You’re mine. No one else gets to have you.
I force my shoulders down, like they can be commanded into calm. “You’re bitter,” I say. “You got kicked out of a restaurant. You want revenge.”
She laughs, short and sharp. “I want you to live.”
“Then stop talking in riddles,” I say, and my fingers drum against the phone before I stop them. “Spill.”
There’s a pause. Then, slower, “Look him up,” she says. “Not the corporate fluff. The old reports. The scandal. You’ll find enough to make you think twice.”
She hangs up.
The silence afterward feels loud, like my apartment is holding its breath.
I set the phone down beside the sink and stare at the pregnancy test again, because my brain needs something simple to look at. Two lines. Data. Reality.
Then I pick up my phone and open my browser.
I hate that she got what she wanted. I hate that curiosity always wears a lab coat in my mind, like it’s research and not fear.
Ethan Cross scandal.
The search bar autofills before I finish typing. My skin tightens.
I click.
There are articles, old ones, from before I worked at Cross Enterprises. I remember whispers when I joined, the kind people speak in kitchens and elevators, the kind that never makes it into onboarding. Something about a breach. Something about fraud. Something about Ethan’s best friend and Victoria Lane.
I open one story, then another. Names repeat. Dates repeat. Phrases repeat. “Internal investigation.” “Conflicts of interest.” “Settlement undisclosed.” “No wrongdoing admitted.” It reads like rich people language for “we paid a lot of money so you would shut up.”
Victoria’s affair shows up everywhere, dressed up as tragedy and gossip depending on the outlet. Photos. Captions. Timeline speculation. Ethan’s face in suits, expression blank, like he’s already decided to outlast the circus.
Then I find the parts Sabrina wanted me to see.
A blog post with comments disabled, but screenshots floating on some forum. Anonymous accounts calling him an abusive narcissist. People saying Victoria deserved better, as if cheating is a medal you earn after suffering enough. A thread with strangers insisting they “heard things” and other strangers nodding along like that’s evidence.
I keep scrolling anyway.
My pulse starts climbing, not fast, just steady, like my body is turning a dial.
I open another tab. Search a different phrase. Add “Victoria Lane” and “abuse.” Add “Cross Enterprises” and “incident.” My hands move on autopilot.
One article mentions a “domestic dispute” rumor that “could not be corroborated.” No police report linked. No charges listed. Just a paragraph that exists because it got clicks.
My mouth tastes metallic.
This is the problem with the internet. It takes a whisper, adds a crowd, then calls it truth.
It’s also the problem with my brain, because now I can’t unsee the words.
Abusive. Narcissist. Controlling. Possessive.
I think about the deli again. Ethan’s hand on that man’s fingers, peeling them off mine one by one, careful and brutal at the same time. I think about the way he followed me, and the way he admitted it without apology. I think about the way he looks at me when he’s deciding something.
I think about how much I like it. Then I think about my ex hitting me in the stomach. Pushing me from the stairs. A new bruise for every new mood and a small trinket after, as if diamonds could make up for the pain.
My stomach cramps, and I press my palm to it, then pull away, then press again, because I don’t know what comfort looks like when it’s happening inside me.
I try to ground myself the boring way.
