Page 95 of Only Mine
“Papa, is Miss Wrenley okay?”
Ivy’s question mirrors my own thoughts.
“I don’t know,” I admit, keeping my eyes on the now-empty doorway. “But we’re going to make sure she will be.”
TWENTY-TWO
WRENLEY
Ralph watches blandly when I check my door lock three times.
“What?” I ask the orange cat sprawled on my bed. “I’m being thorough.”
The cat offers a noncommittal yawn, stretching languidly across my pillow.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand, startling me. It’s probably Brenda again, checking on the new content schedule I promised. Or maybe Saint, confirming dinner plans. My fingers twitch with the hope it’s the latter.
But I know it’s worse than that.
I shouldn’t have checked my notifications while walking the trail with Ivy and Saint. But Saint’s sudden, towering presence with sky-blue eyes that know too much and his arms wrapping around me, the ropes of his tendons and tattoos holding me against him like I’ll never have anything to worry about again, forced me to find a distraction.
And so I did what I promised my therapist I wouldn’t do.My promise of no engagement, no scrolling, no obsessing over responses went out the goddamn window.
I chose the most innocuous post to check. The one with Ralph sleeping on my bed, captioned “Small-town life comes with built-in companions. #NewBeginnings #FreshStart.”
Most comments were harmless.
So cute! Love this for you! That orange boy is everything!
But then I saw it.
Pink looks better in your hair than blue did. Though I miss the way you’d twist it around your finger when you talked to me through the camera. I miss watching you sleep, princess.
I’m shocked my legs didn’t give out when I read it. I’m proud of how I handled myself in front of Saint and Ivy even though it took all my energy to keep it together until I climbed up the stairs to my apartment.
I deleted the comment instantly, of course, but it doesn’t matter. He’s out. He’s seen my new content. He’s found me again despite the multiple court orders telling him to fuck all the way off.
My chest constricts as I sink onto the edge of the bed. How? I’ve been so careful. No location tags, no identifiable landmarks. Nothing to connect me to Falcon Haven.
Yet somehow, he knows about my pink streak. Knows I’ve changed it.
But it might not be him. It could be a troll, fully aware of my situation and using it for clout. Trolls study influencers like specimens, learning our histories, our traumas, and crafting messages designed to destabilize us. It’s sick, but it’s not necessarily him.
Ralph pads over and butts his head against my elbow, purring.
“You’re right,” I tell him, scratching behind his ears. “I’m spiraling.”
I should call the jail and make sure he’s still there. Or call Brenda and ask her to check for me. Get off social media entirely, find a new job, a new country.
God, I used tolovewhat I did. I found joy in everything that came with becoming an influencer: the planning, the editing, the content, the connections, and yes, the PR packages were never unwelcome. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Not to mention what it did for my social anxiety and how I blossomed when I realized I could build a career around something I was naturally good at despite how much I fumbled through face-to-face conversations. I found confidence. I found happiness. I foundbelonging.
My hands won’t stop shaking. The screen illuminates again, showing a text from Saint.
Still on for 7?
I stare at the message, my throat closing. I should cancel. Pack my things. Run again.
But I’m so tired of running.
