Page 82 of Twisted Violet
That everything I thought might’ve been real was just obligation dressed up in affection.
I can’t break again. I won’t. It’s embarrassing. It’s exhausting. And it’s useless.
So I do what I’ve always done when the truth eats through my chest like acid.
I shut it out, push it down, and lock it behind a careful smile.
That’s the thing people don’t tell you about trauma. Sometimes surviving it isn’t about fighting. Sometimes it’sabout acting normal enough so that no one tries to look too closely. It’s easier to hide the wreckage when no one suspects it’s there.
I’m good at that. Too good, probably.
So I get up, tie my hair back, throw on a hoodie, and walk into the kitchen like it’s just another morning. Because if they’re going to treat me like a job, I can treat this like a routine.
I start cooking. Not because I’m hungry. I don’t think I could stomach a bite if I tried. But cooking is easy. Mechanical. It gives me something to focus on besides the spiral in my chest.
If I’m doing something, anything, they won’t look too hard. They won’t see the girl who was stupid enough to believe any of this was real.
I’m flipping the second batch of pancakes when I hear hesitant footsteps approaching.
It’s Rome.
He pauses in the doorway like he doesn’t know if he should interrupt.
I don’t turn to look.
“Morning,” I say, light and sweet. “Want breakfast?”
There’s a pause. I can feel him staring, and I already know what’s coming.
“Violet.”
I glance over my shoulder, meet his eyes, and smile like it’s a perfectly normal day. “Hmm?”
“We should talk.”
I shrug and flip the eggs. “About?”
“Last night.”
“What about it?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.
“You left,” he says.
“Oh, I figured you had plans.” I lie, turning off the stove. “Thought I’d give you space.”
I slide a plate of eggs and bacon across the counter toward him.
“You don’t have to pretend,” he says.
“I’m not.” I rinse the spatula and dry my hands, voice perfectly even. “You should eat.”
Then I walk past him.
I know he’s still standing there, watching me, but I don’t care. Or at least, I’m trying really hard not to.
Dallas walks in next, yawning as he grabs the mug I already filled for him. He wraps an arm around my shoulder in that lazy way he always does, like he didn’t betray me too.
“Damn, Darlin’,” he says. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
