When I get to the shots of my laptop's desktop, my hand flies to my mouth.
They show my Spotify yearly Wrapped, showing my most listened to albums, tracks, and artists.
…LikeFree Fallin’, by Tom Petty.
A blade twists and slices in my stomach as I stare in horror at the screen.
A broken cry rips from my throat when I see screenshots of my porn search history, laying bare all my sick, twisted, fucked-up fantasies involving masks, knives, chasing, and the lack of consent.
I get to the receipts showing Achilles' online purchases of hidden cameras and microphones, and I start to shake.
When I get to the ones proving he used Bitcoin to buy illegal tracking and hacking software on the dark web, I feel like I’m going to throw up.
It. Just. Keeps. Going.
My entire life, on one fucking thumb drive.
What I eat. What I listen to. The places I visit. The movies I watch. My favorite author. My favorite painting by my favorite painter.
Nymphéas,by Monet.
Dental records. Results from my last fucking checkup at my OBGYN. Travel history. Online shopping history. The logins for all my socials.
Text messages.
Private notes.
Photos.
Moments.
Memories.
It’sall. Fucking. Here.
Suddenly, I want to tear off my own skin. I want to scream, to throw up, to die and be reborn without this crawling sensation creeping all over me.
“It’s long past four-oh-one.”
This time, I do scream…at least, try to…as I whirl and almost fall out of my chair. But it gets caught in the choking sensation in my throat, sticking there and strangling me as my eyes land on Achilles.
He grins at me.
“I believe we had plans involving your pussy and my face?—”
“Who the fuck are you.”
His smile drops. His brow furrows as he peers at me. “Yelena….”
He starts to move toward me, and I flinch, jolting back until I almost fall over the table behind me.
“Stay where you are!” I blurt.
Achilles' frown deepens. “Baby, what?—”
“Don’t call me that!” I choke.
His jaw tightens. “Yelena, what?—”
