Page 137 of American Beauty

“That’s it. You’re not staying here with Hulkenstein on the loose.”

I nod, this time meaning it. “It’s time to call Alex.”

My hands tremble as I scroll to his contact. The moment he picks up and sees my face, his expression shifts from happy to terrified.

“Babe, what happened?”

“He showed up at my apartment again. This time, he forced his way in. If Violet hadn’t shown up when she did… I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

“That motherfucker!” he yells. “Call the police.”

“I already have.”

“Pack a bag. Now. No arguing this time. I’m chartering a plane. I’ll text you the details. Violet, don’t leave her side until she’s in the air.”

Vi doesn’t miss a beat. She never does. “Copy that. I’ll get her on that jet like precious cargo. And if Tyson shows his face, we’re gonna have ourselves a come-to-Jesus meeting with claws and consequences.”

I don’t argue with their plan to pack me up and send me off. Because they’re right. And I’m done pretending this isn’t serious.

Violet helps me pack while I tremble and fight tears. She moves through my apartment with a quiet, steady rage—folding clothes, zipping suitcases, muttering under her breath about men who can’t take no for an answer.

“This shit starts the second a girl grows anything resembling a breast.” She shoves a toiletry bag into my suitcase. “We’re fair game to anyone with a dick, like existing in a female body means we owe them. I’m so fucking sick of it. I wish I was into women… but, dammit, I like dick too much. I just don’t like the jerks they’re attached to.”

She doesn’t stop moving or muttering, rage vibrating off her.

By the time we’re in the car, she’s still mad as hell—hands tight on the steering wheel, eyes blazing as she tears down the road toward the airstrip.

“It’s always the same damn story. A man gets told no, and it becomes a vendetta. You pull away, set a boundary, and they act like you’ve just dismantled their whole damn identity. Like we were put on this earth to stroke their egos and hand them our peace of mind on a silver platter.”

She blares the horn at someone driving too slowly.

“Fucking patriarchy!” she screams.

I don’t say anything. I just sit there, clutching the handle on my bag like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered. But every word she spits lands because she’s not wrong.

When we pull up beside the hangar, the plane already waiting, she throws the car into park and turns toward me.

“You know I like him, right?” Her voice is softer now. “Alex, I mean.”

I nod. “I know.”

She smiles. “He takes care of you, and you deserve that. He’s one of the good ones, Mags. Don’t let him get away.”

Not a chance in hell. “I won’t.”

Dallas is waiting.

Alex is waiting.

And this time, I’m running toward something good.

By the timethe car pulls up in front of the hotel, it’s late and I’m exhausted. I use my keycard and ride the elevator to the penthouse. It’s quiet. Dim. Just the low mechanical hum of gears turning, the soft whir of the elevator rising floor by floor, and the distant pulse of city noise beyond the glass.

When the doors slide open, I step inside and pause.

Alex is there. Waiting.

He’s sitting in the chair near the windows, one leg propped up on an ottoman, crutches leaning beside him. He looks pale and tense, like he hasn’t slept in days. His eyes snap to mine the second I step inside, and he starts to stand—but he doesn’t get far before I drop my bag and rush to him across the room.

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