Damn, Luna is calling. I don't have a good feeling about this.
My phone vibrates in my hand, her name lighting up the screen. It's late—almost 11 PM. We've been at the hotel for hours now, and I thought maybe I'd gotten away with it. Thought maybe she hadn't noticed the bruises I've been hiding so carefully.
But Luna notices everything. She always has.
It's one of the things that makes her such a good therapist—that uncanny ability to read people, to see past the masks they wear, to find the truth hiding beneath carefully constructed lies.
And I've been lying to her for months.
"Hey my love, can you come to my room?"
Her voice is soft, almost gentle. But I know her well enough to hear the steel underneath. She's made a decision about something. And when Luna makes a decision, there's no changing her mind.
"Yes, let me come," I answer, trying to keep my voice steady. I hang up before she can hear the tremor in it.
I stare at my phone for a moment, my heart pounding. This is it. This is the moment I've been dreading for months. The moment when my best friend—my sister—sees exactly how broken I've become.
I haven't even taken a shower yet. I'm still wearing the oversized hoodie and sweatpants I changed into after dinner. Still covered. Still hidden.
Part of me wants to take a shower first, to wash away the day, to delay this conversation for another thirty minutes. But I know Luna. If I take too long, she'll come to my room instead. And that would be worse.
At least in her room, I can leave when it gets too hard. When the questions get too painful. When I can't bear to see the disappointment in her eyes.
Well, I'm in luck in one way—if I was already in a nightdress, she'd see all my bruises immediately. This way, I have a few more seconds of pretending everything is fine.
A few more seconds of being the old Rielle. The confident one. The fierce one. The lawyer who fights for the weak and never backs down from a challenge.
Before I have to become the Rielle who let a man destroy her piece by piece.
I take a deep breath, straighten my shoulders, and head to her room.
The walk down the hotel hallway feels like a death march. My footsteps are too loud on the plush carpet. The art on the walls blurs together. I count the doors—one, two, three, four—until I reach hers.
I knock softly.
"Come in," I hear her say, her voice faint through the heavy door.
I push it open and step inside.
Luna is sitting on her bed, cross-legged, wearing one of her lacy nightgowns—black silk that shows more than it hides. Her natural hair is loose around her shoulders, and she's not wearing her mask. Just her glasses, perched on her nose as she looks up at me.
She's smiling.
It's a soft smile, a gentle smile. The kind of smile she gives her therapy clients when they first walk into her office, nervous and afraid.
For a moment, I feel relieved. Maybe this is just a normal late-night chat. Maybe she just wants to talk about the vacation, or gossip about Darcy, or plan our next vigilante mission.
Maybe I'm paranoid. Maybe she didn't notice anything.
Then she says one word, and my world tilts.
"Strip."
The word hangs in the air between us like a guillotine blade.
"What?" My voice comes out strangled. I'm shooketh.
"Did I stutter, Rielle?"
Oh no. She used my full name. She never uses my full name unless she's serious. Unless she's done playing games.
My heart is hammering so hard I think it might break through my ribcage. "No, you didn't."
I feel like crying right now. How am I supposed to explain how I got the bruises? How am I supposed to tell her that I've been letting Caspian hurt me for over a year? That I've been too scared, too ashamed, too broken to ask for help?
How do I tell my fierce, protective best friend that I've failed at protecting myself?
"Well then, Petal, go ahead."
You're probably judging her by now. Probably thinking she's being cruel, forcing me to strip, forcing me to expose myself.
But I know she means well. I know this is Luna's way of helping—direct, unflinching, refusing to let me hide.
If she suspects I'm in trouble, she won't let me lie to her. Won't let me deflect. She'll make me face the truth, even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts.
Because that's what love looks like sometimes. Not soft words and gentle touches. But hard truths and forced confessions.
My hands shake as I reach for the hem of my hoodie. I pull it over my head slowly, exposing the sports bra underneath. The fabric sticks to my skin—I'm sweating despite the air conditioning.
The hoodie falls to the floor.
I can already see Luna's eyes tracking the bruises on my arms. The fingerprint marks on my biceps. The yellowing remnants of older injuries.
But she doesn't say anything yet. Just waits.
I push down my sweatpants next. They pool at my feet and I step out of them. Now I'm standing in just my sports bra and underwear, and the bruises are more visible. The handprints on my thighs. The marks on my hips where he gripped me too hard.
Still, Luna waits. Silent. Patient. Her face completely blank.
This is so her. So Luna. Mysterious and unreadable, forcing me to go further, to show her everything.
I reach behind my back and unhook my sports bra. It falls away, exposing the bite marks on my breasts. The bruises around my ribs where he kicked me last week when I tried to refuse him.
Finally, I slide down my underwear and step out of them.
Now I'm completely naked. Completely exposed. Every bruise, every bite mark, every handprint visible under the soft lighting of her hotel room.
There's not a single emotion on Luna's face. Her expression is perfectly controlled, perfectly neutral.
What a mysterious person she is.
But I know her well enough to see the micro-expressions she can't quite hide. The slight tightening around her eyes. The tension in her jaw. The way her hands curl into fists on the bed.
She's furious. Absolutely furious. But she's controlling it. Channeling it. Saving it for later.
For him.
"Caspian did this?"
Her voice is eerily calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that comes before a hurricane.
"Y...yes." I answer timidly, my voice breaking on the single word.
I'm crying now. Silent tears streaming down my face as I stand naked in front of my best friend, all my shame and pain and fear exposed.
"And so you like it? Is it your sexual preference?"
She stands up from the bed and walks around me slowly, deliberately. Her fingers reach out and touch some of the fresh bite marks on my back—the ones from two days ago, still scabbed over and tender.
I wince. Can't help it.
"You had better talk, Petal."
And so I do. Because I can't hold it in anymore. Can't keep lying. Can't keep pretending.
"At first, it was okay," I whisper. "Since we only did it once in a while. Rough sex, you know? I thought it was normal. Thought I was exploring my boundaries. He said I liked it. That I was asking for it."
"And then?"
"Until he wanted it every single day. Every. Single. Day. And if I dared to refuse—if I said I was tired or in pain or just didn't want to—he would tie me up and force himself on me."
The memories come flooding back as I speak. The rope burns on my wrists. The taste of the gag he'd shove in my mouth to muffle my screams. The feeling of helplessness as he did whatever he wanted to my body.
I'm crying harder now, remembering the pain all over again. Both emotional and physical pain. The way my body would hurt for days after. The way my soul felt like it was splintering into pieces.
"And you didn't find it important to tell me anything?" Luna's voice is still calm, but there's an edge to it now. "Oh, you think I'm so happy to see you suffer? You are in pain, Rielle."
Her voice is still. Her face hard. But I can see the tears gathering in her eyes that she won't let fall.
"He said that if I dared to tell you, he'd post my naked photos and our sex videos on every single platform and kill everyone I love, including you."
My voice breaks completely now. "I didn't want you and my loved ones to suffer, Luna. He showed me the videos. Hours of them. And in all of them, I look like I'm enjoying it. Like I'm consenting. Because he only films when I'm trying to make it stop hurting. When I'm trying to just survive it."
"He said no one would believe me. That I'm a lawyer—I should know better. That if I was really being raped, I would fight back. That the videos prove I wanted it."
She scoffs. The sound is sharp, bitter.
Why is she scoffing? Does she not believe me? Does she think I'm stupid too?
"Posting photos and videos is one thing, which is quite scary because your profession is at stake," she says, and I feel a small relief that she understands that part at least.
"But we both know that the people you love can protect themselves. We literally have bodyguards following us. My parents, Darcy's parents, and your parents are ranked in the Big Five, sweetheart. How can he possibly harm us?"
She looks at me with disbelief in her eyes, probably wondering how stupid I could possibly be. And she's right. I am stupid. I let fear control me. I let him convince me that he was more powerful than my entire family combined.
"So after the conclusion that he'll kill us, you decided not to at least tell Darcy and me anything and suffer alone?"
She steps closer, and I can see the tears in her eyes now, even though her voice remains steady.
"You are a lawyer, Elle. And a fierce one for that matter. You fight for the weak, love. Yet here you are suffering on your own. Have you forgotten that we even avenge people in domestic violence cases? We literally torture rapists and abusers for fun. We make them pay."
Her voice drops to almost a whisper. "I don't even know how I'm supposed to even survive without you if something were to happen. If he killed you. If you hurt yourself. If you just... disappeared one day because you couldn't take it anymore."
I keep crying uncontrollably as she talks. Great, heaving sobs that shake my whole body.
She grabs a silk robe from her closet and covers my body with it, then guides me to sit on the bed. She's gentle now, her anger giving way to tenderness as she wraps the robe around me.
Then she walks toward the balcony to get some air.
I watch through the glass doors as she lights a cigarette. Yes, she smokes at times like now. When she's overwhelmed. When she needs to think. When she's planning something dark.
She takes long, deep drags, the cherry of the cigarette glowing in the darkness. Her shoulders are tense, her free hand clenched into a fist.
She stands there for maybe five minutes, smoking and thinking and probably planning exactly what she's going to do to Caspian.
Then she stubs out the cigarette, comes back inside, looks at me blankly, and walks toward the door.
My heart drops.
"Can I come with you? Wherever you're going?"
I know where she's going. She's about to mess someone up. She's about to go to war for me.
"No, and don't even think about following me, or I'll drug you and you'll be out until I'm done with whatever I'm about to do," she says simply.
She walks to her closet and pulls out a pair of red heels—Louboutins, the ones with the sharp, deadly heels. Then she grabs her mask from the dresser.
She has insecurities about her face, thanks to her ex. Calvin. The man who spent two years telling her she was ugly, that her face was wrong, that she needed to hide it.
Something shifted after she started dating him. Since then, she started wearing baggy clothes and a mask, besides the nasal condition she had, which has since stopped. She never talks about what actually happened. Or what changed.
She was the person who dressed in bodycon dresses and backless dresses. The one who turned heads wherever she went. But something shifted, and now she doesn't wear anything that shows her curves or even her skin.
I watch as she heads for the door, and I suddenly realize—she's wearing a lacy nightgown and heels. Nothing else. She's about to walk out half-naked.
"Moon, wait—"
But she's already gone, the door closing firmly behind her.
She's going to freak out when she realizes she's half-naked.
Or maybe she won't. Maybe she's so angry, so focused, that she won't even notice.
I sit on her bed for a moment, my mind racing. Then I grab my phone and quickly call Marc, her Papa's driver. He's loyal to our families, has been for years. He'll help without asking questions.
"Marc, it's Rielle. Luna just left the hotel. She's heading to my house. Can you follow her on a bike and bring her a long coat? A black leather one if you have it."
"Of course, Miss Rielle. Is everything alright?"
"No. But it will be. Just... make sure she doesn't do anything too crazy. And Marc? She's going to hurt someone tonight. Don't try to stop her. Just make sure she's safe."
"Understood."
I hang up and sit there for a moment, still wrapped in Luna's silk robe, tears still streaming down my face.
I know she's taking her Lamborghini—her sports car that's usually kept at the hotel garage. I'm just hoping that she'll be safe since at a point like this, she drives like a maniac. Like she's being chased by demons. Or like she's chasing them.
I can't even sleep a wink until she gets back.
I keep checking my phone every five minutes. Time is going so slow. Each minute feels like an hour.
Then an idea pops up.
I actually installed some cameras in my house months ago to get evidence of Caspian assaulting me. Hidden cameras in smoke detectors, picture frames, even in the bedroom. I've been collecting footage, building a case, preparing for the day I'd finally be brave enough to leave.
I grab my laptop from my room and come back to Luna's, settling on her bed with the computer balanced on my knees.
I pull up the security camera app and navigate to the live feeds from my house.
I stare at the screens for what feels like forever—checking the driveway camera, the front door camera, the living room. Waiting.
About forty minutes after Luna left, I see headlights in my driveway.
There she is.
Luna's Lamborghini screeches to a stop, the tires leaving black marks on my pristine driveway. The driver's door opens and she steps out.
Marc is right behind her on his bike. He gets off quickly and approaches her with a long black leather coat.
Thank God. At least she won't be completely naked when she commits whatever violence she's planning.
She slips on the coat and I see her say something to Marc. He nods and takes a position by the cars, clearly standing guard.
Luna walks toward my front door, and even through the grainy security footage, I can see the determination in her stride. The deadly grace of someone who's decided that violence is the only answer.
She doesn't knock.
She doesn't ring the bell.
She simply kicks the door open—her Louboutin heel connecting with the wood right next to the lock. The door splinters and swings inward.
I wince. That's going to need repairs.
But I'm also oddly proud. That's my best friend. My sister. My protector.
I switch to the living room camera feed.
Caspian is there, sitting on my couch with a drink in his hand. He looks up in surprise as Luna storms in, her leather coat billowing behind her like a cape.