"Iamfat, Devon. I have a belly that folds when I sit down. My thighs rub. I'll never look like her—like those yoga poses and tanned skin and effortless perfection."
He opens his mouth to argue, but I keep going.
"I've spent my entire life hating my body." My voice is stronger than I expect. "And Mila knew that. She's always known. That's why she targeted me. Because she could see my wounds and she knew exactly how to press them."
Devon reaches for my hand, but I'm not done.
"I saw a pregnant woman today. On the street. And I felt that ache—you know the one. The emptiness. The wondering if that will ever be me.” I swallow hard. "And then I thought about Mila. About her claiming she's pregnant with your child."
"Jade—"
"She can get fucked.”
Devon's eyes are wet, his grip on my hand tightening.
"I'm struggling, I’m not going to lie. I'm scared of what she’ll do next. I can’t stop imagining you kissing her. But I’m still here.”
“Yes,” Devon whispers. "You are, and I love you," he adds. "So fucking much."
"I know." I pull my hand back gently. "And I love you. Even after everything. But I need you to understand something."
"Anything."
"This isn't about Mila anymore." I take a breath. "It's about me learning to love myself. It's about us rebuilding something real—not because I'm desperate to keep you, but because I want you. I always have.”
Devon stares at me like he's seeing me for the first time.
"Whatever she does next," I continue, "whatever she throws at us—I'm not running. Not from her, and not from myself."
"What do you need from me?"
The question is new from him—my man asking how to help instead of trying to fix everything alone.
"Be honest with me. Always. Even when it's hard." I meet his eyes. "And remind me—when I forget—that I'm worth fighting for. Even on the days I can't see it myself."
"Every day." His voice cracks. "For the rest of my life."
And that’s all I need to hear right now.
Chapter Thirty-Four
DEVON
I’m so sick of coming to the police station. The smell of floor cleaner and burned coffee fills the air. The hum of printers and phones ringing constantly.
How do people work in here?
I've been here three times in the past week, and the fluorescent lights still make my head pound. Officer Gray sits across from me, her pen scratching against yet another form, her expression unreadable.
“Is this everything?" she asks, flipping through the folder I've assembled. Screenshots. Voicemails. The incident report from the gym. Timestamps. Witness statements from Craig and two clients who saw Mila's breakdown.
"Everything we have documented," I confirm. "There are probably things I've missed—texts she unsent before I could capture them—but that's what I have."
Gray nods slowly, her dark eyes scanning the pages. She closes the folder and looks at me directly. "Mr. Locke, I'm going to be straight with you. What you're describing—the escalation, the delusions, the threats—this is beyond standard harassment. This woman needs psychiatric intervention."
"I know."
"We’ve arrested her for violating the protection order. That's black and white. But what happens after that depends on a lot of factors outside your control."
