Emilia
Sneaking out is basically my PhD thesis at this point. High school was my training ground—bedroom windows, fake pillows, the whole amateur hour bullshit. This apartment situation? Child’s play.
Vincent thinks he’s protecting me. Vincent thinks I’m some delicate flower who needs twenty-four-seven surveillance.
Vincent clearly never met me at sixteen when I could MacGyver my way out of a third-story window using bedsheets.
Julian’s text came through around seven: *Rosetti’s at 8. Can’t wait to see you.*
Sweet. Predictable. Completely clueless about what he’s getting into.
I told him to park a block away because I “wanted to get my steps in.” Obviously bullshit. Julian’s too high on finally getting a date with me to question anything I say, which makes him useful and slightly pathetic in equal measure.
Here’s what I’ve always known about Julian Chen that everyone else chooses to ignore: beneath that golden boy exterior lives something darker. I’ve seen him drunk at parties, noticed how his smile never quite reaches his eyes when he’s rejected. There’s always been this entitled edge lurking under all that prep school polish.
That’s why I kept him at arm’s length for years. Just a friend. But Vincent’s hovering has me making spectacularly reckless decisions, apparently.
My window faces the fire escape—architect’s gift to rebellious daughters everywhere. I’ve done this dance before. Shoes off, purse crossbody, pray the rusty metal doesn’t collapse and kill me before I can prove my independence.
The drop to the alley is maybe eight feet. Easy.
I land like a ninja, or at least like someone who’s watched too many action movies and gotten lucky. Julian’s Jeep sits exactly where promised, engine running, looking like every rich boy’s attempt at being rugged.
“You actually came,” he says when I slide into the passenger seat.
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
He’s wearing a pressed button-down that probably costs more than most people’s rent. Julian Chen: golden boy, future shipping empire heir, campus heartthrob with a smile that makes professors give him extensions. Everything looks perfect on him—clothes, grades, the effortless way he moves through the world like it was designed specifically for his comfort.
But I catch something in his expression tonight. Satisfaction. Like he’s been planning this moment longer than he’s let on.
“You look incredible,” he says, and I can tell he means it in ways that make my skin crawl slightly.
I’m wearing a green dress that hits mid-thigh and makes my legs look endless. Calculated. Strategic. “Thanks.”
Rosetti’s is one of those places that pretends to be casual but charges thirty dollars for pasta. Julian orders for both of us without asking—linguine for him, risotto for me, wine that costs more than my textbooks.
“I missed this,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Missed you.”
The wine arrives first. Something French with a name I don’t bother trying to pronounce. I take a sip—and immediately regret it. It’s too sweet, like cough syrup. My tongue feels thick.
“This tastes weird,” I mutter, pushing the glass away.
Julian shrugs, a little too casual. “It’s dessert wine. Thought you’d like something soft.”
But twenty minutes later, nothing feels soft. My legs are unsteady, my vision’s gone gauzy at the edges, and the restaurant tilts just slightly every time I blink. Julian’s face looks too close. Too smooth. Too... wrong.
“You okay?” he asks, leaning in.
“Yeah. I just—” I try to stand.
Bad idea.
The floor rolls beneath me and suddenly Julian’s there, catching me. His hands land on my waist. Then my back. Then my thigh.
“I’ll take you home,” he says, but he’s not moving toward the exit. He’s steering me toward the back hallway, away from the lights, the noise, the people.
“Julian—wait—”
We pass the bathrooms. The hallway narrows. I smell garbage.
And then I’m pressed against cold brick, blinking up at a version of Julian I’ve never seen before. His hands grip my hips—hard. His face close. Too close.
“You said yes tonight,” he murmurs against my skin. “You’ve been teasing me for years.”
“No—” My voice comes out slow, muffled, like I’m speaking through water.
His hand slides higher.
And then—
“Get your hands off her.”
Vincent’s voice slices through the alley like a scalpel. Controlled. Sharp. Lethal.
Julian freezes. I feel his whole body tense.
Vincent steps out of the shadows like he was born there. Calm, collected, terrifying.
“What the hell is this?” Julian says, forcing a laugh. “You her bodyguard now?”
Vincent doesn’t answer. He grabs Julian by the collar and slams him against the brick wall so hard the impact echoes. Julian gasps.
I sway. My legs give out. But Vincent is there—arms catching me before I hit the ground.
He holds me steady with one arm while keeping Julian pinned with the other.
“You touch her again,” Vincent says, voice flat and cold, “I’ll break your fingers. One by one.”
He lets Julian drop and lifts me into his arms like I weigh nothing. I want to argue, to say I’m fine—but I’m not. I cling to his shirt.
“I can walk,” I whisper.
“No, you can’t.”
And he’s right. I can’t. My limbs are heavy, disconnected, and my head’s spinning faster than the car ride that follows.
I don’t remember getting inside. Just the sound of the door closing, the seatbelt clicking, his voice—steady and low—telling me to breathe.
But it gets worse.
My skin feels too warm. My thoughts slur together. I can’t stop staring at him.
“You always look like this?” I ask, breathy. “So... serious. So good.”
Vincent glances over. “You’re not thinking straight.”
“I’m thinking fine.” I touch his arm. “You’re still beautiful, you know that? Like back then.”
His jaw tightens.
“Am I pretty?” I ask. “Be honest. Do you even like girls like me?”
His hands grip the steering wheel harder.
“You should rest.”
I lean in, my hand on his chest now. “Or you could hold me. Just for a minute. Just until the room stops spinning.”
“Stop.”
“Why?” I whisper. “I said yes.”
He pulls the car over. Silence swells between us like a scream no one’s willing to make. I see the war on his face—restraint, fury, something deeper.
His hand cups my face. His thumb brushes my cheek.
I exhale—shaky, desperate—and lean into him, into the heat of it, the rightness I’ve spent years trying to forget.
“Please,” I whisper.
He closes his eyes.
And then—
Black.