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She presses her face into my shoulder and I can feel the tremble move through her. I hold her tighter. She’s fucking shaking.

And I’ve never hated someone more than I hate Davit Petrosyan.

Her fingers clutch the back of my hoodie. Mine stay firm across her back, anchoring her to me because it’s the only thing I know how to do.

I don’t care that Boone’s still talking.

I don’t care that Jonah’s one breath away from going nuclear.

I need to hold my girl.

Boone pulls his phone from his pocket, already swiping and scrolling. “We’ll need screenshots of everything. We need to know who posted what, what accounts they came from, timestamps—anything that can be traced.”

Ani nods, but her face is pale.

“Do you still have access to the messages?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says, voice quieter now. “They’re still in my inbox. I didn’t delete anything.”

Boone nods once. “We’ll take care of it.”

She starts to shift like she’s about to move, but fuck that. I’m not letting her go. I keep my arms locked around her, my hands still pressed to her back. She hesitates, like she’s going to argue—then doesn’t.

Two minutes later, Boone returns with the old laptop. Ani is right, it really is ancient. He sets it on the coffee table and steps back.

I reach forward, open the lid, then slide it into Ani’s lap. She shifts, her back now snug to my chest. My chin hovers just above her shoulder.

It takes her a minute to pull up the social media site. She logs in, her fingers shaking.

The inbox loads slowly. When it finally finishes, the screen is flooded with messages.

“There are new ones,” she tells Boone. “But, all the early ones are here too. I didn’t delete anything, so it’s a clear picture from start to finish.”

She clicks on one of the anonymous messages. It just says:You don’t get to hide forever, bitch.

She opens another. Then another. Posts on burner accounts with old pictures, private photos somehow made public. Threads full of implications. People speculating. Calling her broken. Manipulative. Dangerous.

“When I say my entire life was controlled, I mean it. Some of these images are doctored. I didn’t party. I’ve never even been drunk. I don’t wear tight, revealing clothing. I never hooked up with men. I always obeyed my parents' rules until I ran away.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to us, baby. We don’t care if they are real. What they’re doing is wrong.”

She looks at me like she doesn’t know what to say. Then she nods, barely. Her fingers stop moving on the keyboard.

Boone mutters something and walks off with Jonah not far behind, probably to figure out what to do with the pile of digital filth we’ve just witnessed.

And when Ani exhales and leans the full weight of her body back against me, I know we’re done for the night.

I shift the laptop off her lap, setting it gently aside.

“You ready to go to bed?” I ask.

She nods.

But she doesn’t move.

So I do.

I keep her pressed tight to my body as I stand, adjusting so that I can hook one arm under her knees and the other behind her back. I’m grateful she doesn’t fight it. She just leans into me, her face tucking against my chest and her hands knotting loosely in my sweatshirt.