Chapter Thirteen
Emery
The morning passes slowly, the clock hanging on the living room wall showing the small hand only just past the nine. I haven’t moved since Sebastian left earlier, the couch soft beneath me and the thick knit of the throw keeping me warm. My arms are wrapped around my knees, holding them to my chest as I watch the cityscape and the section of harbour I can see between buildings.
Sebastian’s penthouse isn’t close enough for me to make out the details, but when another ship passes by, loaded with large containers, I wonder if it’s one of his.
I don’t know much about his father’s company, but I know it’s the biggest international shipping company in the Pacific. And from what I’ve overheard, I suspect they aren’t always on the legal side of business.
I suppose it’s Sebastian’s company now. A pang stabs my heart when I think of his loss, and I close my eyes.
Everything seems to catch up to me at that moment. Above the city, locked in the apartment of someone who believes me an enemy, and I’m the safest I have been in the past seven years.
The pressure in my chest tightens until I throw the blanket off and stumble to my feet, not even feeling the pain from the sudden movement.
Shadow startles awake from his place by the end of the couch, his ears perked and eyes sharp, but the only danger is the crushing feeling inside me.
I stumble in the direction of the room I’d slept in last night whilst using the walls for balance, but it’s what’s hidden in my backpack that’s my main target. Fumbling with the handle, I manage to open the door, but before I can shut it behind me, I pause. Shadow approaches from the other side, and instead of closing the door, I back away, choosing to leave a gap in the doorway. He lets out a low whine but doesn’t come any further, even though he could easily push his way in.
My backpack sits exactly where I’d left it under the bed, and I pull it out. After unzipping it, I hold my hand over the carefully tucked away journal, my mind warring with itself. Minutes trickle by—or is it only seconds—before I reach for it. Taking a pen from one of the pockets, I make my way to the round chair in the corner by the glass wall. After pulling my good leg up, I cross it under me and position the pillow in my lap before undoing the binding of my journal.
The photographs sit inside the cover, like always, and I take a moment, brushing my fingers over each one before flicking through the journal. Without even reading the words, the coil around my chest starts to loosen. I don’t need to read them to know what they say, but I can’t help but glance at the pages as they flick by one by one. Until I catch sight of that entry from four years ago, and my fingers falter, letting the momentum stop. The night everything changed, and this journal became something else entirely. The twisted reality of one night that bloomed into a life of its own and allowed me to find an escape from my nightmare. I know which entry comes before this one—the words of a broken girl who had nothing left to live for. But before I can be pulled into that dark past, I turn the page, effectively leaving it behind. Page after page is filled top to bottom with my words, and the further I go, the more I immerse myself in them in a world that doesn’t exist outside of my mind or this journal.
The last entry is dated February 5, almost three months ago.
The day before I ran fromhim.
I keep turning the pages until I come to a blank one towards the end of the thick book, and as soon as my pen hits the paper, my mind begins to slip away.
Dear Diary…
The words flow out of me, spinning those silver webs, and with them, my worries, the heartache, the fear—it fades away.
A sense of freedom washes over me, and I don’t fight it. I let myself be taken to this other place—a place where I can be the girl I was supposed to be.
Carefree.
Happy.
Safe.
Loved.
I’m drawn even closer to the man who captured my heart. The same man who, until yesterday, didn’t know I existed, but that doesn’t matter here. Am I crazy? Delusional? Maybe, and as much as I might regret it later, I let myself fall further into him.
Somewhere deep down, I know this isn’t real and that a different reality exists.
A darker one. One where I’m scared and on the run. Where no one whisked me away, leaving me to endure an extra four years ofsuffering at the hands of a man who was supposed to be family. The one where the man I love hates me.
I’m not ready to go back there. I’m never ready.
I can no longer see the journal or the words I’m writing—just the world they create. I only wish I could stay here forever.
“Shadow.”
I jolt awake.
Even with light streaming through the large window, it takes a moment to get my bearings. The journal lays open on my lap, the pen cradled in its crease. I always find myself in this almostlethargicstate after an entry and everything that comes with it. It’s not something I can just snap out of, and at times, especially since I escapedhim,I struggle to differentiate between the fictitious reality and the truth. Each time is different, but it seems with every entry, the longer the haze lasts.