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He takes a step closer, heat rolling off him like a threat. “You think he loves you?”

I look him dead in the eye. “He does. And you know what else? He’s coming for me.”

The air in the room shifts. His smile vanishes and he lunges.

I brace.

He grabs the front of my hoodie, yanking it hard, the seams stretching. “I’ll show you what a real man looks like,” he snarls.

I thrash, twisting hard, planting both feet on the mattress and kicking with everything I have. He stumbles back, cursing, but recovers fast.

“You want to fight me?” he hisses. “You want to talk back now?”

He reaches for the nightstand.

A flash of metal.

My heart jackknifes in my chest.

He raises something small and sharp. A pocketknife.

He comes back toward me, kneeling on the bed, gripping the fabric of my hoodie, blade pressed to the edge.

“You always liked your little speeches,” he breathes, eyes wild. “Let’s see what you sound like when you’re not so pretty.”

“Do it,” I spit, fury overriding fear now. “Cut my clothes. Humiliate me. Hurt me. But you’re not breaking me, Randy. I’ve lived in your darkness before. I’m not staying there.”

He flinches. Just barely. But I see it.

“You think he’s coming? You think anyone’s gonna save you?”

“I know he is.”

Because Eddie loves me. Because I know him.

And because if there’s breath in his body, he’ll burn the world down before letting this be the end.

Randy grips the fabric tighter.

I twist, kick again, scream loud enough to make the walls shake. I don’t care who hears. Let them hear. Because I may be zip-tied to this bed but I’m not a victim. And I’m not giving up.

Randy’s grip tightens, his knuckles white around the handle of the knife as he kneels over me.

I wait with my heart in my throat and my muscles coiled.

He leans forward, pressing the blade to my hoodie, eyes wide and flickering with something unstable. “You think you’re some goddamn queen now, huh?” he hisses. “Think you’re too good for me because some famous piece of shit told you you’re worth something?”

I breathe slowly. Through my nose. I wait.

“Eddie fucking Crowe,” he snarls. “He doesn’t know you like I do. He doesn’t know what you look like when you cry. What your voice sounds like when you beg.”

That’s it.

I snap.

I twist my hips hard and bring my knee up with everything I have left in me. A raw, animal effort. The angle is tight, but I catch him right across the jaw.

There’s a crack—his teeth clacking together—and he shouts in rage and reels backward.