Page 51 of My Dark Divine
Yeah, the premise doesn’t sound promising, and neither does the title. “I saw one of his interviews,” I muse, wrapping more noodles around my fork. They taste like heaven. “He keeps saying it was the best experience of his life, the best movie he’s ever filmed.”
“Yeah. The dude has fucking Stockholm syndrome from that movie,” he responds bluntly, and I burst into laughter, choking on a piece of food. “What?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, which only makes me laugh harder.
I cover my mouth, trying to suppress the embarrassment while I struggle to swallow. After a moment, I finally manage to do it, a wide smile never disappearing from my face. “Oh, God. This is hilarious.”
He pauses, clearly not convinced by my explanation. “Stockholm syndrome is hilarious to you?” he asks, attempting to sound annoyed, but I can hear a hint of amusement in his voice.
The way he imposes it is funny to me.
The moment I want to open my mouth, the waiter brings him his food, along with my dessert. A strange sensation sweeps through me as I realize we’re one step closer to the end of this breakfast. This moment, pleasant and carefree as it is, will evaporate as soon as we focus on our food, and then we’ll return to pretending and doing whatever our parents expect of us.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about this right now. Why am I even thinking about it at all?
I reach for the glass bottle of water across the table, leaning in slightly to grab it. The attempt proves futile, so I scoot closer to the edge of my seat. West notices my struggle and pushes the bottle closer to me. Our fingers brush, and an electric thrill races across my skin the moment it happens. I whip my eyes to his, neither of us pulling our hands back.
Butterflies awaken from their slumber, their wings fluttering against my ribcage as they make their way up to my throat. A knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach, and I awkwardly clear my throat, being the first to withdraw my hand.
A loud camera click from nearby distracts us, and I’m both grateful for and irritated by the paparazzi lurking just across the restaurant fence.
“These fucking idiots with their cameras,” West grumbles, narrowing his eyes at the stubborn man who keeps snapping pictures of us. “Maybe I need to teach him a lesson.”
“Don’t,” I blurt out in a rush. The thought of him causing a scene over a few photos feels overwhelmingly daunting. “Just… eat. Ignore him. It’s good for them to see us like this, remember?”
He shifts his attention back to me, and I lower my head, rummaging through my purse. I fumble for my compact mirror and pull it out, checking my half-swollen face. Yeah, the signs of my mental breakdown are hard to hide, even with makeup.
“Fuck. I forgot how red and swollen my face gets whenever I cry,” I mumble, smoothing out the creases of concealer under my eyes. “It’s like I have an allergy to tears. I can’t let that happen again.”
“What a fucking bullshit,” he says dismissively. “You lookprettynow.” Raising my head, I look at him with a burning question in my eyes, but he only purses his lips in annoyance, hisshoulders tensing with discomfort. “I don’t mean you need to cry to look pretty. You always look like that. I just mean—” He trails off, rubbing a hand across his face in frustration. “Fuck. Fuck it. Let’s just eat.”
Yeah. That won’t erase the feelings his words stirred within me, but it’s an option nonetheless.
After completing allthe work required of us, West and I decided to sayfuck itand get wasted. The club we’re at is owned by one of the brokers we met with today, and we couldn’t resist his invitation. People like him love to stand out and brag about their parties, and tonight, we’re here to see just how good this place really is.
To add to the excitement, Elijah Williams—whom we’ve been talking about—is here now, lounging on the same couch with us. The heavy beat of the club music blasts through the speakers, and my intoxicated brain struggles to grasp what he’s saying. I’m sandwiched between him and West, throwing glances at my fiancé and silently asking if he understands this man’s ramblings.
Judging by his blank stare and that idiotic, out-of-place smirk, I gather he’s just as lost as I am.
Elijah scoots closer, the mix of his luxurious perfume and the alcohol he’s consumed creating a suffocating cloud around us. “You know, you should be a model,” he says into my ear, his dark eyes scanning my face. “You have all the qualities.”
I throw my head back against the couch, a drunken, carefree smile breaking across my face. If I were sober, he’d be annoyingthe hell out of me with his chatter, but right now, I can’t seem to mind at all. “You think so?”
He nods, narrowing his eyes at me. “You’re beautiful. Hasn’t your boyfriend ever told you that?”
Myboyfrienduses more elaborate words to describe my looks, but Elijah doesn’t need to know that. This isn’t about having an adequate conversation—I’m drunk, and I want to have fun. “Maybe he has. But I love the way you say it. It sounds better,” I say, my tone shifting to a teasing, flirtatious note.
Even amidst the deep neon light illuminating his face, I can see the spark in his eyes—hopeful, naïve, and lustful. “There are better ways to express that,” he says, glancing at West. “I want to show you. Think he would allow me, dollface?”
I slowly turn my head to West, who looks down at me with a challenging gleam in his eyes. He’s as drunk as I am, possibly even high, and I doubt he can think straight. Or maybe he can. Despite the haze, I can still sense the tension in his muscles, the way he watches me now.
Leaning in slightly, I ask, “Would you let him show me how beautiful I am, West?”
Like a predator savoring the sight of its prey, his tongue flicks out to moisten his lips. “You know what I think?” He cups the side of my face, his thumb tugging at the skin on my upper lip. The gesture ignites butterflies in my stomach, and I lean into his hand like a wilting flower searching for support.
Gradually, he tightens his grip, turning my face toward Elijah. “I think mybeautifulgirl can please us both.” Leaning closer, he lets his words skim across my cheek as he asks, “Can’t you, sweetheart?”
My heart knots at his words, the discomfort tightening around me as the trigger takes hold. I close my eyes, attempting to push away the memories that never fully come into focus—shards of the fog I’ve lived in for years. I recall fragments—voices, sensations that scraped across my skin—but I still can’t make sense of what occurred.
They’re not here. They’re not here. They’re not here.
