Chapter Twenty-Four: Not Ready for the Light
Elena hadn't shown the pages to anyone.
Not really.
She'd printed three pieces the night before. Just short ones. Things she'd written in the quiet—stream-of-consciousness thoughts she barely remembered putting down.
She left them on the desk in her writing room, stacked neatly. No title. No signature. Just paper and ink.
She didn't plan to do anything with them yet.
Didn't plan to show them at all.
But that was the point of the room, wasn't it?
Somewhere her thoughts could breathe.
---
That morning, she was halfway through her tea when she noticed something odd.
Her phone wouldn't stop buzzing.
Notifications. Mentions. Shares.
She frowned, unlocked it, and opened her email first.
Then the pit formed in her stomach.
SUBJECT: You're Going Viral.
The message was short.
Saw this poem posted anonymously—your voice? The internet thinks so. Beautiful work. You okay?
Elena clicked the link.
Her own words stared back at her.
Posted on a well-known literary blog. No byline. Just a vague caption:
"Found in a folded stack. Didn't want to keep it hidden."
Her chest tightened.
She read the lines—slowly. She had written them. Of course she had.
But she hadn't given them away.
And now, thousands of people had read what she hadn't even dared claim as hers.
Her throat burned.
Not from shame.
From panic.
---
She paced the penthouse, fingers gripping her phone like it was a threat.
Who posted it?
How did they find it?
Then—like a thread snapping—she remembered.
The housekeeper had come in last night. Cleaning. Tidying.
Maybe she'd seen the papers and assumed—
A misunderstanding.
A well-meaning accident.
But that didn't make it feel any less like a violation.
---
Aiden found her in the study.
Her back to the door. Arms crossed. Rigid.
He didn't speak at first.
"Is it true?" he asked quietly.
She didn't turn around. "Yes."
"It's yours?"
"Yes."
He stepped closer. "You didn't post it?"
"No."
A pause.
"I thought maybe you—"
"I didn't."
He was quiet again.
Then, gently, "People are reacting. The piece—it's everywhere."
"I know."
"And they love it."
"I didn't write it to be loved," she said sharply.
Then softer, "I wrote it because I didn't know what else to do with what I felt."
---
She finally turned to him.
"I didn't choose this. Not like this."
"I know."
Her voice wavered. "It feels like someone ripped the pages out of my chest and passed them around."
He nodded slowly. "That's what good writing does."
She looked away.
"I'm not ready to be seen."
"You already are."
She clenched her jaw. "Then why does it feel like drowning?"
---
He didn't move to hug her. Didn't say she was overreacting.
He just stood there, quietly, with her in the storm.
Then he said:
"People see brilliance and assume it wants a spotlight. But sometimes it just wants a place to exist."
She blinked, hard.
"I would've told you first," she whispered. "If I was ready."
"I know."
---
There was silence then.
But not empty.
She moved toward the window. Looked out at the city below.
"They're calling it 'Anonymous Truth.'"
"I saw."
She laughed once. Bitter and dry. "I spent years trying to matter. Now the only time I do is when I don't have a name."
"You have a name," he said quietly. "You always did."
She turned.
"I mean a real name. Not someone's fiancée. Not someone's substitute. Not someone's headline."
He stepped closer.
"You're Elena. And your words matter—with or without credit. But if you want the world to know they're yours... I'll stand behind you."
"Not in front?"
He smiled. "Never in front."
---
ELENA'S POV
That night, she didn't write.
She just sat with the notebook in her lap, fingers tracing the edge of the page.
She felt exposed. But also... seen.
She hated that.
And needed it.
She wasn't angry at Aiden.
But she wasn't steady either.
She was between.
Between the girl who hid and the woman who just got published without permission.
Between fear and visibility.
Between private and possible.
---
AIDEN'S POV
He found the blog post again.
Read it slowly.
Every line.
The ache in it. The restraint. The quiet demand to be more than tolerated.
Then he did something he hadn't done in a long time.
He closed the screen.
And just sat with the words.
He didn't call PR.
Didn't draft a statement.
Didn't spin the story.
Because this wasn't a story.
It was her.
And he wasn't going to frame it.
He was going to protect it.
---
ELENA'S POV
In the early morning light, she stepped into her room—her writing room.
The pages were gone.
But her voice wasn't.
And for the first time, she didn't want to take the words back.
She wanted to write more.
Not for the world.
Not even for Aiden.
For herself.