"She's had issues," he said, voice clipped, controlled. "But it's never been this bad. You've been her obsession for years. She's threatened women before—scared them off. I've handled it. Quietly. But this... this could ruin my campaign."
He sighed.
"You need to understand—it won't stop. Not until the election is over. And maybe not even then."
His advice wasn't really advice.
"Leave," he said. "Or she'll destroy you. Or someone else."
So I left again.
And that's when I met December.
God, December.
She walked into my life like sunlight pouring through a crack in a boarded-up window. She didn't know what she was fixing—she just loved. Loudly. Softly. Completely. She'd blush when she got nervous, laugh too hard at her own jokes, hum songs while she cooked. She didn't tiptoe around me—shesawme.
And I fell. So fucking hard.
But I couldn't let her in too close. Not with Mira still lurking.
So I kept her hidden.
I never brought her to my place—I knew Mira had cameras. I memorized Mira's schedule, only visiting December when I was sure it was safe. I told her lies—half-truths with pretty edges. And every time I kissed her goodbye, I felt like a coward. But I was terrified she'd tell someone. Post a photo. Mention me. I don't think she ever realized how dangerous Mira was.
And Iconstantlyhad to placate Mira—every day was a performance, every conversation a balancing act. I told her we'd become official after the election, that I just wanted to keep things quiet until the media heat cooled down. I spun it like we were in some kind of sacred honeymoon phase, that keeping it private made it more special, more intimate.
Of course, no sex. I told her it would be more romantic if we waited—painted it like some kind of slow-burn love story. "It'll mean more," I'd say, watching her eyes soften just enough. "Let's build this right." But the truth was, my skin crawled every time she touched me. I was buying time. Stalling. Trying to keep her from noticing how I flinched, how I never stayed too long, how I always had an excuse.
And the sick part was—she was actually happy. Genuinely, eerilycontent. Because in her mind, as long as I didn't leave, I was hers. I could be cold, distant, silent. I could pull away physically, emotionally, mentally—but if I stayed, it meant she still owned me.
She was obsessed, yes—but it was laced with this twisted arrogance. Like she believed no one else could ever have me. Like she'd already won.
Every time I dodged a question or smoothed over a confrontation, she'd smirk like she'd caught me in some kind of emotional trap. She'd say things like,"You always come back to me."Or worse,"I know you better than you know yourself."
She wore my silence like a trophy. My fear was proof of her power. She thought I was tethered—too weak to run, too guilty to fight back. And I started to wonder if maybe she was right.
Then came that day.
December brought cake to the gym. Mira was there—always watching, always listening. Later, she pulled me into the office.
"She likes you," she said, too calm. "Doesn't she? You better be careful. Girls like that... they end up in hospitals. Or worse."
So I made December smaller. Tucked her deeper into shadows. Tried to protect her by pretending she didn't matter.
But she mattered more than anything.
And Mira knew. She could feel it.
That night December found us, Mira had shown up unannounced, wrapped herself around me. I played the role—mocked December like she was some charity case, like she didn't matter.
But December lookedwrecked. She stood frozen, listening, watching. And I had to keep going. Had to pretend it was all true. Because Mira was suspicious. December was too bold, too confident—too loving by coming here dressed as such.
When she left, Mira snapped. She yelled. Screamed. Accused.
Then she hit me. Open palm across the face. Hard.
I stared at her, dazed. "Really?" I asked. "Again?"
