Chapter Fifteen – Rules of Denial
1718 Words
Emilia’s POV
I told myself I didn’t want him.
That it was just a phase. A fixation. The mind playing tricks in the aftermath of survival.
People talked about trauma bonding all the time—how fear makes monsters look like saviors, how silence turns into infatuation if it wraps itself tightly enough around your throat.
So I made a list.
Of reasons to forget him.
Reasons not to look out windows or replay dreams or trace the edge of the bracelet on my wrist like it meant something.
1. I don’t know him.
2. He’s dangerous.
3. He’s watching me.
4. I like it.
I crossed out number four.
Twice.
Then slammed the notebook shut and shoved it under my pillow like that could keep the thoughts from creeping back in.
⸻
The apartment felt too still.
I needed air.
Movement.
Distraction.
I texted Lizzy before I could talk myself out of it.
Wanna walk with me? I need to get out of my head.
Her reply came back instantly.
You finally admitting your brain is a scary place? Meet me in 20.
⸻
We met at the corner near the train station. Lizzy wore a huge scarf and those fuzzy boots she always swore were ugly but secretly loved. She handed me a coffee without asking how I take it.
“Walk or gossip?” she asked.
“Both.”
“God, I missed this version of you.”
I frowned. “What version?”
“The one who makes eye contact. Who leaves the house. Who doesn’t look like she’s five seconds from disappearing into herself.”
She said it with a smile.
But I felt the weight behind it.
I hadn’t realized how invisible I’d become.
Or maybe how much she’d noticed I was trying to be.
⸻
We walked toward the river, down past the flower stalls and the overpriced cupcake shop where the frosting always looked better than it tasted.
It was warmer than usual for late autumn. A breeze tugged at my braid. I pressed the lid of my coffee to my mouth to avoid answering the questions I knew she hadn’t asked yet.
But Lizzy never stayed quiet for long.
“So,” she said. “You seeing someone?”
I choked on a sip.
“What?”
She laughed. “That’s not a no.”
“It’s not a yes either!”
“Is it a maybe, but he could ruin me and I kind of want him to?”
I stared at her.
She wiggled her brows. “Nailed it.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe. But I’m not wrong.”
I didn’t respond.
Because I didn’t know what to say.
⸻
The silence stretched between us, not uncomfortable—just full of things I didn’t know how to name yet.
Lizzy slowed a little, tugging her scarf tighter.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” she said. “Does this maybe-man know your last name?”
“Probably.”
“Does he know your favorite tea?”
I hesitated.
“He knows you drink it,” she guessed. “But not the kind.”
“Chamomile.”
“I knew it.”
“You did not.”
“You’re the most chamomile girl I know.”
I laughed, quiet and unexpected.
And for the first time in what felt like weeks, I felt like someone real.
⸻
We walked a few more blocks, past brownstones and storefronts and a kid selling roasted almonds from a cart that looked like it had been stolen from Coney Island.
Then Lizzy bumped my arm.
“You should go on a real date,” she said.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Lizzy—”
“I’m serious.”
I stopped walking.
“So am I.”
She blinked. “Wow. Okay.”
“Sorry,” I said quickly. “It’s just… not a good time.”
“You don’t have to marry the guy.”
“I don’t want to meet the guy.”
She frowned. “Because of him?”
I didn’t answer.
But my silence was enough.
⸻
We turned back toward my place.
The wind had picked up again, sharper now. I pulled my coat tighter.
Lizzy didn’t speak again until we reached the corner by my street.
She looped her arm through mine.
“Whoever he is,” she said gently, “make sure you want him because you want him. Not because you’re afraid not to.”
I nodded.
But the truth was already tangled too deep.
Because it wasn’t fear that kept pulling me back.
It was need.
⸻
She hugged me before leaving. “Text me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
“Even if it’s just tea.”
I smiled. “Chamomile.”
“Always.”
⸻
The apartment was darker than I’d left it.
No reason for it to feel different.
But it did.
Like something had passed through while I was gone.
I stepped inside slowly, kicked off my boots, tossed my keys in the bowl near the door.
Then I saw it.
On the floor.
Right in front of the door.
⸻
A single white rose.
Fresh.
Unmarked.
Its stem wrapped in silk ribbon.
My stomach dropped—and not in fear.
In recognition.
This wasn’t random.
It wasn’t an accident.
And then I saw the card.
Small.
White.
Unfolded.
Only three words written in black ink:
I see you.
⸻
My breath caught.
Not because I was scared.
Because I wasn’t.
Not anymore.
I crouched, picked up the rose, turned it slowly in my hand.
Its petals were soft. Delicate. Whole.
I ran a thumb along the edge of one bloom.
Then I lifted the card again.
Read the words a second time.
A third.
And this time…
I didn’t deny what they did to me.
⸻
I should’ve thrown the card away.
Should’ve tossed the rose in the trash.
Should’ve locked the door, turned out the lights, and pretended none of it ever happened.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I placed the rose in a chipped glass near the sink and set the card on the windowsill like it belonged there.
And then I stood in the middle of the room…
Waiting for my pulse to calm.
It didn’t.
⸻
I changed into an old t-shirt and sweatpants. Pulled my hair down from its braid. Wiped off my makeup with slow, deliberate hands.
Normal things.
Routine things.
The kind of things people did when they weren’t unraveling from the inside out.
When they weren’t being watched.
Or wanted.
Or marked.
⸻
The words burned through me.
I see you.
They weren’t romantic.
They weren’t gentle.
They were something else entirely.
Possession.
Warning.
Promise.
And the worst part?
Some sick, twisted part of me liked it.
⸻
I crawled into bed and turned off the lamp.
The room went still.
Too still.
My eyes didn’t close.
They fixed on the ceiling.
On the faint cracks in the paint.
On the emptiness of the space beside me.
I pulled the blanket up to my chin and pressed my palm to the center of my chest like I could trap the ache there.
But it leaked anyway.
Into my stomach.
My throat.
Lower.
⸻
I thought about the garden.
I hadn’t seen it.
Not truly.
But I felt it in flashes—memories that didn’t belong to me.
Stone paths. Ivy arches. The scent of jasmine clinging to sweat-damp skin.
A place out of time.
Made for me.
Curated for a version of myself I hadn’t met yet.
And him.
Always him.
Waiting there with hands that didn’t beg.
Just took.
⸻
I turned over, face pressed into the pillow.
Exhaled slowly.
He sees me.
But do I want him to?
⸻
A part of me did.
A dark, quiet part that had started to bloom like rot beneath a floorboard.
Not because he was safe.
Not because he made promises.
But because when Luca looked at me…
I wasn’t invisible anymore.
I wasn’t fragile.
I was his.
And for the first time in years, being someone’s didn’t feel like a sentence.
It felt like protection.
Like power.
Like something I could wear like armor instead of chains.
⸻
The bracelet was still on my wrist.
I ran a finger along the metal.
Thought about how it had appeared—just like the rose.
No name.
No explanation.
Just a statement.
And now, the note echoed it again.
I see you.
Three words that somehow meant everything and nothing at once.
⸻
I rolled onto my back.
Stared up at the ceiling again.
And whispered:
“What do you want from me?”
The silence didn’t answer.
But my body did.
It flushed.
Tightened.
Hungered.
Not for clarity.
Not for safety.
For him.
⸻
The phone buzzed once on the nightstand.
I jumped.
Heart stuttering.
I snatched it up quickly and stared at the screen.
No name.
Just a number.
The same one from earlier that afternoon.
Blocked.
I let it ring.
Didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
But I didn’t look away either.
Didn’t silence it.
Just… waited.
Until it stopped.
And the quiet that followed?
It was worse.
⸻
I closed my eyes.
And in that black space, he was already there.
Luca.
Hands at my waist.
Voice in my ear.
Mouth at my throat.
You don’t need to hide anymore.
⸻
I dreamed in heat and shadow.
In pressure and praise.
In restraint I didn’t ask for—but accepted anyway.
He didn’t speak in the dream.
Not with words.
He didn’t need to.
Everything he said was in the way he looked at me.
Like I was the last thing on Earth worth saving.
And he’d already decided how.
⸻
When I woke, the pillow was damp.
My thighs sticky with sweat and arousal.
My hand clenched tight around the blanket like it had tried to hold something else.
Someone else.
But he wasn’t here.
Not yet.
⸻
I sat up slowly.
Stared at the light bleeding through the curtain.
And felt the shape of surrender begin to take form.
It wasn’t a fall.
It wasn’t a collapse.
It was a slow, deliberate step.
Into something I couldn’t name.
But already belonged to.
- Writer
