Page 45 of His Drama Queen

When she became mine.

Except she's not mine. Not really. I took her. Stole her. Locked her up and called it protection.

And somewhere between that audition and now, I stopped being Dorian Ashworth and became the villain in her story.

Midnightfindsmeoutsideher door.

Don't remember walking here. Don't remember deciding to come. But my hand's raised to knock and I can't make myself complete the gesture.

The security feed showed her tossing. Turning. Fever dreams making her thrash in those sheets.

Should go back. Should let her sleep. Should stop this obsessive need to check on her, control her, own every fucking second of her existence.

Should.

A sound stops me. Quiet. Broken.

Crying.

Not angry sobs like this afternoon. This is worse. This is defeat. The sound of someone who's run out of fight.

My hand drops to the doorknob. I have the key. Could go in. Could—

No.

I slide down to sit against the door instead. Back to wood. Knees up. Like I can protect her from the outside when I'm the thing she needs protection from.

"I know you're there."

Her voice. Raw from crying. Speaking through six inches of door like it's an ocean.

I say nothing. Can't.

"You watch me all the time anyway. The cameras. Might as well stop pretending you're not a fucking creep."

The words should sting. They don't. They're just truth.

"How long have you known?" My voice comes out rougher than I intend.

"Found the bedroom one yesterday. Bathroom's got a weird shadow in the corner. Living room this morning." She laughs, bitter and wet. "Very thorough. Very you."

Silence stretches between us. Just a door and six inches of space and every wrong choice I've made.

"You going to come in?" she asks. "Add rape to the list? Complete your villain origin story?"

The word hits like a fist. "No."

"Why not? You've done everything else."

Good fucking question. Why is this the line? Why is fucking her without consent too far when I've already stolen her freedom, her choices, her entire fucking life?

"I don't know," I admit.

More silence.

Then:

"My mother left when I was ten."