I drive through the darkening streets with my hands still trembling from rage, Lolita's words echoing in my head like poison.
Our last conversation with Lisette had been a masterclass in psychological manipulation, and now the sight of Sophie's face plastered across every gossip site burns behind my eyelids like a brand.
The whiskey I'd consumed to steady my nerves has done nothing except amplify the helpless fury clawing at my chest.
Every headline, every cruel comment about Sophie feels like a personal attack—not because of wounded pride, but because someone I care about is being destroyed by association with me. The realization sits heavy in my stomach, impossible to ignore.
My phone buzzes with another news alert, another post dissecting our relationship, and I have to resist the urge to throw the device out the window.
Instead, I focus on the familiar route home, on the promise of solitude and silence where I can think clearly about how to protect Sophie from the storm I've created.
But as I pull into my driveway, that promise of peace shatters instantly.
Lisette sits on my front steps like a specter from my worst nightmares, perfectly still and pale in the gathering dusk.
She looks almost ethereal in the porch light, but there's something profoundly wrong with the picture—something that makes every instinct I have scream danger.
Something glints in her hand, metal catching the artificial light, and my blood turns to ice water in my veins.
"We need to talk," she says, rising with that same fluid grace she's always possessed, even in madness.
Her voice carries across the distance between us with eerie calm, like we're old friends meeting for coffee instead of former lovers locked in a psychological war.
"There's nothing left to say, Lisette." I step out of the car slowly, keeping my movements deliberate and non-threatening. "Whatever this is, whatever you think you're accomplishing—"
"There's everything to say."
She steps closer, and I see the knife properly now—a kitchen blade, sharp and deliberate, held with the kind of familiarity that suggests she's been carrying it for some time.
"You took everything I was and left me hollow. The least you can do is put me back together."
"Put the knife down." My voice carries the authority I once used in lecture halls, but it sounds thin and ineffective against her obvious instability.
Instead of complying, she presses the blade to her own throat, and I watch in horror as she tilts her head back slightly, exposing the vulnerable line of her neck.
"You better think twice before saying or doing anything you might regret."
She says conversationally, as if we're discussing the weather.
"Because if something happens to me here, you'll have to explain to the police how the situation from five years ago is repeating itself. And this time, there won't be any doubt about who the victim really is."
The threat is perfectly calculated—she knows exactly how this will look, knows the narrative that will emerge if she follows through. The same pattern, the same players, the same man at the center of it all. No one will believe in that kind of coincidence.
"Lisette, listen to me…" I move slowly, hands raised in a gesture of surrender.
She presses harder, and a thin line of blood appears against the blade's edge. "Choose, Adrian. Me or nothing. The way it always should have been."
The sight of blood, her blood, drawn by her own hand, breaks whatever restraint I've been clinging to.
I lunge forward, grabbing her wrist and trying to wrestle the knife away from her throat. In the struggle that follows, the blade slices across my palm, pain flaring bright and sharp as blood spatters the concrete beneath our feet.
"Adrian!"
Sophie's voice cuts through the chaos like a lifeline. She's running up the driveway, keys clutched in her hand, her face a mask of horror as she takes in the scene—our planned evening forgotten in the violence unfolding on my doorstep.
Lisette's head snaps toward her, and something predatory flickers across her features. The obsession I've been the focus of suddenly has a new target, and the shift terrifies me more than any threat to my own safety ever could.
"Or maybe it's better to get rid of this eyesore altogether," Lisette says, her voice taking on a conversational tone that makes my skin crawl.
She breaks free from my grip, the blade still clutched in bloodied fingers, but I move between them instantly. My injured hand leaves crimson prints on Sophie's arm as I pull her behind me, shielding her with my body while my heart hammers against my ribs.
"Stay back," I growl, but Lisette is already moving, already fleeing into the darkness between houses like smoke dissipating in the wind.
I don't move until the silence stretches long enough to ensure she's truly gone, my body coiled and ready to react to any threat.
Only when I'm certain we're alone do I allow myself to breathe, to acknowledge the burning pain in my palm and the way Sophie's hands are shaking against my back.
When I finally turn, Sophie is staring at my bleeding hand with wide, horrified eyes. The fear in her expression mirrors what I feel—not just about the physical injury, but about how close we both came to something much worse.
"We need to clean that," she says, her voice shaking but determined. "Now."
Inside, the familiar surroundings of my bathroom feel surreal after the violence outside. Sophie guides me to sit on the edge of the bathtub while she rummages through my medicine cabinet with the efficiency of someone who's dealt with wounds before.
"How are you holding up?" I ask as she begins cleaning the cut, her touch gentle despite the tremor in her hands. "With everything that's been happening. The photos, the comments…"
"I'm surviving," she says quietly, not meeting my eyes. "Barely. Cassian's been helping, letting me stay at his place when it gets too overwhelming."
The mention of Cassian sends an unexpected spike of something ugly through my chest—jealousy, possessiveness, the territorial instinct I've spent years learning to control.
"The internet is brutal," she continues, carefully wrapping gauze around my palm.
"People I've never met are debating whether I'm a victim or a whore, whether I deserve sympathy or scorn. They found my social media, my old photos, conversations with friends. Nothing feels private anymore."
"I'm sorry," I say, and mean it completely. "This is my fault. If I hadn't…"
"Don't." She ties off the bandage with precise movements. "We both made choices. We both knew the risks."
The role reversal feels strange—her caring for me instead of the other way around, her steady hands working to heal damage inflicted by someone from my past.
But there's something profound in her tenderness, something that speaks to a connection deeper than power exchange or sexual chemistry.
"She's really lost it, hasn't she?" Sophie whispers as she finishes with the bandage.
"Completely." I flex my fingers, testing the wrap. The pain is manageable, but the implications of what just happened are staggering.
Sophie meets my eyes in the bathroom mirror, and I see something shift in her expression—a decision being made behind those warm brown eyes.
"Can I see your red room again?"