down his fork. Slowly. Carefully.
Too carefully.
"That motherfucker."
"Julian—"
He shoots up—his chair scrapes against the floor. I’ve never seen him look so angry.
“He destroyed your workplace! He could've hurt someone—hurt you."
"I wasn't there… it was in the middle of the night—"
"He's escalating, Liza!" His voice rises, and I flinch. He notices, and his face crumbles. "I'm sorry. I'm not—I would never—"
"I know." I reach for his hand, but he pulls away, pacing.
"I'm going to talk to him."
My heart drops. "No. Absolutely not."
"Someone needs to—"
"Julian, please." I stand, blocking his path.
"That's exactly what he wants, don't you see?
" My voice comes out pleading, desperate.
"He wants to provoke you, to get under your skin.
He wants to drive a wedge between us, stir up conflict and chaos, and make us turn on each other.
That's his whole game—splitting us apart until there's nothing left. "
"So I'm just supposed to sit here and do nothing?"
"We don't give him the satisfaction of responding. We stay calm. We—"
He punches the wall.
The sound cracks through the kitchen, and I jump back, my pulse hammering.
Julian stares at his fist, breathing hard. There's a dent in the drywall. His knuckles are already turning red.
"Fuck." He runs his hand through his hair. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
"You didn't." My voice shakes, betraying me.
"But this is exactly what he does, isn't it?
" I say softly, taking a tentative step toward him, my voice barely above a whisper.
"This is his whole twisted playbook. He gets inside people's heads, twists everything around until they feel completely powerless, like they're drowning and can't find the surface. "
"Julian—"
"I can handle myself, Liza. I grew up fighting. I know how to—"
"That's not the point!" Tears prick my eyes.
"I'm worried about you," I tell him, my voice cracking as the words tumble out.
"What if he hurts you? What if he does something terrible, and I have to live with knowing I could have stopped it?
What if you get yourself into a situation you can't fight your way out of, and I lose you because of him?
" The tears spill over now, hot against my cheeks.
Julian's arms wrap around me suddenly, pulling me against his chest with a fierce intensity that steals my breath. His embrace is tight, almost desperate, as if he's trying to anchor himself to something real, something solid.
I can feel the rapid thud of his heart against my cheek, still racing from the adrenaline. One of his hands comes up to cradle the back of my head, his fingers threading gently through my hair, while his other arm wraps around my waist, holding me close.
The warmth of his body seeps into mine, chasing away the chill of fear that's been clinging to my skin. Despite the violence of that punched wall still echoing in my mind, despite everything, I feel safe here. Protected. Like nothing in the world can touch me as long as he's holding me like this.
"Promise me you won't go see him," I beg, my eyes pleading with him.
"I won't," he says. "Not tonight, anyway."
The pool hall feels too quiet tonight. Only three tables occupied, a couple of regulars nursing beers at the bar. I wipe down the same spot twice, just to have something to do.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Ms. Singh?”
“Yes.”
“Tis is officer Mendez. I wanted to update you on the vandalism case."
My pulse kicks up. "Did you arrest him?"
"We brought in Daniel in for questioning." A pause. "We had to let him go."
The rag drops from my hand. "What? Why?"
"No concrete evidence linking him to the scene. And he had an alibi for the time of the break-in. Ironically, he was at the police station filing a counter-complaint about your boss assaulting him."
A bitter laugh escapes me. "You've got to be kidding."
"I'm sorry. Without physical evidence or witnesses placing him at the scene—"
"Thanks," I cut her off. "I appreciate you trying."
I hang up before she can say anything else.
My hands shake as I pocket my phone. Daniel was at the station.
Filing complaints about Reeves while his hired thugs destroyed my workplace.
Because of course he was. That's exactly his style—cover his ass while someone else does the dirty work.
Too much of a coward to swing the bat himself, but arrogant enough to make sure he's untouchable while it happens.
Heat floods through me. Rage, pure and sharp.
I get it now… the reason Reeves confronted him. The reason Julian wants to punch more than just a wall. This helpless fury, watching him get away with everything while playing the victim.
But storming over there won't work. Neither will threats or violence—that's what he expects, what he wants. Ammunition to use against us.
No. I need to be smarter.
I grab my phone again, pulling up Daniel's contact. My thumb hovers over his name.
Honey, not vinegar. That's how you catch someone like him. Feed his ego, let him think he's won, get close enough to—
What? What exactly am I planning?
I don't know yet. But sitting here doing nothing while he terrorizes everyone I care about isn't an option anymore.
I delete the half-formed text. Not yet. I need a real plan first.
But soon.
That night, I sit cross-legged on Julian's bed, laptop balanced on my thighs, cursor blinking at me like an accusation.
Two hours. That's how long it takes to craft the perfect lie.
Dear Daniel,
I've been thinking about you. About us. About everything that’s happened, and I owe you an apology.
My stomach turns as I type, but I keep going.
You're a wonderful man. Intelligent, sophisticated, successful—everything I thought I wanted. The problem was never you. It was me, my inability to appreciate what we had when we had it. You tried to take care of me, to build a life together, and I sabotaged it.
The words taste like poison, but I force them out.
I remember when you first asked me out. How nervous I was, how flattered.
You could have had anyone, and you chose me.
We had something special—those quiet mornings with your perfect omelets, the way you'd wrap your arm around me while we watched documentaries.
I was too immature to see the gift I'd been given.
I pause, wiping my eyes. Not from sadness. From rage at having to grovel like this.
But Daniel, we aren't meant to be together. As much as it hurts to admit, we want different things. I need you to understand that and let me go. Please.
Julian means nothing. We're not serious—honestly, I think I latched onto him as a rebound, a way to hurt you. I'm already looking for my own place. By next month, I'll be gone from his life completely.
But I'm begging you, please leave him alone. Leave Reeves alone. They're innocent in all this. Whatever anger you have, it should be directed at me, not them.
You deserve someone who appreciates you, who won't throw away what you're offering. I hope someday you'll forgive me for not being that person.
You'll always be dear to me.
—Liza
I read it three times, hating every word, knowing it could blow up in my face. But what choice do I have?
I copy it into an email, add his address.
My finger hovers over send.
This is either brilliant or the stupidest thing I've ever done.
I close my eyes and click.