Page 23 of Glass Jawed

Lucian

To say I was shocked that Rohi hadn’t blocked me these past few weeks would be an understatement.

But getting a reply last night?

That wasn’t just shock—it was full-body, earth-tilting, holy-shit disbelief.

I was lying on my bed with my MacBook open, wrapping up some last-minute work when it happened. The notification tone chimed—the one I’d custom-set for Rohi’s contact.

My heart started pounding. Loudly. Like it had risen to my throat and was trying to crawl out.

I waited those five-to-seven excruciating seconds for the message preview to pop up on my synced laptop.

All it said was: YES.

And then—another ping.

My reaction was instantaneous and violent. I flinched so hard my laptop slid off my lap and landed on the floor with a dull thunk. I didn’t even care. I grabbed my phone with both hands like it might disintegrate if I didn’t hold it properly.

I messaged her back. Simple. Respectful. Then I just sat there. Frozen. Staring at the wall.

Thinking. Planning. Processing .

I’d spent the past few weeks learning how to do that. How to sit with emotion rather than drown in it. How to gauge my reactions instead of letting them drive the bus off a cliff. Therapy twice a week had helped. AA meetings, too.

I wasn’t optimistic about today. But I had to try.

I’d thought about calling Liam—maybe getting his read on things.

But that bridge? Still slightly on fire.

I could still hear the venom in his voice from a couple weeks back.

“You weren’t there , asshole!” He’d spat. “ I was the one who held her when she fucking shattered in my arms. I held her when you broke her. I was the one cleaning up your mess. So don’t just sit there, moping around, saying you need to meet her. You are the last thing she wants to see.”

He wasn’t wrong. I’d taken every word. Let it stab me in the gut because I knew I deserved worse.

Still, I couldn’t not try. I had to send her that one message—no matter how inadequate it felt.

It wasn’t enough, not even close.

There was so much more I wanted to say. To explain.

Which is why now, at 3:55 PM, I’m standing at her building’s front entrance, typing in her buzzer code.

I’ve been sitting in the park nearby for the past hour. Yes— that park. That same bench.

The bench that held one of the most painful moments I had ever witnessed.

God, I’m pathetic . Love-sick, pathetic moron .

By the time I reach her floor, I’m sweating through my shirt. My palms are clammy. My pulse is erratic. I’ve rehearsed what I want to say a hundred times, but every word now feels shaky, slippery.

Is this withdrawal jitters?

Or just... the weight of what I’ve done?

Probably both.

I raise my hand and knock.

Three soft raps. Like I’m asking the door to be gentle with me.

And then—she opens it.

And I forget how to breathe. My heart drops to my feet. The urge to join the pitiful organ on the floor is overwhelming.

She’s still her . Still Rohi. Still beautiful in the way that rewired my brain.

But her eyes... fuck .

They’ve held joy. Tenderness. Playfulness. Lust. And my favorite—that look she’d get seconds before she’d mock me into the next dimension.

What I’ve never witnessed is this look of... nothing .

Just a blank acknowledgment.

It guts me more than if she’d screamed. I want to reach for her. Hug her. Fall at her feet and beg for the ability to reverse time.

But I do nothing. I can’t. Not anymore.

She steps aside wordlessly, letting me in. I walk in gingerly, like the floor might collapse under me.

We sit. Opposite ends of the couch. The space between us might as well be a minefield. Her eyes narrow slightly when she notices the bracelet on my wrist. But it lasts only a second.

I inhale. “Rohi—”

She lifts a hand. Not to touch me. To stop me.

“You don’t speak unless I ask a question.”

Her voice is calm. Deceptively calm.

“You don’t share more than what you’ve been asked. You don’t use the word sorry or any derivative of apologize . You don’t call me Rohi, baby, sweetheart, or any other term of endearment. You want to address me? Practice saying Aarohi . Understood?”

My throat tightens. I nod.

So much for all the speeches I practiced.

And just like that, I realize—this isn’t a conversation.

It’s a reckoning. And I’m the one being weighed.

Every breath, every answer, every ounce of my existence—put on trial.

God help me.

“How long had you known that woman? Give it to me in minutes, hours, days, months... You know.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

She doesn’t have to specify. We both know who she’s talking about.

I rein in every instinct to soften the truth with diplomatic bullshit and force myself to answer plainly.

“Forty-five minutes to an hour.”

Her face remains unchanged. No twitch, no frown—just eerie stillness as she catalogues my demeanor like a file she’ll revisit later.

“Did you fuck her? Meaning—did your penis—”

“No, I—”

“Don’t fucking interrupt me,” she snaps, voice still dangerously even. “Did your dick enter her pussy or anything else?”

My throat closes up. “No,” I say, voice shaking.

“Did you kiss her on the mouth?” she asks robotically. There’s no intonation in her voice. It’s like she’s reading down a grocery list.

“Yes. But—”

I stop myself before I make another mistake. She told me not to explain. Just answer.

“Hmm. What parts of your body did she touch? And what all did you touch?”

I shift in my seat, nausea curling low in my gut. I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to hurt her again by reliving that moment, but I know I have to. I stare down at my hands and force the words out.

“Her mouth— fuck —her m-mouth touched my neck and chest. She... she also tried to get me hard with her hand. It didn’t work.” I swallow, bile rising. “Apart from the kiss—where my hand touched the back of her neck—I didn’t touch her.”

She exhales, a ragged breath that shreds what little is left of my self-worth. My eyes sting with unshed regret, but I keep staring at my hands. Because if I look at her right now, I’ll break.

She lets the silence hover before continuing. “What was the plan when you approached me the day of your first lecture?”

Fuck. I already know this will be the hardest part.

“To... to seduce you into falling for me and then—recreate the night I walked in on you and... Tim. To make you feel the hurt I felt. Because I stupidly convinced myself that you were unaffected.”

She laughs. Bitter and hollow.

“Well, you succeeded on all accounts.”

My head jerks up at that. Did she just—?

Is she saying she fell for me?

But the idea brings no relief. No elation. Just more shame. Because the look in her eyes isn’t love. It’s disgust .

“Oh, yeah,” she says, catching the flicker of disbelief on my face. “I did. I fell for you. But that version of you doesn’t exist. So... who did I even fall for, right?”

“Ro—Aarohi,” I fumble. “I know you won’t believe me, but it wasn’t all a lie. It started that way, yeah—but—”

“Oh, then it became real ?” she cuts in. “News flash. You still went ahead with your plan. It wasn’t real if it was that fucking fickle .”

My mouth parts in shock, but nothing comes out. No words. No denial. Not even air.

Everything is just... gone. Erased to dust. Just as I have been—for her.

“You’re deluding yourself if you think it was real,” she laughs, a sharp, unhinged sound. “When, huh? When did it become real? When you first kissed me? When you fucked me? When you brought someone else into your bed? Or...”

She pauses, lets out a humorless chuckle. “Or after?”

There’s no stopping the tears. Hers.

And mine.

She watches as one rolls down my cheek—eyes narrowing with something between disgust and amusement.

Like she’s witnessing a malfunction. Like she can’t believe someone like me is even capable of feeling this deeply.

“Save those tears, Mr. Vale. I’ve got a story for you.”

Her voice is calm. Too calm.

I nod slowly, but my body’s already bracing for impact. I don’t know why, but a part of me knows exactly what’s coming.

“Approximately sixteen months ago...” she begins, pacing to the far end of the living room.

And just like that—my stomach drops.

She’s telling me about that night.

“I was at a bar in downtown Toronto. A low-stakes night out with new friends. Harmless. That’s when I met him. He came up to me, flirted like a frat boy, but I was... lonely. Horny. In a new country. Trying to feel something. So I flirted back.”

Her voice stays even, but I hear the friction beneath. Like she’s holding herself together by force of will alone.

“He asked if I wanted to get out of there. I said yes. And he took me home.”

Her pacing slows. She looks anywhere but at me. “Your home.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“I didn’t know what to expect. Maybe a one-night distraction. Maybe regret. What I didn’t expect—was to feel like a fucking object.”

My entire chest constricts. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. I want to interrupt. I don’t—because I don’t get to interrupt.

“He didn’t even look at me. He didn’t talk. Didn’t check in. Just... used me. Like a toy. I remember staring at the ceiling, wondering if I should ask him to stop, wondering how the fuck I got there in the first place.”

Her hands tremble now, but she doesn’t stop.

“Then he threw me off the bed,” her voice shakes. “I carried the fucking bruises on my hips for a week!”

I can’t help but wince. I remember her being on the floor. But he threw her? What kind of monster just fucking throws somebody off the bed? Christ. She was hurt. She was in pain and I—

“I didn’t even feel human. And then— then —you walked in and obliterated me in a whole new way.”

I flinch. Physically. Like her words just backhanded me.

She turns to me now, and for the first time tonight, her voice cracks. “You looked at me like I was a disease. The homewrecking slut .”

Her lip curls as she repeats, almost shaking, “You... you looked at my naked chest and said, if you wanted to fuck a woman, you could’ve found one who actually looked like one. ”

Oh God .

That was me .

That was my voice. My words. My venom .

She starts pacing again, more agitated now. The calm has shattered.

“I’ve been called less of a woman my whole fucking life.

Too skinny. Too flat. ’Do you even eat?’.

’Oh look! The skeleton’s here.’ My cousin brother called me anorexic for years .

My own mother sends me links to Ayurvedic oils that’ll apparently help ’fix’ my boobs— to this day . As if I’m defective .”

Her steps are sharper now. More restless.

“My ex once joked— joked —that it’s a shame he couldn’t fuck my tits. You know, since they were barely there .”

My breath catches. My body unable to contain the rage simmering. I want to kill that bastard.

Her voice doesn’t waver, but mine would. She keeps going, each word like a blade.

“And I laughed. I laughed because what else do you do when someone reduces you to their disappointment? I laughed—and then I spiraled .”

She stops walking. Stares at the floor like it wronged her.

“I stopped eating properly for months. Not because I was trying to lose weight—I didn’t have any fucking weight to lose . But because I hated myself. I hated existing in a body that wasn’t right . I kept shrinking like I could disappear into nothing. I didn’t want to exist .”

Oh God! My vision blackens at the edges. I can’t have her not exist. Not because of this .

“And when I told people I was struggling, you know what I got?”

She lifts her chin, eyes hard now.

“‘But you look like a model.’ That’s what they said. They shoved cover models in my face like I should be grateful . Like I didn’t have the right to complain about being bullied or humiliated or body-shamed —because I had the ‘right kind’ of thin.”

She swallows hard.

“So I’m the ideal when I’m silent and pretty and not asking for anything. But I’m still not woman enough for the real world. Not sexy enough. Not curvy enough. Not soft enough in the places that count.”

She finally looks at me again—and I wish she wouldn’t.

Her next words are jagged. Sharp enough to shred.

“And then you. You, a fucking stranger —looked at me... and decided I wasn’t even a woman.”

A sob tears itself out of me—ugly and sharp.

I’m trembling now. My hands are useless in my lap, my nails digging into my palms like I deserve to bleed.

“Woman enough to be used twice , though. Tim used me for a hole . You used me for your revenge .”

She stops moving. Squares her shoulders. Stares at me like I’m the worst mistake she ever made.

“But that’s not even the worst part,” she says, her voice low but clear. “You don’t get off easy, Mr. Vale. You don’t get to apologize and call it a bad choice. A mistake .”

I sit straighter. Bracing. Nausea crawling up my throat.

“Because what you did? That wasn’t just betrayal. That wasn’t just manipulation. It wasn’t just inhumane .”

She breathes in through her nose, hard, and then delivers the final blow.

“You pursued me with malicious intent. You earned my trust. Touched me. Fucked me. Deceived me into a false sense of safety. All for the purpose of causing harm .”

Her voice doesn’t shake when she says it. Only mine does when I try to hold in the sound I make.

“You know what that’s called, Mr. Lucian Vale?”

She doesn’t wait. Doesn’t blink.

“Rape... by deception.”

Two seconds. And the words register.

No. No, no, no.

My stomach churns. And I bolt. Straight to her bathroom, where I fall to my knees and vomit. Everything. Food. Guilt. Self-respect. My entire fucking soul.

I barely make it to the toilet before I collapse beside it, retching violently, unable to breathe.

Because now I understand.

I really understand.

And there’s no redemption from this.

Not tonight.

Maybe not ever.