Page 24 of Desperate People

I’m not some paranoid socialite.

I’m used to being looked at.

Talked about. Gossiped over.

But this? This isn’t a fan letter.

This is a violation.

I shove the note and the rose into the trash like they’re radioactive, bile still burning the back of my throat.

I back away in shaky steps, my feet making soft sounds against the tile. The air feels thick again, clinging to my skin like oil.

My hands tremble, and I stare at the trash can like it might come alive, like the note might crawl its way back out.

For my Diablita.

I feel filthy. Violated.

Like he touched me without ever laying a hand on me.

Like he peeled back the skin of my life and left a mark where no one else could see.

Then it hits me.

What if he’s still here?

What if he’s watching me right now?

My heart slams into my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

I spin in a full circle, scanning the kitchen. The shadows feel deeper now. My pulse roars in my ears.

A creak in the hallway makes me jump so violently I nearly fall over.

I stare toward the darkened edge of the corridor, frozen, every muscle screaming move.

And finally—I do.

Adrenaline surges and I sprint for the bathroom.

I slam the door shut and twist the lock with shaking fingers, pressing my back to the cool wood as I gasp for breath.

There’s a mirror across from me, and in it, I see the truth.

I’m terrified.

Hair wild. Eyes huge. Shoulders trembling.

My dress is wrinkled and my mascara is smudged from the tears I didn’t even realize were falling.

I wrap my arms around myself.

I can still smell the stench of him in my bedroom—sweat and sickness and that pile on my bed.

The kind of smell that sticks to your skin, even if you weren’t touched.

Even if you were lucky this time.

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