Page 72 of Obsession on Repeat
Her smirk faltered.
"Whatever you had with him? It’s over. You’re not the unfinished chapter, you’re the footnote." I tilted my head, eyes locked with hers. "And let’s be clear, I don’t need some fairy tale ending. I need him, and he’s already mine."
I walked away and didn’t look back.
I posted it to my story first and then to my feed. It was a simple video. There was no filter, no styling, only me with no makeup wearing a hoodie, a messy bun on top of my head.
"My name is Rory Jones. You might know me as DJ Fetish. You might not. Either way, here’s what I want you to know. I don’t owe anyone my trauma. I don’t owe anyone my past. But since someone decided to leak a version of my life that fits their narrative, so let me tell you mine."
I looked into the camera. "I was young when I started out on my own, barely sixteen at the time. I stayed in situations I should’ve run from, and I stayed silent when I should’ve screamed. I learned a hard lesson. I built something that no one handed me. No one saved me. I saved myself, and I’ll keep doing that until there’s nothing left."
The video cut to black, and I ended it with a simple caption.
"You don’t get to write my story. I already have."
It didn’t take long for the video to go viral. Comments poured in, some expected, some not.
@missem_violet: this is what true bravery is.
@coratalksalot: Thank you for saying what so many of us feel.
@captivated_craft: you survived. you thrived. you own it.
Verified names I didn’t follow were reposting the clip. Music blogs were calling it one of the most 'defining public reclamations of the year'. My inbox filled with interview requests I had zero interest in answering.
Elle, meanwhile, was quiet. Her PR account had gone dark. The blog was scrubbed. An anonymous source finally admitted she’d 'encouraged the piece,' and the internet flipped on her fast. The same voices who once echoed her rumors were now calling her petty, jealous and irrelevant.
I didn’t need to say another word.
I was curled up on the couch, hoodie over my knees, laptop open but ignored, when my phone buzzed again. I stared at Sullivan’s name for a long beat before opening the message.
I saw your video. I should’ve been a better listener when you were with me. I hope you’re okay. I hope he’s good to you. You deserve that.
I didn’t reply.
Asher came in a few minutes later, sliding a mug of tea into my hands. He sat down beside me, and I leaned into him, a comfortable silence that no longer felt strange to me settling between us.
22
"Hallelujah,Thursdayisover!"Gina hopped up onto the bar. The lights in Euphoria were dimmed, the crowd long gone, nothing left but a few staff, sticky floors, and glitter confetti in questionable places. "I’ve got a brilliant idea. Let’s get hammered."
"I’m surprised you have one idea," Asher muttered beside her.
"My one beats your zero." She flipped him off with a grin, and he laughed, shaking his head.
I bent to readjust my shoe, one hand bracing on his shoulder for balance. "I’m gonna have to pass. I am dead on my feet."
Gina’s gaze cut to us, and her eyes narrowed. "You look pretty alive to me."
I straightened. Neither of us said a word.
She let the moment breathe, lips twitching. "Anyway." She slid off the bar. "I’ll go get drunk by myself as the strong, independent woman I am, unless you two decide to make it a throuple."
"Bye, Gina," Asher and I said in unison.
She cackled all the way to the back hallway.
Asher leaned against the bar beside me. I slipped off my heels with a groan and stretched my toes, wiggling them against the sticky floor. "God, that feels indecently good."
