Chapter Seven #2
Whatever message she reads, it drains the color from her face.
She goes absolutely ghost white—like someone reached through the screen and gripped her heart.
I sit up straighter, every nerve on edge.
I can’t see the words, but whatever’s on that screen, it’s bad.
Really fucking bad. My pulse hammers as I watch her freeze, eyes wide and unblinking, her whole body trembling.
Something’s just changed, and not for the better. I just wish to hell I knew what.
Ayla
Hey, princess.
The words light up my screen, and instantly, a wave of nausea crashes over me.
My father. My brain shuts off, like static, as I stare at the words.
Oh fuck. My emotions are all over. I haven’t heard from him in two years—not since the day I turned eighteen and slammed the door on my old life.
How the hell did he get my number? My heart starts racing, every old memory rising like bile.
I can almost hear his voice, dripping with control, and my hands start to shake.
It’s like every alarm in my body goes off at once—danger, danger, danger.
Deep breaths, Ayla. He can’t get to you now.
You’re safe. Well, safe from him. At least, that’s what I tell myself, but my body doesn’t believe it.
I force myself to breathe in, breathe out, counting each inhale like it might keep the ghosts at bay.
I don’t respond. I can’t. Instead, I text Alex—just a simple hey, like it’s any normal night.
His reply is instant. Who was that, darling? You went white as a ghost
I remember he told me he now has access to all the cameras in the house.
That should terrify me. It makes no sense that this guy—Alex, who keeps showing up and ignoring every boundary I set—somehow hacked into Derek’s fortress, into my prison.
I should be angry, I should be scared, but all I feel is confusion and this twisted sense of safety.
Why do I trust him at all? He’s basically a stranger, a man who won’t listen when I say no, who keeps coming back even when I tell him not to.
But when I picture him on the other side of the screen, watching, I feel less alone.
Less invisible. There’s something about Alex—something steady, something relentless.
Maybe it’s the danger, maybe it’s the hope, but for the first time in months, I almost believe someone might actually be able to save me.
My father, I text back, keeping it short and ice cold.
That’s all Alex gets. The word alone is enough to make my stomach twist, but I force my hands to steady.
I’ve never talked about my father to anyone since I started over—never had to, since no one’s ever asked.
But I know Alex won’t let this drop, especially if he saw me lose it on camera.
He’ll want to know what’s behind the panic, the shaking hands, the ghost in my eyes.
But I’m not ready to dredge any of that up.
Not now. Not with Alex, not with anyone.
Some things are safer locked away, unsaid and untouched, no matter how much they burn.
7 years old- I wake up to a loud bang downstairs—daddy’s home!
It’s really late, and the house is so quiet except for his big shoes clomping on the floor.
I’m wearing my favorite pink nightgown with the puffy sleeves, the one that’s soft like a cloud, and I hug my teddy bear, Charlie, close while I listen to him come up the stairs.
He always tucks me in when he gets home, even if I’m already asleep.
I peek out from under my blankets, heart fluttering, and try not to look too excited when the door creaks open.
“Hi, Daddy,” I whisper, trying to sound sleepy and grown-up, but it comes out all giggly.
He sits on the edge of my bed and smiles at me, but his voice is funny tonight—slower, heavier.
He smells weird, too, kind of sour and sharp, but I don’t mind.
I sit up and throw my arms around him for a hug, and he squeezes me tight.
“Tuck me in, Daddy?” I ask, slipping under the covers, waiting for him to pull them up to my chin like always.
But tonight, he pulls the blanket down instead.
My skin prickles. “Daddy, tuck me in?” I whine, not sure why he’s looking at me like that.
He touches my leg, his hand sliding past my knee.
A little shiver of fear runs through me.
His hand slides up under my nightgown. “Daddy, please, tuck me in,” I say, voice small.
Finally, he pulls the blanket up, tucks it in tight around me, and kisses the top of my head, brushing my hair back with a gentle hand.
“Good night, my princess,” he whispers, and leaves me alone in the dark.
The memory claws at me—pain, terror, the weight of his hands—and for a moment, I’m drowning in it, completely lost. Then the sharp buzz of my phone in my hand jolts me back to the present, snapping me out of the flashback like a slap.
Panic surges. My stomach twists, bile burning up my throat.
I stagger to the bathroom, waves of nausea and fear crashing through me until I’m doubled over the toilet, retching until there’s nothing left.
My skin is clammy, my whole body shaking.
I’m sick, panicked, utterly helpless. I stand, gripping the sink, knuckles white, chest heaving as my heart hammers out a frantic, broken rhythm.
Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Not for him. Not again.
My phone buzzes on the counter again—Alex.
Ayla… talk to me.
Ayla, what’s going on?
Ayla, please.
Ayla, answer me.
I stare at the screen, hands trembling, but I can’t bring myself to answer. Another text follows, more insistent:
Ayla, I know you saw my texts. What’s wrong? Please, just tell me you’re okay.
I want to tell him everything and nothing, to let someone finally see the damage, but the words choke me.
My whole body is trembling, panic crawling under my skin, my chest tight and aching.
The world feels too loud, too sharp, each buzz of my phone making my heart race with fear and hope and dread.
My breath comes in shallow, ragged bursts.
All I can do is sink to the cold tile, hug my knees so tight it almost hurts, and pray for the shaking, the panic, and the helplessness to stop.
I feel like I’m coming apart in a thousand jagged pieces, and I don’t know if I’ll ever find my way back.
I stumble out of the bathroom, wiping the dampness from my cheeks, only to find Derek waiting for me in the hallway.
"Hey, baby," he greets, his words thick with the burn of whiskey and something sharper—something that makes my skin crawl.
"Come sit with me. Let’s talk." His tone is too smooth, practiced, almost gleeful as he takes in the edges of my panic. I don’t have the energy to protest, not tonight.
I follow him to the couch, each step heavy, and sink down beside him, feeling his eyes on me, hungry for the control he knows he has.
He smiles—a slow, satisfied thing that makes my stomach twist. I force myself to breathe, bracing for whatever comes next.
“What’s got you all worked up?” Derek asks, his voice smooth as glass, but there’s a bite underneath—like he already knows I won’t answer.
I just stare at him, doing my best impression of a statue, willing my face to betray nothing.
Then he leans back, eyes glinting, and drops a bomb I never saw coming. “Did you hear from Charles?”
For a split second, the world tilts. It’s like ice water in my veins.
I have never told Derek about my father—never even said his name.
Charles. How the hell does Derek know my father’s name?
The realization slams into me, cold and nauseating.
My stomach twists, panic roaring in my ears.
Has he been digging into my past? Is he talking to him?
Just hearing it makes me want to run, to throw up again.
I clamp my jaw shut, fighting to keep my panic hidden, but Derek just keeps talking, the smile never leaving his lips.
I feel a new kind of fear now—like the walls are closing in and there’s nowhere left to hide.
“He told me he was going to reach out. He really misses you, baby.”
I stare at him, dumbfounded. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. I can’t put words together, so I keep silent, hoping he’ll drop it. But Derek isn’t finished.
“He asked if he could have lunch with you sometime this week. I told him absolutely.”
My thoughts race, but I can’t pin down what’s happening or why. Panic squeezes my chest, rising until I can barely breathe. I can’t tell if Derek is testing me, manipulating, or just enjoying the look of fear on my face. Whatever his game is, I’m not sure of the rules—and that terrifies me.