I don't have an answer.
I call the police station at eight AM sharp.
Officer Gray isn't in yet, so I leave a detailed message about the escalation. The email to all her subscribers—surely that violates countless data protection laws? The edited photo. The targeted harassment of Jade's professional accounts. I ask about expediting the protection order and about criminal charges.
Then I call the manager of my gym.
Twenty minutes later, I'm on the phone with our operations manager, walking him through the restraining order filing and the harassment campaign. He sounds weary—Mila signed a six-month contract—but he promises to review the situation and get back to me.
It's not enough. None of it feels like enough.
Jade is in the kitchen when I finish, standing at the counter clutching a mug of coffee. She's staring out the window at the neighbor's kids playing in their front yard—a boy and a girl, chasing each other with water guns, shrieking with joy.
I know what she's thinking. I can see it in the way her hand presses against her stomach unconsciously.
"Hey." I move behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist. She stiffens for a moment, then relaxes against me. "I talked to my boss. They're reviewing her contract."
"That's good."
"And I left a message with Officer Gray. She'll call back."
"Okay."
She sounds empty, and my heart sinks. Has Mila finally succeeded in draining everything that makes JadeJade?
I turn her in my arms so she's facing me. Her eyes are distant, glassy, almost.
"Look at me."
She does, reluctantly.
"She doesn't win," I assure her. "I know it feels like she's everywhere right now. I know it feels like she's taken everything. But she hasn't. She hasn't takenus. She hasn't taken yourtalent. She hasn't taken a single word you've ever written."
Jade's chin trembles. "People are going to read that post and think?—"
“Fuck what people think. The people who matter know the truth. Katrina knows. Your mom knows. Your readers who've been with you for years—they know who you are."
"Do they?" Her voice cracks. "Or do they know some version of me I've been performing this whole time? The confident author who writes about love like she understands it?"
"Youdounderstand it." I cup her face in my hands. "You understand it better than anyone I've ever met. That's why your books matter. That's why people connect with them."
She searches my face for something—truth, maybe, or proof that I believe what I'm saying.
I do. I believe it with everything I have.
"I love you," I tell her. "And I'm going to protect you. From her. From anyone who tries to hurt you."
A single tear rolls down her cheek. I brush it away with my thumb.
"I'm so tired, Devon."
"I know, baby. I know."
I pull her against my chest and hold her there, feeling her heartbeat against mine. She's still here. We're still here.
I get a voicemail from Mila later that day.
It’s another unknown number; because of course Mila has found yet another way around my blocks. I step into the hallway and listen.
