Episode Eleven:The Storm Online
1057 Words
Jace sat beside me on the couch, legs pulled to his chest, staring at his phone screen like it might explode.
He'd only posted it thirty minutes ago. A single photo of his latest painting—dark, intense, full of emotion—and beneath it, a caption that was already traveling faster than either of us could keep up with:
“I was manipulated. I was violated. I survived. This is not a story of shame—it’s one of reclamation. I’m done hiding.”
We hadn’t said much since. What was there to say? When someone lays their truth down for the world to see, you don’t speak. You stay. You hold space.
I reached for his hand, and for once, he let me take it without hesitation.
The likes climbed into the thousands. Then tens of thousands.
And the comments…
Some were beautiful.
“You’re brave.”
“You’re seen.”
“This helped me speak out.”
Others weren’t.
“Men can’t be victims.”
“Trying to ruin someone’s life for clout.”
“This is pathetic.”
Jace scrolled, faster now, his shoulders rising with each swipe.
“Maybe I should take it down,” he whispered.
I tightened my grip. “Don’t you dare.”
“But it’s—it’s becoming a spectacle.”
“It’s your truth. Not a show.”
He looked at me, and his eyes were wide and wet but not yet broken. “I didn’t want this much attention. I just wanted to breathe.”
“You will. We will. Just not right this second.”
Over the next few hours, it got worse.
His story spread beyond art circles.
Blogs picked it up.
A few prominent figures reposted it.
A local newspaper reached out for a statement.
And then, Lucas replied.
On his own account, under a polished, staged photo of himself in a clean white shirt and blazer, standing in front of a gallery wall, he wrote:
“I am saddened by the personal attack made against me. As someone who has dedicated his life to uplifting vulnerable voices in the creative community, I will not engage in a public feud. I urge those who know me to judge with care. There are always two sides.”
It was vague.
Perfectly framed.
And poisonous.
Jace tossed his phone onto the rug and stood, pacing.
“He’s turning it into a PR stunt,” he muttered. “He’s flipping it like it’s just... drama.”
“Because he knows what he’s doing,” I said. “He wants you to look unstable. Emotional. He’s betting on your silence—or your meltdown.”
Jace stopped pacing. “Then I can’t give him either.”
That night, he didn’t sleep.
Neither did I.
We lay on opposite ends of the bed, quiet, listening to the city noise. The buzz of notifications never stopped. Like a heartbeat we couldn’t escape.
“Do you think people believe me?” he asked suddenly.
I turned. “I do.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I sighed. “I think the people who matter believe you. And the ones who don’t... were never going to.”
He was quiet a long time.
Then: “I didn’t want to be known like this.”
“I don’t know how anyone wants to be known. But if it helps someone else find their voice, maybe it’s worth the noise.”
Jace rolled over, facing me. “You really think I’m strong?”
“I don’t just think it,” I said. “I see it. Every single day.”
The next morning, everything changed.
We woke to a knock at the door.
I opened it, still groggy.
A woman in a blazer, holding a press badge. Behind her, a man with a camera.
“Are you Jace Ward?” she asked, peering past me.
“No,” I said. “He’s not giving interviews.”
“We’re not here to exploit. Just to give him space to clarify.”
I stepped forward. “We said no.”
She held up her hands and backed away.
But the camera flashed anyway.
Jace came into the room just as I closed the door.
He didn’t ask who it was. He didn’t need to.
By noon, more reporters appeared outside the building.
Neighbors complained.
A few tried to sneak photos.
I pulled the blinds shut, heart racing.
Jace stayed on the couch, frozen.
“We can’t stay here,” I said. “At least not for now.”
He nodded. “I know a place.”
We packed what we could in under twenty minutes.
Clothes. Laptops. His sketchpad. The painting.
We left through the back exit.
Jace didn’t speak until we were in the cab.
Then, quietly: “He’s winning again.”
“No,” I said. “You’re just in the middle. And it always feels like losing in the middle.”
The place he brought me to was a small studio above an old bookstore. It smelled like cedar and dust and old stories.
The owner, an older friend of Jace’s named Ruth, gave us the key and a soft hug.
“No one will find you here,” she said. “Not unless you want them to.”
That night, Jace painted.
Not for the internet.
Not for revenge.
Just for himself.
I sat on the windowsill, watching the way the brush moved through his fingers. The way his brow furrowed. The way he breathed differently when he created.
“This is how I survive,” he said, not looking up.
“I know,” I said. “It’s how I fell in love with you.”
He froze.
The brush stilled.
Then he looked at me.
“You do?” he asked.
“I think I have for a while. But I’m not going to run from it anymore.”
He put the brush down.
Crossed the room.
And kissed me like I’d just told him the world wasn’t ending.
But later that night, while he was asleep on my chest, my phone buzzed.
A single message.
From an unknown number.
“You’ll want to know what he left out. Meet me tomorrow. Noon. Come alone.”
And attached was a video file.
One I hadn’t opened.
Yet.
- Writer
