Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 121310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
"No." I slam the suitcase shut. "Absolutely not."
I pull out my phone and scroll through the contacts until I find one labeled simply "N.O." for Nuclear Option. Dr. James Renwick. I called this number only once before, for a consultation. He said he thought he could help me, but that it might come at a cost, and I don't mean the monetary kind. His approach is diametrically different from the work Dr. Ezra's been doing with me to foster communication between alters.
At the time of the consultation, I fundamentally disagreed with Dr. Renwick's approach. But I kept his number just in case Mads ever got too out of hand. Looks like "in case" is now.
He picks up on the third ring. "Dr. Renwick speaking."
He gave me his private number. He said he'd be thrilled to work with a case like mine. I'd considered it a red flag at the time. Today, I have no more fucks to give.
"This is Anna Madison," I say, giving the name I originally gave when first inquiring with him. "I need an appointment. Today, if possible. Tomorrow at the absolute latest."
There's a pause. "Anna. I've been expecting your call."
A chill runs down my spine. "You have?"
"I thought you might reach out eventually. What's happened?"
I laugh, a brittle sound that scrapes my throat. "My alter tried to run away with my body today. I woke up bleeding in a gas station bathroom in the middle of nowhere with a packed suitcase and a fake passport."
Another pause. "I see. I can fit you in tomorrow morning at eight. First appointment."
"Thank you," I breathe, relief making my knees weak. "I'll be there."
I end the call and throw the suitcase back into the trunk, covering it with a blanket. No one needs to see that. Not now. Not ever. Especially not Domhn.
The drive home is a blur. I follow the GPS, watching the landscape as it takes hours to go from empty fields to suburbs to the familiar streets of our Dallas neighborhood. My hands don't stop shaking the entire time.
I pull into the garage and park carefully, positioning the car so the damaged bumper is hidden against the back corner. Domhnall won't be home for another hour yet, if I'm lucky. If I'm fast, I'll have time to clean up whatever mess Mads left behind. Again.
Inside, the house is exactly as I remember it from New Year's Eve. It's only been a day, but it feels like weeks have passed. I drag myself up the stairs, every muscle aching, the cut on my back throbbing with each step.
Our bedroom is a disaster—drawers left open, clothes strewn across the floor. And there, on Domhnall's pillow, is a folded piece of paper.
I snatch it up, my hands shaking as I unfold it.
Donny,
By the time you read this, I'll be gone. I have to leave.
I'm sorry for everything I've done, and everything I couldn't be.
Always yours,
M
"No," I whisper, rage building inside me again. "You don't get to do this."
I tear the letter into tiny pieces, letting them flutter into the trash can like snow. Mads doesn't get to make these decisions for us. She doesn't get to decide our future. She doesn't get to run away from Domhnall.
I strip off my bloody clothes, shoving them to the bottom of the laundry basket and piling other clothes on top, then step into the shower, turning the water as hot as I can stand it. I scrub until my skin is raw, watching pink water swirl down the drain. The cut on my back stings under the spray, but I welcome the pain. It helps me focus.
As I dry off, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are mine, not hers. My body is mine, not hers. There's a cut at my temple, so I blow-dry my hair to hang over it.
"This ends now," I tell my reflection. "No more."
I drink three Red Bulls in quick succession, the caffeine making my already racing heart beat even faster. I won't sleep tonight. I can't risk losing control again. Not before I see Dr. Renwick tomorrow morning.
When Domhnall comes home, I greet him with a kiss and a smile that feels stretched too thin across my face.
"Hey, love," he says, studying me with those too-perceptive eyes. "Everything alright?"
"Just tired," I lie, leading him to the living room. "Sit down. Let me give you a massage. You look tense."
He does as I ask, settling on the couch with his back to me. I dig my fingers into the knots in his shoulders, focusing on making him relax. On being a good fiancée. On appearing fucking normal.
"That feels amazing," he murmurs, head dropping forward. "You're too good to me."
Guilt twists in my stomach. I should tell him about Mads, about the car and the suitcase. But the words stick in my throat. She tried to leave you. To take me away from you.