Page 219 of Their Arrangement
I stared at his name in my messages.
Typed nothing.
Just looked.
And then—like punishment—Camille’s voice whispered in the back of my head.
You don’t lie to people like them, Cloe.
They don’t just forgive. They consume.
I folded in on myself. Curled tighter in Wolfe’s blanket. Let the phone slide off my leg and hit the carpet with asoft, traitorous sound. And when I closed my eyes? I saw the safe. And the ring. And the fire I was already walking into. No threats. No countdowns. No names. Because she didn’t need to say them anymore.
I opened the bedroom drawer. Saw the folded hoodie I hadn’t worn since the attack. My fingers brushed the edge of it. Inside the pocket? The note. Her handwriting. Still there. Still curling like a smile. I closed the drawer again. But I didn’t lock it.
I went to Wolfe’s closet. Opened it slowly. The shirts were arranged like soldiers. Pressed. Black. White. Grey. Minimal. Perfect.
I stepped inside. Closed the door behind me. Sank to the floor between two hanging jackets. And pressed my hands to my face. I didn’t cry. Not yet. But I thought about it.
I stayed there until my legs went numb. Until the silence folded around me like a second skin. And when I finally stood?—
I didn’t feel like the same girl who’d been touched by his hands. I felt like the one who was about to burn everything he gave me. I didn’t sleep that night. I curled up in the corner of Wolfe’s bed, wrapped in his sheets, and stared at the ceiling like it might give me permission to stop.
Stop pretending.
Stop hiding.
Stop breaking.
The message kept playing behind my eyelids.
We’re waiting.
And I hated that I knew what she meant.
I hated more that a part of me wanted to obey. Not out of fear. But out of habit. When I finally sat up, the room was still dark.
No Wolfe.
No movement. Just the city outside and the chain on my skin and the truth curled in my gut like a coiled wire.
I wandered again.
Slow.
Barefoot.
Avoiding the mirror.
His apartment didn’t feel quiet anymore. It felt like it was holding its breath. I passed the dying plant. Its edges browning. I touched one of the leaves. It crumbled. Like me.
I walked past the dresser.
The ring was still on top.
In the velvet box.
Next to a drawer that held nothing except the shirt I wore the night I bled on his sheets. I opened that drawer. Just to see it. Just to be sure it was still there. And it was. The shirt. The ring. The note she left.
