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“The cat is out of the bag. I repeat, the cat is out of the bag,” Lori recites.

“You know too? About Uri’s maneuvers? Everybody knows?” This is getting worse by the second.

“I didn’t.” Sully raises his hand. One person.

“I wanted to tell you,” Ollie utters, using a soothing tone, which doesn’t work on me. “But then the stalker appeared, and I didn’t want to add to the pile. I’m sorry.”

“If I may, I think that he sabotaged all your relationships and acted all twisted and sociopathic because he was desperate to not lose you.” I don’t know if Lori is trying to defend him or dig him a deeper grave.

I suddenly get the comprehensive meaning of his words, and all my hackles go up as the air hangs thick with nauseating uncertainty. Sabotaged my relationships? The way things happened to the men I tried to date, the disappearances, the sudden work transfers, the triggered fire alarm with no fire in the building…oh my God. Was that all Uri? Has he been meddling in my life? Did I step right into his meticulously prepared trap when I moved in with him? Like a fly in a spiderweb.

Looking back, I can see that the relationship between me and Uri has beenmore than a little unorthodox. His lack of boundaries and my dependency for both emotional and physical needs was a little odd by society’s standards, but I’ve never once looked at it with a critical eye. Nevertheless, undermining my fragile confidence, letting me feel inadequate and lacking, that hurts me deeply. He’s been scheming behind my back, regardless of the consequences, of how it would affect me, moving me like a chess piece, following his tunnel vision in order to get me. He treated me just like he does all the rest of the world. That’s a slap to the face that I don’t enjoy.

I dial Uri’s phone number under the worried gaze of my friends.

When he picks up I ask, “Is it true? Did you orchestratemy life…surreptitiously?”

There’s a heavy silence before he says in a low tone, “Does it matter?”

“Yes. Yes, it does,” I reply, squeezing my eyes shut.

“And if the answer is yes?”

“No.” Is the only word coming out of my mouth, riding a soft breath. I hoped, so much, to hear his denial. “You messed with my head and maneuvered me as you pleased. Made me think I wasn’t enough for my dates!”

“They weren’t enough for you,” he hisses.

“You manipulative bastard!” Conceited. Controlling. Conniving jerk! Wetting my dry lips with my tongue, I try to breathe shallowly.

“Is that my pet name?”

“Is this a joke to you?” I accuse him, my arm slipping to my side.

“A joke?” His voice gets even lower. “Do you know how hard I’ve worked to keep you safe?”

“Safe? You meant to keep me for yourself!” I counter.

He chuckles arrogantly. “Yes! I’ve been pulling strings in the background. I threatened and bribed and sent those fuckers away. I changed and modified all my priorities so you’d feel at ease. I forced and pushed you onto the path I wanted. Everything I’ve done was for you.”

“Ngh.” A defeated sound leaves my lips. No matter how many times I tell my heart to stay still, I can’t help my feelings from overflowing. Betrayal, confusion, incredulity, sorrow. Why? What am I to him? A toy he can control, play with, and discard whenever he feels like it?

“Losing you is not an option, Baby Blue. Stop fighting this. You know who I am, better than anyone else.”But I thought I finally knew who I was for you, and now I found out I was wrong.

Even as I finally witness the ugly depths of his obsession, I feel the innate urge to yield to him. To crawl to him, into his arms—the profound need claws at my insides. I want to roll and rub all over his chest until I stink of him. The memory of his scent turns my head fuzzy. He smells like everything beautiful and safe in the world. But that same scent just soured into deceitfulness, insidiousness. Sadness.

“I pushed you away, but you kept me at distance all our lives. If I wasn’t into S&M, what would you have done? Kept me locked up, sabotaged all my relationships while still going to fuck your…menat Madame Claudette’s!” I cry out. “Our relationship has always been unbalanced. And now I discover you took overmy life.” My cheeks are quickly turning wet as tears continue flowing. Why do I always cry?

“What do you want from me, Sari?” The lack of understanding and compassion in his tone makes my gut twist painfully.

Questions I can never bring myself to ask—too scared of his answers—well up inside my throat and then fade away like bubbles in the wind.

“What do I want?” I echo his words. “Apology comes from the Greek wordapologia,which means to give a speech in defense, and contrite from the Latin wordconterere,whichmeans to feel crushed with guilt.”

“The only thing irrevocably mine in this world is you, Sari. Your love, your quirkiness, your cluelessness, your inner strength, your sexy body. All of you. I won’t apologize or feel contrite for making you mine. I can’t. It would be a lie,” he deadpans.

I know sociopaths can’t. That wasn’t what I needed to hear. Not even close to what I’d hoped to hear.

I end the call, not wanting to continue anymore. I throw my phone in one of the sinks with too much force.