Page 105 of Bared Betrayal
After the fight with Sebastian, I ran. It was the only solution that made sense. If I disappeared again, the blackmail would stop. My mistakes would go away, and I would be back to being a nobody.
Then I booked a room here, in this disgusting motel, and decided to see if I could drown my emotions in something toxic and foul. Something that can make me feel like death afterward. Mission accomplished.
My stomach rolls again, and I rush to the bathroom and start puking into the stained toilet bowl. Each heave makes my head feel like it’s being stabbed over and over again, bitter bile scalding my throat as it forces its way out of me.
It takes all my energy to get to my feet and lean over the tub to open the faucet. But a new wave of nausea crashes over me when I spot the hair clogging the drain and what looks like something growing out of it.
“Oh, God.” I stumble to the sink, clutching the edges, trying to breathe deeply so I don’t throw up again. My body is already aching all over. I really don’t need to become worse by retching.
I glance up and see my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are drawn and puffy, my skin pallid and sweaty. I look like a walking ghost, and part of me can’t help but wonder if last night’s drinking had managed to kill me and my soul is determined not to leave this world quietly.
I splash cold water on my face, the rivulets helping ease away the hellish pain in my temples. I try to straighten my hair, but it’s so tangled it’s practically matted to one side of my head. It’s taking all my strength not to burst out crying. But feeling sorry for myself is not going to help this situation. A trip to my therapist might, or maybe I should go visit Maya, be close to her, and pour out my heart to a grave.
I make my way back to the bedroom and grab my phone. It’s dead—no surprise. I plug it into the charger and wait impatiently for it to turn back on. I need to get out of here, but I’m unsure where to go or what to do.
The phone finally turns on, and I see an endless stream of missed calls and messages from Sebastian. Guilt washes over me, and for a brief moment, I consider calling him back. But the moment passes as quickly as it came when I see a missed call from Gabriel. My heart breaks a little. No. My heart breaks a lot. It’s practically little pieces of shattered glass moving around inside my chest, doing more damage to my insides.
I flip across the screen and open one of Sebastian’s messages.
Check the news.
There’s a link that I click on, and when I read the headline, every drop of blood drains from my body.
KALLIANA PEARSON GETS HER HAPPY ENDING WITH HOTTIE OF THE YEAR, SEBASTIAN STONE.
I scroll through the article,reading every word in a daze. It’s like a nightmare come true, only this is happening, and I’m unable to escape it. There are so many pictures of us, of me, and the more I look at them, the more I start to shake. I can’t believe this is happening. The one thing I feared the most is actually happening.
The phone slips from my hand, and I sink to the floor, the dirty carpet rough against my skin. The ache in my head intensifies, and I can feel the bile rising up my throat again. In a last-ditch effort, I try to think of what to do next. But my mind is blank, and every breath is a struggle.
I need to leave town, and I need to go now.
I grab my bag, quickly scan the room to ensure I’m not leaving anything behind, then rush out of the door. My heart is beating impossibly fast as I dart down the steel stairs, practically leaping past the last two steps and darting around the corner.
“Ms. Pearson!”
Flashes of light blind me, and I come to a screeching halt in front of a crowd of reporters shouting my name and yelling questions.
“Can you tell us where you’ve been all this time?”
“Why did you change your name?”
“Does Sebastian know you have a history with drugs?”
“Is it true that he broke up with you when he found out your true identity?”
The voices all start blurring together as the crowd seems to get bigger. No, I’m getting smaller.
Suddenly, I’m Kalliana again. Barely sixteen, and I have a coat over my head as I hold on to my mother’s arm with one hand and hold Maya with the other as we are led out of the house to the car. Reporters and photographers surround us, shouting questions, shoving, and fighting to get a clear shot of us.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t hear my own heartbeat.
I’m lost.
“Kalliana! Kalliana! Is it true that Maya blamed you in her suicide note?”
My hands are over my ears as I try to block out the questions. My head is pounding, my chest hurts, and tears are blurring my vision.
