Page 10 of Velvet Thorns
Lianna helped me pick it out, and she fucking nailed it. She said it made me look like velvet wrapped in thorns—something soft and meant to be touched, even if it hurt. She offered to come with me and even tossed a bottle of whiskey and a box of condoms into my bag, like this was some twisted girls’ getaway, but this isn’t something I can share with her.
Going back to Indiana isn’t about catching up with old friends or making peace with my past. It’s actually the complete opposite. It’s about stepping into the fire, not out of it.
A small part of me is terrified of losing the woman I’ve fought to become, and if I break, I want to break alone. I don’t want anyone’s eyes on me, and I don’t want sympathy or anyone trying to stitch me back together. If it happens, it’s my mess to clean up.
I swung by the office this morning for one last check-in with Betty, my assistant and the only person on earth who can wrangle my chaos into something that almost looks like order.
We’re drowning in back-to-back jobs, completely swamped, but with the team I’ve built, I could probably disappear for months, and everything would keep running. But I don’t because I love being in the thick of it all. I love what I’ve built, and I try like hell to treat my employees like family instead of numbers because I know exactly what it feels like to be just a face in the crowd, desperate for someone to notice.
The people I work closest with lit up when I walked them through the new projects, and I hope they felt like they truly mattered because they do. Xavier practically glowed when I handed him the Morrison account, this massive rebrand where they want us to completely reimagine their identity from the ground up.
There’s something so addictive about watching people realize they’re capable of more than they thought.
I’d been that person once—hungry and overlooked, waiting for someone to see what I could do. Now I get to be the someone who sees it in others.
I’ve arrived at the airport way too early, and I’m pacing like a caged animal and driving myself out of my mind. There’s only so many times you can obsessively check your phone, refresh the same apps, and stare at the departure board before you have to face the fact that the only thing waiting for you is a fucking flight delay.
It’s hell on earth.
Some kid’s having a complete meltdown two gates over, shrieking like he’s being murdered while his parents just ignore it. The PA system keeps crackling with some asshole’s voice, announcing delays and gate changes like he's not ruining someone’s life, and the constant echo of footsteps and dragging luggage is grinding down what little patience I have left.
I swear to god, if one more person breathes too close, I’ll lose it.
Rip-my-own-skin-off kind of lose it.
Everything is too much.
The fluorescent lights are too bright, and the air is too sterile. The whole place reeks of burnt coffee and floor polish, which is making me nauseous. My skin feels too tight, like it doesn’t fit right. My chest is heavy, as if my lungs have forgotten how to work properly, and with every passing second, the weight of where I’m going settles deeper in my bones. I haven’t even boarded yet, and it already feels like I’m being pulled back into something I barely survived the first time.
I collapse into a hard plastic chair, which was clearly designed by someone who hates people. My spine is stiff, every muscle in my body wound tight, and my jaw is clenched so hard I’m surprised my teeth haven’t shattered into dust. I jam my headphones into my ears, and the second Placebo starts to play, the world blurs into something bearable.
I’ve finally put a wall between me and everything else. The crying kid. The screech of luggage wheels. The lights drilling into my skull.It all dissolves, and for just a moment, the world isn’t so loud.
When my mind finally stops racing, I drag my sketchbook from my bag, my hands shaking more than I fucking want them to. I tell myself it’s just the stress, but the truth is, I’m rattled to my core, and I don’t know how to steady myself. Not yet.
I flip open the book to the page I’ve been obsessing over since I received that invitation.
Phoenix wings.
Yeah, I know. Call me fucked up. I don’t care. I can’t stop drawing them. I can’t stop seeing Phoenix Cassidy etched into the backs of my eyelids like a scar that refuses to fade.
He’s there when I blink, when I sleep, even when I fucking breathe, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t scrub him out.
The wings dominate the page, wild and monstrous, with flames bleeding from the top like they’ve torn through hell and come out hungry.
Because that’s what I’m going to do to him.
I’m going to burn that beautiful, lying fucker to the ground.
The darkness inside me is practically purring, stretching like a cat in the sunlight. I’ve spent years trying to tame her and convince myself that being the bigger person was worth something. But she’s hungry now, and her thirst for his destruction is stronger than any desire I’ve ever had for peace.
I know holding onto all this hate and hurt isn’t healthy, but I can’t let it go.If I can make him feel even a fraction of the pain he left in me, crack that perfect mask and see even one genuine flicker of regret in his eyes… then I win.
I’ve got another hour to kill before I have to board the plane, and God help me, I’m nowhere close to being okay. I’m not ready. But I keep reminding myself that I’m returning as Shannen Mitchell.
Shannen Clarke died the day I kissed the boy I loved and learned what it felt like to lose everything that mattered in one brutal, soul-crushing moment, and she’s never coming back.
I drag the charcoal across the page again and again, pressing harder each time. My strokes are rough, and my edges are jagged. I don’t care though. I’m not drawing to make somethingpretty. I’m drawing to exorcise whatever the hell is sitting in my chest.
