Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

"Look, I'm fine," I say, already done with this conversation. "Do you have something for me, or are we just going to play Intervention: Breakfast Edition every morning?"

His expression shifts slightly, and just like that, I know I'm not off the hook.

"We need to go over the security brief," he says, switching gears too smoothly. "I have a full outline for our approach during the holiday rush, including additional staffing and emergency response procedures."

I nod, trying to refocus. Right. Security. The thing he's actually here for. The reason we interact at all. But my brain is not cooperating. Because now, when he talks, all I can think about is last night. How I came with the very vivid image of him bending me over the conference table. I grip my coffee tighter, my knuckles turning white.

Nope. Nope. Nope.

"You seem distracted," Callahan says, eyes sharp.

Oh, you have no idea.

I clear my throat, fighting the heat creeping up my neck. "Nope. Totally fine. Just... thinking about the schedule for today."

I need to get out of this conversation before my brain betrays me even more. Luckily, I have an actual excuse. A legitimate reason to avoid being alone with him.

"I can't do a full sit-down review this morning," I say quickly. "We've got a very important VIP coming in, and this person's been trouble before. I need to be close by."

Callahan tilts his head. "A very important VIP?"

I nod, halfway through pulling up the schedule. "Yes. Like… very important."

He blinks at me. “So… a Very Important Very Important Person?”

I pause. "...Shut up."

He doesn’t smile, but he looks amused with himself.

I mutter something under my breath about regretting ever speaking to him.

“Relax,” he says, as if my discomfort is almost entertaining for him. “We can watch the security feed from your office, then.”

"Oh, that's really not necessary⁠—"

"Shouldn't be a problem," he continues, like I didn’t just try to stop him. "Better than reviewing on the floor with distractions."

I scramble for an excuse. "That's really okay⁠—"

"It makes sense." His voice is final. "I'll walk with you."

I stare at him. Because now I have no way out. Which means I'm about to be locked in my office with him.

With a desk.

A very sturdy desk.

And desks are very similar to tables.

I need to stop.

I force a tight-lipped smile, turning toward my office. "Great. Let's do that."

I move ahead quickly, hoping he won't notice the fact that I'm actively trying to put distance between us. It doesn't help. Because he follows—long, steady strides, completely unbothered, moving like he owns the damn space. His presence fills the hallway, making it feel smaller somehow.

I tell myself not to look. But of course, I do. Because how could I not? He walks with that quiet, commanding energy, like a man who doesn't just exist in a room—he dominates it. His sleeves are rolled up just enough to be a problem. Because I can see his forearms—tan, strong, laced with muscle. And the edges of his tattoos, peeking out from beneath the crisp fabric of his button-down, ink curling up his skin.

I never see them fully—he usually keeps them covered, hidden away, like they're only meant for certain people to know.

And now? Now I want to be one of those people.

I swallow hard, looking straight ahead. I try not to think about last night. Or how I might come again tonight.

Imagining his hands on my body, rough and steady.

Picturing him shoving everything off my desk and bending me over it.

Fantasizing about how his voice might sound when he loses control.

Oh God.

I really, really need to stop.

HE CALLS HER A PROJECT. I CALL HIM A CORPSE.

CAL

Izzy is tense.

I can see it in the tightness of her shoulders, the way she hurries her steps, like she's trying to outrun something.

Or maybe trying to outrun me.

Was it last night?

Did I push too far with Caleb?

The conversation had been fun. She'd seemed into it. The messages we exchanged had grown increasingly intimate, her responses eager, uninhibited. But now she won't even look at me directly.

Maybe I misread her.

Or maybe this has nothing to do with me at all.

Maybe it's Evan.

Maybe he did another dick thing before nine a.m. Another comment about her body, another passing critique disguised as concern.

That would make sense. Some men wake up and choose coffee. Evan probably wakes up and chooses to chip away at Izzy's confidence.

I hate that I don't know.

I watch as she turns her head slightly—just enough to glance back at me. The movement is subtle, almost imperceptible, but I catch it. The quick dart of her eyes in my direction before snapping back to the hallway ahead.

Like she's trying to sneak a look.

Teasing her is becoming a favorite pastime, watching her get flustered. The way her cheeks flush, the way she fumbles for words, the slight stammer that creeps into her voice when she's caught off guard.

But she already seems off her game.

I let her have this one.

When we get to her office, she moves inside first, immediately setting up at her desk, like she needs a barrier between us. Her space is meticulous—color-coded files, precisely arranged notebooks, and a whiteboard filled with what looks like inventory projections. Post-it notes line one edge of her computer monitor, each one written in neat, precise handwriting.

I pull up the security feed and take the chair beside her, leaning in to get a better view. The screen comes to life, displaying multiple angles of the store floor.

And that's when I catch it—her scent.

Fuck.

It’s soft with hints of vanilla and coconut. Feminine. Addictive. The kind of scent that doesn’t just linger, it haunts.

I love it.

It's not overpowering, not something that walks into the room before she does. It's subtle, personal—something you'd only notice if you were close enough.

And I am.

I let myself enjoy it. Let myself breathe it in, commit it to memory.

Then Izzy moves her chair slightly away from me.

I pause.

Not much. Just a small shift. Barely noticeable. The wheels roll softly against the carpet as she creates an extra inch of distance.

But I notice.

I take a slow breath and clear the air. My focus returns to the screens, to the job at hand.

"Who's the VIP?" I ask, watching her carefully.

She exhales, rubbing her fingers over her temples. "Some big-shot investor in the city. He does all his shopping here, so corporate treats him like royalty." Her voice carries a weary edge, like she's been through this routine too many times.

I watch her expression carefully. "And?"

She gives a small, tired smile. "And he also happens to be a shareholder in the store chain, which means he thinks he owns the staff. And he treats them like it. We always try to have him work with male clothiers only," she continues. "Because he gets exceedingly handsy with the women. But, just like with that other VIP, sometimes that doesn't work."

My fingers curl against my knee, nails digging into the fabric of my pants. "People like that shouldn't be tolerated."

She gives a humorless laugh. "I agree. But there's not much we can do unless he does something overt. And he's too smart for that."

I don't like how easily she says that.

Like it's just another thing she has to deal with.

Like she's already resigned to it. Like this is a normal part of her job description—managing men who think they own the right to touch whoever they want.

I watch the monitor as a man—mid-fifties, slick hair, tailored suit—lounges in one of the personal shopping suites. His posture communicates entitlement, the way he barely acknowledges the staff hovering nearby.

"Name?"

"Grant Monroe," she sighs. "Owns a dozen major properties in the city, and thinks he owns the women, too."

I glance back at the monitor.

Daniel is assisting Monroe. The VIP sits lounged back in his chair, looking bored. His Italian leather shoes shine under the recessed lighting, his watch glinting ostentatiously with every casual flick of his wrist.

Monroe's the type who expects to be entertained, who needs the staff jumping through hoops for him. I've seen his type before—men who measure their worth by how many people they can make bend to their will.

Daniel speaks to him, gesturing toward the racks of suits, but Monroe barely looks. His attention drifts around the room, disinterested.

Then something shifts in his expression.

His boredom fades. He says something back, and Daniel hesitates, his shoulders stiffening slightly. Izzy lets out a groan and puts her head in her hands.

I watch her. "What?"

She just points at her phone.

A second later, Daniel presses something on his headset, and Izzy's phone starts ringing.

She sighs, pulling it to her ear. "I'll be right there."

I lean back, already gritting my teeth. "What does he want?"

"He's insisting that he needs the store manager."

Of course, he is.

I push back my chair. "Great. I'll go with you, then." The legs scrape against the carpet as I stand, my decision already made.

She hesitates. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

She exhales. "He's a shareholder. He has friends in corporate. If I'm too aggressive, it could mean my job."

I don't like that answer.

I don't like that she has to play politics with men like this. That she has to smile and be professional with someone who doesn't deserve basic courtesy.

I run my tongue over my teeth, forcing myself to cool down. "I won't cause problems for you."

She smiles, small and grateful. "I know."

"But," I add, voice firm, "I'll be close. I'm going to stay in the employee area, watching the feed. If you need me—if things escalate—just say my name."

She nods, exhales, then straightens herself, bracing. I watch as she transforms before my eyes—shoulders back, chin up, expression smoothing into professional competence.

Before we leave, she quickly straightens a stack of reports on her desk. I glance down at what appears to be sales projections with handwritten notes in the margins. The figures are precise, detailed, with trend analyses that look more like something an accountant would produce than a store manager. She's clearly been tracking numbers meticulously, correlating data points that most people wouldn't even notice.

"You do all this?" I ask, gesturing to the reports.

She glances at them, then shrugs like it's nothing. "Corporate's projections always miss the mark. They don't account for local trends or repeat customer preferences. I track everything myself."

I lift an eyebrow, impressed despite myself. "Seems thorough."

"It has to be," she says, not registering it as a compliment. "Last quarter we outperformed every other store in the region by almost forty percent because I adjusted our inventory based on my own forecasts instead of following corporate's model."

We walk through the employee corridor together. I notice how several staff members stop to ask her quick questions as we pass. They defer to her naturally, but there's none of that artificial respect people give to bosses they don't actually admire. They genuinely seem to value her input, and she answers each query with a decisive confidence that's at odds with how she carries herself around Evan.

I pull up the feed on my phone, tracking the movement inside the personal shopping suite. The bright display shows multiple angles, clear enough to see facial expressions, body language.

Izzy leans over to get a better look.

Her breast brushes against my arm, and I go completely rigid. The soft pressure sends a jolt through me.

Then, as if that wasn't enough, she places a hand on my forearm. Her fingers are warm through the fabric of my shirt.

Jesus.

I hold my breath, fighting every single urge in my body. My blood runs hot, a rush of heat that's impossible to ignore.

She notices the way I stiffen. I just hope she can't tell how absolutely hard my cock is getting for her right now. The reaction is immediate and intense.

She pulls back. "Oh gosh, I'm sorry," she says, cheeks going pink. "I just...didn't know you could pull that up on your phone."

I force myself to breathe. Then I give her a slow smile.

"I absolutely can."

She nods, clearing her throat, looking anywhere but at me. "I guess you're always watching."

I tilt my head. Smile a little wider.

"I absolutely am."

She exhales, straightens herself again, then steps onto the floor.

I watch the feed. At first, things seem fine. Izzy does what she does best—smooths everything over, handles the situation, keeps things professional.

She greets Monroe, listens to his very unimportant concerns, nods in all the right places. But I also notice something else—she's tactfully steering him toward items she clearly pre-selected. Even from the feed, I can see how she subtly positions herself between him and the staff, creating a buffer. She's protecting her people while still doing her job.

I force myself to relax. Maybe this'll be⁠—

No.

Of course not.

Because then it happens. He plays it so fucking well.

He positions himself just right. Hand hovering behind her. Foot angled in front of her. A perfectly choreographed accident.

She backs up, right into his waiting hand.

I go completely still.

He gives her ass a squeeze, then lets go before anyone can see.

Except I see.

The control it takes for me to stay still is inhuman. My fingers dig into my palm, and my entire body shakes with rage.

Monroe tilts his head, putting on his best oh, whoops, that was totally an accident face.

Izzy doesn't react. Not outwardly. She just keeps going. Like she didn't just get groped in broad daylight in her own damn store.

I clench my fists.

I gave her my word.

I wouldn't cause problems for her.

I'd wait.

She knows she just has to say my name, and I'll be there.

I force myself to breathe. To stay put. And then someone else steps into the frame.

I frown. The guy looks familiar. Then my brain catches up.

Evan.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Evan walks in like he owns the place, like he's someone worth noticing. It takes me about three seconds to figure him out. The way he carries himself. The way he talks too loudly, smiles too hard. The desperate undercurrent to his confidence, like he's constantly seeking validation.

It's textbook.

Low self-esteem.

So he finds a woman who should know she's out of his league, and instead of building her up, he drags her down—makes her question herself, chip away at her own confidence—all so he can feel bigger in comparison. A classic move from insecure men everywhere.

I grind my teeth, watching.

Monroe lights up when he sees Evan.

They shake hands, and clap each other on the shoulder.

Ah.

So they know each other. They're all grins and fake camaraderie, two men who think way too highly of themselves.

Figures.

What sticks out more, though?

Evan doesn't even look at Izzy.

Doesn't greet her.

Doesn't acknowledge her at all.

Just walks in, shakes hands with his buddy, and starts talking like she's furniture. Like she's not even worthy of basic courtesy from the man who's supposed to care about her.

Because that's who he is.

A man so fucking average he has to keep a woman like Izzy feeling small just to feel big.

They sit down on one of the couches, laughing, drinking whatever overpriced bullshit Monroe had Daniel bring him. The crystal glasses catch the light as they talk, gesturing animatedly about some deal or another.

And Izzy?

She's just standing there.

Awkward, waiting, watching, not sure if she should stay or go. I can see the tension in her posture, the way she shifts her weight from foot to foot.

She waits for a lull in the conversation and tries to make her escape.

I flip on the audio feed, adjusting my headset. I need to hear this. The sound crackles to life, voices suddenly clear despite the ambient store noise.

"Well," she says, polite as ever. "If you two want more time to catch up, you can let me or Daniel know if you need anything further⁠—"

Evan stops her.

"No, actually," he says, waving her closer. "I came to pick you up for your lunch break."

Izzy blinks. "Oh?"

"Yeah. I'm taking you to your first dietitian appointment."

She freezes.

Her face goes red.

Right there.

In front of Monroe.

In front of Daniel.

In front of the goddamn security cameras.

The fuck?

Evan doesn't stop.

No, of course he doesn't.

Evan turns to Monroe, completely ignoring Izzy, like she's not even standing right there.

"She's finally getting serious about her health," he says, like this is some cute little makeover project. "I booked her an appointment with a dietitian—first session's today."

Izzy goes rigid.

Even from here, I can see the subtle change in her posture—the way she draws inward, her hands unconsciously going to her sides like she's trying to make herself smaller. In this moment, I recognize a pattern, the same one I've seen whenever she talks about her weight. The confident store manager who just outperformed every other location by forty percent vanishes, replaced by a woman who's been told repeatedly she takes up too much space.

Evan doesn't notice.

Or maybe he does and just doesn't care.

"She's already getting there, obviously," he adds, laughing like this is some inside joke. "But, you know, a little bit of work, a few tweaks here and there, and she'll be in incredible shape. Just wait."

My vision blurs.

Tweaks?

A little bit of work?

Like she's some fucking car he's taking to a body shop?

Monroe laughs.

Then he says something that makes my vision completely black out.

"I did something similar for my wife," Monroe says, swirling his drink. "Just be careful, though. Izzy's got a great ass on her. Wouldn't want to lose that grip, if you know what I mean."

My fist connects with the concrete wall beside me, a deep thud echoing through the narrow corridor.

I swear I feel it give. A small indent, maybe just dust settling around my knuckles, but enough to tell me I hit it hard.

Hard enough to make my arm throb.

Hard enough to remind myself that I still have control.

Barely.

Izzy doesn't move.

She just stands there.

Frozen.

Listening to these pathetic excuses for men talk about her like she's a goddamn investment piece.

Something to be maintained, trimmed, reshaped.

This is too much.

Way, way too much.

I gave her my word.

But fuck that.

Because what about her honor?

My hand is on the door.

I'm seconds from stepping onto the floor when I hear her voice through the headset.

"I'm really sorry," she says, tone perfectly neutral. "I'd love to go, but I have a meeting with Callahan to go over holiday security plans. I'll have to take a raincheck."

Something tightens in my chest.

It's not just that she said my name—it's the way she said it.

Like it's hers to use. Like she knows it means something.

Like she trusts that I'll be there.

My pulse kicks up, something possessive settling in my gut.

She called for me.

She chose me.

And I'm already moving.

I'm by her side before Evan can even process what she just said. He opens his mouth, already protesting. "Izzy, you're a manager. You can just reschedule. The holidays are months away⁠—"

Then he sees me.

And stops.

Because we both know who wins in a fight.

I stare at him, silent, unwavering.

I know what I look like.

Guys like him—the ones who can't even bench their own body weight—I scare them.

He'll make up for it with big talk and expensive watches, but at the end of the day?

He's intimidated.

And he knows it.

I glance between the two of them, my voice calm, steady, revealing nothing.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," I say smoothly. "But I need to steal her away."

I let it hang, then add, "For our security meeting."

Izzy gives them both a perfectly fake smile.

Before Evan can get another word out, I place my hand on the small of her back and lead her toward the employee area.

I can still hear them talking behind us.

Still hear Monroe laughing.

Still hear Evan muttering something under his breath.

But I don't care.

Because she's mine now.

DID WE JUST TRAUMA BOND?

IZZY

Cal's hand is on the small of my back. The pressure is light but firm, a silent claim that nobody in the room could possibly miss. His palm radiates warmth through the thin fabric of my blouse. He tells Evan and Monroe that he needs to steal me away.

Steal.

Like I'm something valuable.

Something worth taking.

Something that belongs somewhere else—with someone else.

He leads me away from them, his stride measured, unhurried. Not rushing me, not pulling me, just guiding with a quiet confidence that seems as natural to him as breathing.

Like he's giving them a moment to absorb it.

To let them see that I'm leaving with him.

To let Evan understand exactly what he's done.

I hate that I notice how his touch burns through the material, hate that I'm hyperaware of every square inch where his skin meets mine through the fabric. Hate that it makes my spine tingle, that it makes me feel safe even as I feel completely humiliated at what just happened. The conflict of emotions is almost dizzying—embarrassment from the scene with Evan and Monroe warring with the strange comfort of Cal's protective presence.

The soft tapping of my heels against the floor feels too loud in my ears as we walk, the murmur of conversation fading behind us. His steps are deliberate, his posture rigid but controlled, his presence beside me a solid wall between me and everything else.

The door to the VIP area closes behind us with a soft click that somehow echoes in my ears, and something in me cracks. Not enough to show. Not yet. But enough that I already feel the tears burning behind my eyes, the pressure building in my chest, my throat tightening with the effort of holding it all in. The air in the hallway feels suddenly too thin, too warm, not enough to fill my lungs properly.

We walk back to my office in complete silence. The hallway seems longer than usual, the carpet absorbing the sound of our footsteps, the air thick with words neither of us is saying.

I keep my head down, focusing on placing one foot in front of the other, on maintaining the illusion of composure for just a little longer. My hair falls forward, creating a curtain between me and the world, between me and him. The familiar scent of my shampoo—coconut and vanilla—surrounds me, offering a small comfort as I try to keep myself together.

My pulse is hammering, my throat thick, heavy with unshed tears. Evan has never done something like that before. He's crossed lines before, but not like this.

He's been cruel, sure. Dismissive. Manipulative. His comments about my body, my weight, my clothes—they've always been delivered with a smile, with a kiss on the cheek, with that tone that says he's just trying to help. Just trying to make me better. Always private, always wrapped in enough care to make me doubt whether I was overreacting.

But never that public. Never that brazen. Never humiliated me in front of people—at my own job—like I was some project he was working on. Like he was so proud of himself for getting me 'fixed.' Like I was a before-and-after advertisement for his exceptional taste and guidance.

I clench my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms, trying to hold myself together through sheer force of will. The pain cuts through the chaos—it’s something I can control. The crescent marks in my skin tether me here, keep me from slipping under.

Don't cry. Not in front of him. Not in front of Cal.

I feel Callahan's presence beside me, his body heat radiating even though we're not touching anymore. His energy always feels so big, like he’s so completely in control. He takes up space not just physically—though God knows his frame is imposing enough—but with something else, something intangible, something that makes the air around him feel charged.

The exact opposite of how I feel right now—small, diminished, shattered into pieces I'm desperately trying to hold together.

We reach my office, and I push inside without waiting, moving to my desk with quick steps, desperate for space. My eyes catch on the stack of inventory reports I'd been analyzing before Monroe's visit.

I automatically straighten the papers, a habit from years of organizing data to make sense of a chaotic world. Even now, with my emotions threatening to spill over, my hands move with practiced precision, aligning edges, smoothing corners, creating order where I can because everything else feels so out of control. The rustling of the papers fills the silence, giving me something to focus on besides the man standing behind me.

"I'm fine," I say, not that he asked. My voice is flat, empty, mechanical. The words come out rehearsed because they are—how many times have I said them before? How many times have I pretended to be okay when I wasn't? The phrase is worn smooth from overuse, a pebble I've carried in my pocket for years.

I don't look at him.

I can't.

If I do, I might break apart completely.

"Thanks," I add, still keeping my head down, blinking hard to force back the tears that threaten to spill over. My vision blurs at the edges, the colors of my spreadsheets running together. "But I need to get back to work."

I wait, hands still resting on the papers, body tense. The ticking of the clock on the wall marks each second, unnaturally loud in my quiet office.

I wait for the sound of him leaving. For the door to open and click shut. For the moment when I can finally let go, when I can stop holding myself together so tightly.

Finally, I hear the door close behind him.

Relief starts to bloom—until I hear the lock turn.

The sound is deliberate. Unmistakable. Metal sliding into place with a finality that makes my breath catch. My heart skips, stutters, then races to catch up.

He's not leaving. He’s staying. On purpose. And suddenly, everything I’ve been holding back starts to shake loose.

The dam breaks. Just like that.

Tears spill over, hot and unrelenting, sliding down my cheeks before I can stop them. I try. God, I try. But it's useless now. The pressure’s too much.

Callahan is still there—standing against the door, arms crossed over his chest, silent and solid and so completely unmovable. The solid oak frames him like some kind of sentry, his presence towering, steady, and impossible to ignore.

He watches me, but not the way most people do—curious, cautious, or pretending not to look at all. No. He watches like he knows. Like he’s already mapped the fracture line running through me and is just waiting for the moment I finally come apart.

I turn away, pressing my fingers to my eyes, as if that’ll somehow stop the flood. As if I can still claw back some kind of dignity. But the tears wet my fingers instantly, smudging what little makeup I put on.

I was always called a crybaby growing up. My brothers teased me for it relentlessly—Matteo with his eyerolls, Luca telling me to suck it up, Nico awkwardly patting my shoulder like he couldn’t wait to escape. My mom said I needed thicker skin. That the world wouldn’t be kind to a girl who wore her heart so openly.

Their voices echo in my head now, reminding me of every reason I should have kept it together.

And Evan?

Evan says I cry too much. That it's manipulative. That it's exhausting to deal with. That I'm using tears to get my way when I don't have a real argument. That no one wants to be around a woman who can't control her emotions.

Maybe he's right.

Maybe I'm pathetic.

Maybe that's why he thinks I need fixing.

And still—here I am. Unraveling in front of Cal. The last person I wanted to see me like this.

And he’s not even looking away.

I sniff hard, trying to hold myself together, wiping frantically at the tears that keep coming despite my best efforts. But then I feel his presence behind me, closer now though I didn't hear him move. He's like that—capable of such stillness, such quiet, despite his size. The air shifts as he approaches, carrying his scent, his warmth.

And then, softly, "You did nothing wrong."

I let out a shaky breath, my hands still covering my face, my shoulders hunched as if trying to make myself smaller, less visible.

I squeeze my eyes shut, fresh tears leaking through despite my efforts. The warmth of them tracks down my cheeks, dripping onto my collar.

Because I know that. Intellectually, rationally, I know that. But hearing him say it? Hearing him sound so sure? It makes my chest ache with a strange mix of relief and pain. Relief that someone else sees it, that I'm not crazy for feeling hurt. Pain because acknowledging what happened means facing truths I've been avoiding for too long. It means admitting that this relationship isn't what I'd convinced myself it was.

I scrub at my cheeks, wiping at the tears as fast as they come, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "I'm fine."

I'm not fine.

And I think he knows it.

But I say it anyway.

Because I have to.

Because it's what I always say.

Because if I pretend hard enough, maybe it'll be true. Maybe I can convince myself as easily as I've been trying to convince everyone else.

His voice is quiet but firm. "They're assholes. Both of them. Men who think they can do whatever they want and never have to answer for it."

I turn to him, eyes still wet, cheeks flushed with emotion, voice still shaky with the effort of controlling it, and say, "One of those assholes is my boyfriend."

His expression doesn't change right away.

But I see it—the moment of recognition. He exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly, like he's disappointed but not surprised. The subtle shift in his posture speaks volumes.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he says, quiet and composed. "You deserve better."

I laugh, a short, bitter sound that catches in my throat. Because what else am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to say to that? Thank you? I know? You're wrong? The words are simple but they pierce through the defenses I've built around my relationship.

And then, suddenly, it all comes out, words spilling from me like water through a broken dam. The floodgates open, and I can't stop the torrent.

"It's just...I know I should leave," I say, voice cracking under the strain of finally saying it out loud. "I know it's bad. I know Evan treats me like shit. I know I should be furious at him for what he did today. But I—" I break off, shaking my head, hands gesturing helplessly in the air. "I don't know what else to do."