Twisted Vows

CHAPTER 3

Leah

Reality didn’t arrive gently.

I woke to the sound of footsteps. Back and forth. Back and forth. Jacob stood at the foot of the bed, his shoulders rigid, his hands clenched at his sides. The tension in him felt physical, like a wire pulled too tight.

When I pushed myself upright, the movement caught his attention.

His expression hardened instantly. His jaw locked so tightly I saw the muscle jump beneath his skin. For a moment, he didn’t look at me at all. He stared at the wall instead, as if gathering something sharp and volatile before turning it loose.

When he finally faced me, regret flickered briefly in his eyes.

Like something he refused to let himself feel for more than a second.

It didn’t last.

Anger settled in its place. Frustration. Something corrosive.

The warmth of the night before evaporated under the harsh morning light. The memory of his voice, his touch, the closeness I’d let myself believe in — all of it vanished as if it had never existed.

He crossed the room and tossed my clothes onto the bed.

“You knew,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I would never have done this sober.”

The words landed harder than a shout.

What hurt most wasn’t his anger. It was how easily everyone would believe it.

“I wasn’t thinking clearly,” he continued, bitterness bleeding into every syllable. “And you knew that.”

My mouth went dry. “Jacob—”

“What were you thinking?” His voice rose then, sharp and cutting. “That if you got me drunk enough, I’d forget who I was supposed to want?” He laughed without humor. “That because Lizzie said no, I’d settle?”

He looked at me then. Really looked at me.

The contempt in his eyes made my stomach twist.

“You’ve always wanted what she has,” he said flatly. “Trailing after her. Watching from the sidelines.” His jaw flexed. “And now you saw your chance.”

That wasn’t true. None of it was true. But the words wouldn’t come. Shock pinned them there, heavy and useless. My thoughts scattered, panic buzzing through my limbs until I felt both numb and painfully exposed.

“You think I’d choose you,” he went on, quieter now, colder, “if I were in my right mind?”

Something dropped out of my chest.

I clutched the sheet tighter as it slipped from my fingers, humiliation burning through me. I tried to speak, to explain, to say anything that might undo this — but my voice failed me.

“This was a mistake,” he muttered, turning away. “A huge one.”

His gaze flicked to the bed.

Then he froze.

I followed his line of sight, dread pooling low in my stomach.

The stain on the sheets was unmistakable.

Jacob went still, breath catching as realization washed over his face. When he turned back to me, whatever fury had driven him moments ago faltered, replaced by something raw and unsettled.

“You were a virgin,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t look away. I hadn’t planned to give that part of myself away in anger or secrecy. The truth sat between us, heavy and undeniable.

His hand dragged through his hair. He let out a short, disbelieving laugh that sounded more like pain than humor.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered. The word sounded less like anger and more like fear.

Then he turned and left.

The door closed behind him with a finality that made my knees buckle.

I sat there in the silence, every word replaying in my head, each one carving deeper than the last. I gathered my clothes with shaking hands and slipped out of the room, my legs unsteady beneath me.

In the bathroom, I locked the door and leaned against it, my breaths coming in ragged bursts. The world felt unreal, tilted on its axis.

I stepped into the shower and turned the water as hot as it would go.

The heat stung my skin, but I welcomed it. Anything to drown out the shame curling tight in my chest. I scrubbed until my arms ached, until the steam filled the room and my thoughts blurred, wishing I could wash the night away.

I couldn’t.

I stood under the spray long after the water began to cool, my skin flushed and oversensitive, my thoughts drifting in uneven loops. The house was awake now. I could hear movement somewhere beyond the bathroom door — voices, footsteps, the distant clink of glass being gathered up after the party.

Normal sounds. Ordinary.

It made everything feel worse.

When I finally turned the water off, the silence pressed in too hard. I wrapped myself in a towel and stared at my reflection in the fogged mirror, barely recognizing the girl looking back at me. My eyes were rimmed red. My mouth felt unfamiliar, like it didn’t belong to me anymore.

I dressed slowly, mechanically, my hands trembling as I fastened buttons that felt suddenly too complicated. Each movement required effort, as if gravity had increased overnight.

When I opened the bathroom door, the hallway was empty.

Relief and humiliation twisted together in my chest. I didn’t know which I preferred — to be seen or to disappear.

I padded down the corridor, every step cautious, hyperaware of the space around me. The walls felt closer than they ever had. The house that had always belonged to my family suddenly felt hostile, like it was watching me.

In the kitchen, the smell of coffee lingered in the air.

Someone had been there recently.

My stomach turned.

I poured myself a glass of water and took a sip, only to choke it back up immediately. My hands shook so badly I had to grip the counter to steady myself. The cool surface grounded me just enough to breathe.

This didn’t happen the way he said it did.

The thought came unbidden, fragile and easily crushed.

I replayed the night in fragments — his hesitation, the way he’d looked at me before touching me again, the care in his voice when he spoke my name. None of it fit the story he’d told himself this morning.

But stories were easier than truth.

Especially when the story let him walk away intact. Especially when the truth hurt too much to hold.

I pressed my palm to my chest, surprised by the sharp ache there, as if something physical had been damaged. Maybe it had. Maybe I had given something away without realizing how permanent that could be.

A laugh drifted in from another room.

Lizzie.

My vision blurred.

I didn’t know how to exist in the same space as her right now. I didn’t know how to look at anyone without hearing Jacob’s voice in my head, steady and cruel and certain.

You think I’d choose you.

I retreated back down the hall, my movements instinctive, like an animal seeking cover. In my room, I closed the door and leaned against it, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor.

I stayed there for a long time.

Eventually, my breathing evened out. The shaking subsided. What was left behind felt worse — a numb, hollow quiet where hope had been.

Somewhere deep inside, something settled into place.

Silence, I learned, was safer.