Page 37 of His To Erase

She sees it too and her expression softens a little. So I give her something, because if I don’t, I might actually scream. “Someone broke into my apartment. I think.”

Her eyes lock on mine. “When?”

“Last night.”

She waits for me to keep going.

“I got home, and everything looked normal, but then when I woke up, I could tell something was off. My…” I hesitate. “I’m pretty sure my underwear was gone and there was a card.”

“A card?”

“Well, it was blank.” My voice goes flat. “It was just… sitting there. I don’t know. I don’t remember it being there before, and I know it’s not mine.”

She freezes for a split second, but I catch the way her fingers pause mid-air, the slight narrowing of her eyes. Then it’s gone. “So you found a blank piece of paper and probably did laundry?”

“That’s not all,” I mutter, “I’m getting texts.”

I feel her body shift beside me. “What kind of texts?”

I slide a book into place. “The kind that makes your stomach crawl and your skin want to peel off.”

“Do you know who it is?”

I pause, my hand hovering over the next book. “I thought I did,” I admit. “Now I’m not so sure.”

Sloane doesn’t push. She’s smart enough not to.

I glance sideways at her. “Don’t say anything helpful or validating. I’m dangerously close to having a breakdown, and I’m still on the clock.”

“I was going to say you look like shit.”

That earns a small, humorless laugh from me. “Thanks?”

She’s quiet again. “You need to be careful.”

“Yeah. That’s kind of the theme lately.”

“I’m serious, Ani. Do you want to come stay at my house?”

“No.”

I didn’t mean it to come out that fast, but she just nods, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve, and says, “If you change your mind, I’m here.”

Then she walks away like she didn’t just pull a confession out of me with nothing but eye contact and a steady voice. I stare at the empty space she left behind, then slam the last book onto the shelf.

I’m not okay.

I know it. She knows it. And now the truth is sitting in the pit of my stomach like something rotten and I want to throw up.

I grab the cart, pushing it toward the end of the aisle, and detour straight to the break room like the shelves might collapse on top of me. The staff room is empty—thank God—and I sink into the hard plastic chair in the corner before my knees decide to give out.

I can still feel the words from the last text humming under my skin like a second heartbeat. Touch what’s mine. It sounds a lot like something Steven would say, and I keep wanting it to be him. Because the alternative—that it’s someone else entirely—terrifies me more than I want to admit.

Goddamn it.

One new message. Unknown number. UGH!

I open it and freeze. It’s a photo. It’s pretty blurry and grainy, but it’s a photo of me, sitting on a couch with a couple other people I don’t recognize. There’s a man next to me—but his face is turned, half out of frame with a hand resting on my thigh.

My stomach drops straight through the floor because I don’t remember this. I don’t remember any of this. That kind of looks like my stupid ex, but I still don’t remember this.

I zoom in, but it only makes it worse. My dress is wrinkled and my makeup’s smeared.

Something’s wrong with me.

The air punches out of my lungs and everything tilts. I think I’m going to throw up right here, in the middle of the break room.

Panic slams into me, fast and merciless, curling tight around my ribs like it's got claws.

What the fuck was that photo?

My fingers are shaking so bad I almost drop my phone, but I manage to hit the lock screen like that’s going to stop the image from burrowing deeper inside me—behind my eyes, and in my veins. I can’t unsee it.

Why the hell can’t I remember?

My body can’t decide what it’s doing—my skin’s cold, my blood’s on fire, and my heart is jackhammering like it’s trying to escape through my spine.

If I tell Sarah, she’ll tell me to go to the cops. She’ll tell me to file something official, and I can’t. Not when I don’t even know what I’d be filing. Not when I don’t want to get into any personal details about what happened and why I’d be worried about the messages I keep getting.

The second they run my name, who knows what they’ll find. Not to mention I don’t want anyone finding me.

I’m very much aware that’s how this works. You report a crime, and the system calls your monsters to come verify it.

So, no. I can’t tell Sarah. Not yet. Maybe I’m over reacting. If it was that bad, I would tell her.

I chew the inside of my cheek until I taste metal. I’m spiraling now, and the only name in my mind is the last one that should be there, but it is.

He’s the only other person who feels familiar, even though he might be a walking red flag wrapped in barbed wire and bad intentions, and I don’t know what that says about me.

My thumb hovers, but the silence is pressing in like a body bag, and I don’t want to be alone.

Me: Hey. You around?

I regret it the second it sends, but thirty seconds later, he replies.

Frank : Of course. Everything okay??

My throat tightens, because no. Nothing’s okay.

Me: Just… having a day. Can I call?

Frank : I’ll be free in ten. Hang in there, Doll.

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall, with my phone still clutched so tight in my hand my knuckles ache. Whoever’s texting me just lit a match and I’m standing in gasoline.

It takes everything in me not to check the photo again. Not to zoom in and dissect every shadow, and every angle.

Frank : Still in a meeting. Give me a few?

I exhale. Not relief, exactly, but something less awful. At least I know he’ll always respond, and that he’ll always show up…even when I don’t want him to.

Me: Yeah. It’s fine. I’m actually feeling better.

Frank : Bad day? Or did something happen?

I chew the inside of my cheek, while my fingers hover over the screen. I should tell him. Maybe he’ll say something useful. He seems like the kinda guy who might actually do something about it, if I needed him to.

Fuck, I don’t know.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, or who the hell is messing with me, or how deep this rabbit hole goes—only that it’s starting to feel like I’ve stepped into something I can’t charm or claw my way out of.

Frank : I’ll call you in five. Don’t go anywhere.

I blink back the sting in my eyes and set the phone down carefully on the table like it’s glass and wait.

Five minutes stretch into seven. That turns into twenty and I start to wonder if he forgot, or maybe I imagined the concern.

Then the screen lights up with an incoming call, I answer on the first ring.

“Hey,” I say, barely above a whisper.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

He says it like I’m the only thing he wants to hear today, but he always turns on the charm when he’s talking to me.

“I’m sorry I made you wait,” he adds. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, no, but yeah. I’m fine.”

“Right.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Can you tell me what happened?”

I sigh. Well, here goes nothing. “I just got sent a photo, but I don’t remember it being taken.”

His voice drops. “Oh, that’s it? Do you want me to look into it?”

I blink. “Do you know how to do something like that?”

“Ani.” There’s something sharper under his tone now. “I’d do a hell of a lot more than that if someone’s fucking with you. Just send me the photo.”

The silence stretches. And then he quietly says, “I’ve got you.”

Just when I wasn’t sure if I was about to fall or jump, my throat tightens, but I don’t say anything for a second.

“It’s not a big deal,” I murmur.

“I’ll look into it.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. My eyes are still locked on the far wall, hoping it will keep me from unraveling.

“I’ll be there at six,” he says, calmly. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

“Okay.”

There’s a beat of silence that’s just long enough for the air to tighten and my pulse to pick up again.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

The question cuts a little deeper than I expect it to.

I don’t know. Do I?

“I think…”

That’s all I can give him right now, and maybe it’s more than I should.

“That’s a start.”

The second I step out of the library, I see his car parked by the curb.

I cross the sidewalk slowly, one foot in front of the other with my bag slung over my shoulder. Every step drags, and I swear I can still feel the weight of that photo, burned into my brain like a brand.

He gets out before I even reach the passenger side, and waits by my door. All charm and polished—even I can admit he’s a good looking man. I’m just not sure if I feel anything else.

“Hey, Doll.”

He opens the door, and I slide in without a word. The leather seats are already warm and it smells like wealth and cologne.

“Rough day?”

I let out a short, brittle laugh. “Something like that.”

It’s always something like that, because if I say the truth out loud—what then?

Someone slipped into my apartment, and left a note.

Only the note was blank. Or maybe I could say the past is starting to feel less like a blur and more like a noose?

No, I can’t say any of that without sounding like I’m crazy.

He pulls away from the curb with one hand on the wheel, and the other on the armrest. Every part of him screams control.

“You wanna skip your shift at the bar?”

His tone is casual, but I can tell he doesn’t want me to go. “I can call and tell them you’re not coming.”

I shake my head. “Can’t afford it.”

“I’ll cover it.”

Of course he’d say that. Because that’s what men like him do, they throw money at the cracks and pretend it’s glue.

“I can’t afford that either,” I mutter.

His jaw tics—barely—but he doesn’t push.

“I just don’t like the idea of you being alone,” he says after a pause, like it costs him something to admit it. “Not after you told me that someone is practically stalking you.”

Well I didn’t exactly say I had a stalker. I don’t look at him, instead I just let my eyes blur out the window as the streetlights smear past. What am I supposed to say? Actually, I don’t remember enough to know what the fuck’s even going on.

And, oh yeah, the only thing I’m sure of is the ache in my stomach every time my phone buzzes and I don’t know if it’s going to be a meme from Sarah or a death threat.

“You don’t have to protect me,” I say instead. “And I highly doubt it’s a stalker.”

Even if every part of me feels like it is, and he’s probably right.

He snorts. “Sure I do. You’re mine.”

I am not going to even justify that with a response, so I just keep staring forward like he didn’t just say that. God, what is it with men and claiming things they don’t even understand?

The silence stretches between us, but he drops it, probably thinking my non answer is a confirmation. Great. Before I can correct him he interrupts.

“I have to leave for a bit.”

I blink, turning my head, but his profile is carved in shadows, all clean lines and impossible calm.

“Where?”

“Work trip. I’ll only be gone for a few weeks. I’m headed to the East coast.”

Three weeks without him watching me and asking me out every day. Maybe that would be nice, but what if something happens when he’s gone?

“I want you to come with me.”

The words hit me like a left hook. What the fuck? I turn to him slowly, blinking like I must’ve heard him wrong.

“What?”

He doesn’t flinch, if anything, he leans in, keeping his voice soft, like I’m a skittish horse.

“Just think about it,” he says quickly, already laying the pitch out like a travel brochure. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll be working most of the time, but the place has a spa, private suites—you’d be safe, and out of the city. No more looking over your shoulder. You can just relax.”

Safe.

God, men love using that word when they’re the ones holding the key. I blink again, because I’m trying really fucking hard not to laugh. Or scream. Or throw the car door open and walk into traffic.

“Frank, I can’t just leave for three weeks.”

“Why not?”

Why not? Like my entire life isn’t one missed shift away from collapse.

“Some of us have this thing called a job,” I mutter.

He waves a hand like I’m the one being dramatic. “I’ll pay whatever you’d lose. Call it a mental health break.”

Yeah, I think. Because nothing says healing like being trapped in a luxury suite with the one man I’m not sure I can trust.

I shake my head. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

This time his voice dips lower, and it’s not a question anymore, it’s a challenge.

I hesitate, because the truth is—I don’t have a real reason.

Not one I can say out loud anyway. Just a gut feeling that this isn’t right.

That going anywhere with him feels like handing over the last pieces of myself before I even know what they are.

It wouldn’t be fair to him if I jumped into this.

“I just… can’t.” I say finally. I should probably figure out how I feel before I tell him this isn’t going anywhere.

He exhales hard through his nose. “You shouldn’t be staying at your place,” he says instead, flicking the turn signal as we merge onto another street.

“It’s not safe. You know that.”

“I changed the locks.”

“Locks don’t stop people who already know how to get in.”

What’s that supposed to mean? For the first time in minutes, I wonder who he’s really trying to protect me from.

I glance at him, feeling a little unsettled. And yeah—a part of me can’t help but wonder if maybe he’s right, maybe being away would be safer.

But three weeks? With Frank?

There’s no way in hell he’d keep his hands to himself and I’m not about to spend half a month dodging his idea of comfort while trying not to spiral into another situation I can’t claw out of.

Yeah… no.

God, I think I’d rather take my chances with a stalker.

That thought alone slams the door shut. I’m not ready for that. And I’m definitely not ready for him like that.

“You want to pretend everything’s fine, that’s your choice. But when I get back from this trip, I want you out of that apartment.”

My head whips toward him.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll help you find something safer. Something in your budget. I know a guy.”

“Frank—”

“It’s not up for debate.”

The way he says it makes something deep in my gut twist hard. Umm…

“I’m not a problem you need to fix.”

“You’re not a problem,” he says as we pull up to the curb. “I take very good care of what’s mine.”

He leans over and kisses my cheek like he’s claiming the win. “I’ll text you when I land.”