Page 80 of His To Erase

The video starts shaky—it looks like it’s a security cam angle, maybe it’s from a phone, but I know that jaw, that blood-smeared mouth. I know that body, tied to a chair and slumped like a puppet that’s lost its strings.

Steven.

My heart lurches.

There’s a voice from behind the camera. I can’t see who it is, but there’s enough movement in the shadows to know someone’s there.

The camera angle tilts, catching the profile of Steven’s bloodied face. He lifts his head slowly, like it takes effort just to move. One eye’s already swelling shut, and his lip is split. He coughs once, and blood drips from his mouth.

Then he smirks. “She was a distraction. A means to an end.” He spits blood to the floor. “Pretty easy one too. And when I’m done, I’ll return her the same way you gave her to me... broken.”

I stagger back, like the wind just got knocked out of me, and my body goes ice cold.

No.

“You think I haven’t played this game before?” he spits. He looks up—directly at the camera, eyes like steel. “I’ve been after him since she disappeared.”

Someone laughs, and the screen jolts.

And just before the video cuts out, Steven lifts his face one more time, eyes gleaming through the blood—sharp and defiant.

“Tell him I know who she is now.”

The words land like a detonation. Then someone steps into frame, and there’s a blur of motion—an object raised, then a sickening crack. The screen jolts and everything goes black.

I sit there frozen, staring at my phone like it might start up again, maybe if I watched it again—I’d see something different. Hear something new.

Distraction.

Return her the same way you gave her to me.

Easy.

The words crawl into my skin like rot, and I can’t scrub them out. I can’t un-hear the way he said it, like I never mattered.

My hands are shaking, and my ears are ringing. My whole body feels like it’s underwater, drowning in a betrayal I didn’t see coming. And the worst part is—he looked right at the camera like he knew I’d see it.

My chest folds in on itself, ribs twisting like someone reached inside and snapped them for fun. God, was I always just a pawn? Was I so desperate to feel chosen that I didn’t realize I was being passed around like leverage?

I can’t breathe, and I don’t even know who I’m mad at—Steven, Frank, or myself. Because somewhere in the middle of all this, I fell for him. And now I don’t know if any of it was real.

Suddenly, none of it matters.

I don’t give a fuck what that was, whatever it is, I see betrayal layered on top of betrayal—and I am so fucking done letting men decide what I’m worth.

They want to play games with fire?

Fine.

Let them fucking burn.

My hands won’t stop shaking, but I don’t slow down. I try the front doors again—locked. Every entrance is sealed up tight, but I know better. Frank has to be in there somewhere.

There’s a side door I remember seeing when I was here last that was used by the staff. I don’t even hesitate. I move like I’ve done this before—because in some ways, I have. Different hallway, different man, but same fucking fear.

It’s locked—but security in this place has always been for show.

Just enough to look intimidating, but not enough to stop someone who actually gives a damn.

I pull a hairpin from my hair without thinking.

Sarah taught me this trick once—half-drunk on a Tuesday, laughing too loud as she picked the lock on the jukebox just to skip to our song.

I remember her saying, “Everything opens if you want it bad enough.”

Turns out, she was right.

My chest seizes as I slide the pin into place, heart slamming with each shaky breath.

Then—Click.

The door gives, and I slip inside. It’s pitch dark, and it feels like it’s pressing against my skin.

The air is stale with old smoke and the ghost of bass that used to shake these walls.

I move slowly down the hallway, boots echoing too loud against the floor.

Every overturned stool and silent bottle gleams under the emergency lights like a grave marker.

The hallway narrows as I push deeper into the back of the club, past the liquor closet and the half-busted utility door. The silence is suffocating.

When I reach his office, the door is open.

I pause, every instinct in me is screaming that something’s off. But my feet move anyway, dragging me over the line like some part of me already knew I’d end up here.

The room is dark, lit only by a sliver of light cutting through the blinds. It lands in a pale stripe across the desk.

There’s papers scattered like someone was in a hurry.

Steven’s name is on the first one. His real name.

Full government file, sealed and stamped and tagged in a way that makes my stomach flip.

There’s photos clipped to the corner—grainy surveillance, maybe from weeks ago.

Maybe longer. But it’s him. In my apartment building, on the street outside the bar, in the library.

My stomach turns, but I keep flipping. Then I see another page, tucked halfway beneath the stack. I see my name in all caps. No middle initial, no address. Just a single word that feels like it’s been branded onto the page. Above it is a Property Transfer Request.

I freeze.

The words don’t compute at first. I stare like they’re written in some other language—like if I just tilt the page or squint, it’ll say something else.

It’s a legal form, with my name, my date of birth, and a signature that’s supposed to be mine—but isn’t.

And there’s more. Land deeds. Financial records. A fake ID tucked in the back with a photo of me I don’t even remember taking.

What the actual fuck is all of this?

I can’t breathe.

My knees nearly give out as I stare at the paper, rage crawling up my throat like smoke before the fire. My throat burns as I back away from the desk, chest cracking open around a scream I don’t let out.

I find myself behind the bar, hands moving before I can stop them.

I rip open the bottom cabinet like there’s an answer buried in the sticky wood and spilled liquor.

I don’t even realize what I’m reaching for until my fingers close around it tucked between backup mixers and a half-empty bottle of gin that smells like regret—there it is.

Everclear.

Flammable as hell.

I pull it out with shaking hands, and something clicks into place.

From the second Steven walked into my life—stalking me, seducing me, crawling inside my skin like he belonged there—he knew.

He had to.

Frank couldn’t pull off something like this alone. He needed someone like Steven. Someone who could get close to do lord knows what. That’s what this was, wasn’t it? He said he took care of things.

I was the package. The prize. The pretty little pawn passed between monsters. And maybe Steven wasn’t supposed to fall for me—but that doesn’t mean he didn’t play his part. He got inside. He cracked me open. And now he’s gone.

He knew what was coming.

That video wasn’t a warning, it was a message.

God, how did I not see it?

My vision blurs and I blink hard, my knuckles are white around the neck of the bottle. He said he’d come back. He said no more lies. But if he meant it—why didn’t he tell me the truth? Why didn’t he warn me?

Heat roars in my chest like the match is already lit, and for once, I don’t care, let it burn. If I’m going to be the girl they all pass around like property, then I’ll be the one who scorches the kingdom down first.

I grab a rag and shove it halfway into the neck of the first bottle, then snatch another from the shelf. This one’s top-shelf vodka, some ridiculous import wrapped in gold foil and ego. Frank always said he reserved it for clients who mattered.

Perfect.

That’s all I’ve ever been to him, right? A pawn wrapped in lip gloss and trauma he thought he could mold into what? A trophy girlfriend?

Yeah, fuck that.

I move with precision and purpose, like I’ve done this before. Every time I’ve had to start over. Every time a man tried to own me. And tonight, I’m not starting over. I’m ending something.

The club’s still dark, but I know every inch of it now. I know the curve of the bar where Frank liked to stand when he gave orders. I know the shadowed VIP booth he used like it was a pulpit.

I start at the entrance. The same one he walked me through like I was something to show off.

My hand doesn’t shake as I unscrew the cap and pour a steady line of Everclear straight down the glossy floor.

From the front door where he first lied to me…

to the booth where he kissed my wrist and told me I was safe. Then all over the edge of the stage.

Every step is deliberate.

Every drop is soaked in betrayal.

I move to the stage, climbing slowly as I pour another line of liquor along the edge. It drips down the wooden slats like blood. I coat the bar next. The counter. The floor. The velvet stools.

I don’t stop.

Not when the bottle runs low. Not when the fumes sting my nose. Not even when the edges of my vision blur with all my feelings coming to the surface. I coat every inch in gasoline-flavored vengeance, baptizing it all in something truer than forgiveness—rage.

He treated this place like it was his kingdom, but it was mirrors and smoke and power disguised as charm. I was just some stupid pawn he paraded through it—dressed in promises.

I pull the matchbook from my pocket—lifted earlier from the emergency stash behind the register. It rests between my fingers for a beat, shaking slightly, then it flares to life.

“You should’ve killed me when you had the chance,” I whisper into the dark, empty silence.

And then I drop it.

The fire catches fast—like it’s been holding its breath, just waiting for the go-ahead.

Flames snake along the trail I left, flickering toward the booths first. The velvet goes up in seconds, thick smoke poures off the fabric as heat swells around me.

It devours every shadow, every lie Frank ever sold under dim lights and who knows whatever shady ass shit he was doing here.

The walls catch next, and the overhead bulbs burst like warning shots—sharp cracks of glass rain down like shattered promises. Behind the bar, bottles explode in a chain reaction, flinging ribbons of fire into the air like some twisted finale.

"You made me a monster. Now even the devil’s afraid of me."

I turn, smoke curling around me—sliding over my shoulders like it’s part of me now.

My boots hit pavement with a finality that echoes in my chest. The scent of scorched velvet and burning liquor clings to my hoodie, my hair, my skin.

It follows me down the block like a shadow I finally earned. And I don’t look back.

I don’t feel guilty. I feel awake, and alive. Which makes me feel a little guilty, considering I just committed arson.

The wind has teeth tonight, but I don’t care. It bites at my cheeks, slices through the holes in my jeans—but nothing can touch the fire still crackling under my skin.

I don’t even know where I’m going. Away from the lie Frank built. Away from the version of myself that sat and smiled through it.

I tug my sleeves down, trying to ground myself with the feel of fabric against my skin. But my hands won’t stop shaking. I tell myself it’s adrenaline—that it’s just the come-down after everything. But it’s not. It’s him. It’s everything.

Every step I took in that building was a scream I never let out. Every flame was a truth I buried just to survive.

The streetlights flicker above me, humming softly like they know something I don’t. My brain’s spiraling—Steven. The club. The message. That fucking video. It cuts deeper the longer it echoes.

God. I should’ve just gone home and called the police like a normal person.

I should’ve called Sarah, and curled up in my bed and waited this out like a sane person. But no—I had to go full feral. I had to light a match and pretend it would fix something.

So I keep walking. Fast. My feet are taking me somewhere—whether it’s toward redemption or a fucking funeral. Honestly, I’m not sure I care which.

That’s when I feel it.

A prickle at the base of my neck. Not the kind of chill that brushes past you, but the kind that sinks under your skin and settles in your spine.

I glance over my shoulder, heart thudding in my throat, but nothing. Just a quiet street, a stray breeze, and my own suffocating paranoia trying to crawl up my throat.

I shake it off and pick up the pace. I’m only a few blocks from home. If I can just make it to my door—get inside, take a shower, clear my head—

I’ll be fine. I’ll be better. I’ll—

A car door slams and I freeze.

“Hey,” a voice purrs, smooth and smug. “Need a ride?”