Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“I never lied to you, Saint!” I yell, my words desperate, grasping for some shred of control in this spiraling situation. “You knew who I was before you showed up here!” My voice cracks again, but I don’t care. I need him to understand that this isn’t the same—that he crossed a line.
He grips the back of his neck, his frustration mounting, his face twisted with anger. “You didn’t lie? Petra, you’re fucking married!” he roars, his voice filled with accusation as he closes the distance between us in three long strides. I instinctively scoot to the other side of the bed, trying to keep space between us, my pulse pounding in my throat.
“You’re a wife and a mother,” he spits, the words sharp as a blade, “and none of your readers know that. I didn’t know that. You pretend to be someone you’re not every day of your life!” His words cut deep, striking at the soul of the part of myself I keep private, the people I’ve carefully kept separate from my public persona.
I feel the sting of his words, but I refuse to let him twist this around. I won’t let him make me feel guilty for something that has nothing to do with what he’s done. “That’s not the same,” I whisper, my voice trembling, my eyes wide with fear and anger. But even as I say it, I feel the weight of his accusation bearing down on me, forcing me to question myself, if only for a fraction of a second.
He stands at the edge of the bed now, towering over me, his eyes dark and unreadable. I can’t shake the feeling that something terrible is about to happen. I’m trapped, and we both know it.
I slide off the bed cautiously, my feet hitting the cold floor as I try to create some distance between us. We’re on opposite sides of the bed now, a temporary barrier between us, but it offers no real protection. My heart races, my mind grasping for a way out, but every path leads back to the same conclusion. I can’t outrun him.
“Can you blame me for trying to keep my life private?” My voice wavers as I speak, but there’s a desperation in it. “Look what happened with the little information I did put out there.”
My words hang in the air, but they don’t seem to faze him. He starts to move, slowly, deliberately, walking around the bed like a predator closing in on its prey. My pulse quickens as I realize the bed is no longer a safe barrier—it’s just a flimsy, meaningless divide between us.
My back presses against the wall, the cool surface grounding me in this terrifying reality. There’s nowhere to go. And now he’s right in front of me, looming over me with that same unnerving calm.
My mouth is so dry I can barely swallow, my palms damp with sweat. I feel like a cornered animal, powerless, helpless. I know I’m no match for him physically—he already proved that when he grabbed me so easily. I force myself to keep my gaze on him, even though every fiber of my being wants to look away, to shrink into nothingness.
“We’re no different, Petra,” he says, his voice softer now, almost coaxing, as if he’s trying to make me believe it. His height makes me feel even smaller, even more vulnerable. His voice lowers further, like a whisper of temptation. “You needed inspiration. I gave that to you in more ways than you could have possibly contrived inside that head of yours.”
He leans in, his breath hot against my ear, and I feel my skin crawl at the proximity.
“And you loved it,” he breathes into my ear, the words dripping with satisfaction. “You’re welcome.”
The room feels like it’s closing in on me, the walls shrinking as I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the reality of his presence so close to me. But there’s no escaping it. I can still feel him there, his breath brushing against my cheek, his body so close it’s suffocating. A tear slips from the corner of my eye, and I bite my cheek to keep from sobbing. I feel the slow, deliberate path the tear takes as it travels down my face and reaches my jawline.
I flinch when I feel his finger brush the tear away, the touch intimate and invasive. It sends a fresh wave of revulsion through me. He hasn’t stepped back, hasn’t given me even a sliver of space to breathe. I’m shaking now, but I force myself to stay still, to show as little of my fear as possible.
I’m not convinced I’m safe. I don’t feel safe. But I’m also not convinced he has any immediate plans to hurt me physically. There’s a terrifying ambiguity in the way he’s behaving, like he’s playing a game with rules only he knows. But knowing now that he’s not actually married—that he’s been lying about every part of himself—puts everything in a different light. It changes the stakes. He has nothing to lose if this affair comes to light. Nothing.