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I can almost picture Brahms at the other end, that infuriating smirk on his face as he carefully crafts his response. The seconds drag by painfully until those three impossible words appear:
Unknown: You, with me, 24/7.
The weight of his words feels suffocating. I can almost hear that insufferably smug tone of his like he’s cornered me. The room feels smaller, the walls inching closer.
Me, with him, all day, every day? Is he utterly delusional?
The ludicrousness of it all almost makes me want to pinch myself and wake up from this nightmare. That’s what it is, right? But when I do, I don’t wake up and the reality of everything hits me all at once. Everything is so overwhelming, I feel the prick of angry tears at the back of my eyes. I suppress them. I won’t let them fall, not over Brahms Ehrenberg. Drawing a shaky breath, my thumb dances over the screen, typing out a reply laced with sarcasm.
Seraphina: (:gasp: emoji) I’m calling 9-1-1
Unknown: What the fuck does that mean?
My lips twist into a humorless smile. How amusing that Mr. Know-It-All Brahms finds himself at a loss.
Seraphina: You’ve either lost your fucking mind, or you’ve inhaled something potent because you’re clearly hallucinating. You need medical attention, more than our center can provide.
Unknown: Don’t toy with me. I mean this, Seraphina. This will work only if you spend all the time I’m here with me. And we know you need the money, or you’ll lose everything.
Each word feels like a brick being laid, building the wall between my desire to escape this situation and the reality of his relentless persistence. I can’t do what he’s asking. It’s simply impossible, but I have to.
On second thought, I decide to call his bluff. That contract had a few clauses that would cover me, and I’ll get to keep at least what they’ve paid so far.
Seraphina: Nope. Walk away if our services aren’t to your liking. But remember—I’m keeping the initial fee, as our contract clearly states.
Unknown: Oh, I’ve had it reviewed. There’s a stipulation, alright. But perhaps you missed section five, paragraph three. To paraphrase my legal team, it mandates providing “whatever the patient needs for full recovery.” Failure to do so will require you to pay back any previous deposit—and we might make you liable for any setbacks I display.
Seraphina: Sure, but what does that have to do with me?
Unknown: I need YOU to recover. See you later tonight. I like to be tucked in around ten—with sex. Due to my current injuries, a bedtime story will suffice.
I can’t help the incredulous snort that escapes, even as I rub my temple with my fingers. “Seriously?” The words tumble out almost instinctively, caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. My pulse races, contrasting with the iciness of my fingers. It’s as if every inch of me is reacting to his words.
There’s an almost surreal quality to it all. I shake my head, a smile pulling at the corner of my lips despite the knot of anxiety in my stomach. Only Brahms Ehrenberg could make such an absurd demand sound perfectly reasonable. He hasn’t changed that much.
Setting down the phone feels like putting a weight aside, but my hands betray me, betray the façade of indifference I try to maintain. They tremble, like leaves caught in a gust of wind. Instinctively, I press my cold palms against my thighs, seeking some calm but unable to find it.
Being near Brahms again, even just through a screen, is like opening a door I thought I’d locked tight. It dredges up too many emotions: fear, anger, but also remnants of the old chemistry, the spark that used to ignite between us with such ease—feelings I had intentionally smothered in order to survive.
If I want to get through this, I have to remind myself that he didn’t love me, only used me. He used me to recover, to forget her, to . . . destroy me.
Unknown: You need to do it, because, baby, it’s still us against the world—that’s the only way we’ll survive it.
Chapter Seven
Seraphina
I’m staring at the phone, trying not to think about his last text: Us against the world. We used to say that, but it was before . . .
You can’t go there, Seraphina. Not today or ever, I remind myself.
Then there’s the other one: he goes to bed at ten, and he normally needs sex. Somehow, the thought of Brahms with other women fills me with jealousy. Another emotion I shouldn’t have when it comes to him. It’s not like he ever belonged to me. I’m so riled up that I jolt when the office door clicks open. It’s Blythe breezing in, her face unreadable.
I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s here. My posture stiffens, bracing myself. Whether she’s here out of concern, anger, or just to satiate her own curiosity, I can’t tell. I just hope she understands . . . my silence, the tragedy, or what I’ll have to tell her.
“So, you know the guys from Cascade Midnight, huh?” she asks, one eyebrow raised.
I sigh with relief. Okay, so this isn’t so bad. She’s just curious. I nod slowly. Though it’s been a long time since I last spoke to Jett, Rex, or Blaise. After Zane died and Brahms disappeared from my life, they never reached out again—ever. It’s like everyone from that life chose the death or Brahms, no one gave two fucks about me. Not that I needed them, but it still stings.
