Page 40 of Piggy

Charlotte

Six months.

That’s how long it’s been since the phone call from hell — the one that shattered my heart and ripped Grayson out of my life.

He’s in prison. I can’t call. Can’t write. Can’t visit. Brax made it clear: if I reach out, there will be consequences behind bars. Apparently, my brother runs a full-blown trafficking ring from a dang cell, and I had no clue he was moving drugs through my own house.

I’m such a fool. Dumb Charlotte.

And God, do I miss Grayson calling me that. I miss his voice. His arms. His rage. I’d let him do whatever he wanted — slap, choke, use — if it meant being close to him again. That’s how deeply I miss him.

At least Atticus is home finally. He gives me purpose.

He likes Wilbur, too, who is not a potbelly pig.

He’s 280 pounds of sunbathing, bush-eating chaos who now lives outside and hogs the yard like he owns it.

But when I am not taking care of Atticus, I make time to put sunscreen on my portly friend. He loves me, too.

Just for a moment, life feels manageable.

Knock, knock!

My neck snaps to the front door, yanking me from my thoughts. Through the peephole...

I gasp.

Meghan.

Standing on my porch in barely there shorts and a black strappy top, showing off her ink-covered arms like a trophy. Her sleek bob looks freshly cut, her pale skin flawless, and her red lipstick is like blood smeared on porcelain.

She’s beautiful... unnervingly so. But her energy? Rotten.

I open the door a crack, my hand still clenching the knob. “Uh. Hello?”

She gives me a tight-lipped smile. “Hi, Charlotte.”

Even her tone crawls under my skin.

“I need to talk to you.”

She shifts like she’s going to step inside, but I brace the door, blocking her. She doesn’t flinch. Just narrows her eyes and corrects herself.

“Let me rephrase. We’re going to talk.”

And then —

Bam!

A man barrels out, having hid off to the side, and rams the door open. I’m thrown back. Slammed onto the carpet, my breath knocked out of me. My head throbs.

When I look up —

Him.

The man from the van! Riser.

He’s even bigger than I remember. Tatted, grinning, and cruel. The same twisted mouth that mocked me that night now stretches into a sick smile.

“Miss me?” he says, offering a hand like this is some sick reunion.

I crab-walk away, heart racing. “Stay away from me!”

Meghan laughs like a witch. “God, you’re still scared over a titty fuck. Unreal. How the hell did someone like you keep Grayson’s attention for more than a second?”

I stare at her, stunned.

She smirks. “That’s right. Riser was supposed to rough you up just enough to scare you. Make you see who Grayson really is. Another Riser. A criminal. Break you so you’d run.”

“You sent him to attack me?”

“To save you,” she says, but her tone seems insincere. “You’re too dumb to know a monster when you’re sleeping with one.”

I point at Riser, my hand shaking. “So the idea was... to traumatize me. So I’d see Grayson as dangerous. So I’d leave him. ”

“Exactly.”

No shame. No guilt. Just a crazy woman playing puppet master.

“Rowen’s a monster,” Meghan says, eyes gleaming. “But he’s my monster . ”

I sneer. I hate that she calls him Rowen. Like she owns a piece of him. She doesn’t. Not anymore.

“Grayson isn’t yours,” I snap. “He’s in prison because of you. Neither of us get to be with him.”

She cackles, full of venom. “He’s right where he belongs. Far away from you. Sure, I lied about the restraining order to get him arrested, but at least now he’s talking to me again.”

My stomach drops.

“What?” I whisper.

“Oh, yeah,” she says proudly. “We write each other all the time. I even visit. I use a friend’s ID and a wig.”

That hits harder than Riser towering over me. My chest tightens. I stand, suddenly aware of my legs shaking beneath me. I don’t even care about my former attacker. It’s like somebody punched me and I’m in a daze.

Grayson has been communicating with her?

She shoves a paper and pen into my hands.

“What’s this?” I ask, recoiling like it’s poison.

“A goodbye letter,” she says sweetly. “You’re going to tell him it’s over.”

I blink at her, confused.

She sighs, increasingly annoyed. “He’s not himself. Mopey, detached. Too friend-zone for my taste. But he still slips up and talks about you. He obviously still thinks about you. I want that fire back but for me only. I want my Rowen. So I need you to let him go.”

I grip the pen, jaw clenched. “He already did. He won’t talk to me. But apparently, he talks to you!”

Her smirk deepens. “For some fucking reason, he loves you. Unfortunately, you are not right for him.”

“He still loves me?” I squeak, butterflies awakening my deadened heart.

“Oh, Jesus.” She rolls her eyes. “He does. I know him better than you ever will, though. But he’s just confused.”

“You do not know him better,” I hiss.

She tilts her head, victorious. “Do you even know why he is the way he is?”

The question guts me.

Because I don’t. Not fully. “He’s a sadist... uh, because… He told me he hurts women because he wants to. Guess it’s his kink.”

Her smile sharpens. “Nope. Just proved my point. You don’t know that man. Now... write it. Tell him you found someone else. That you’re in love. Or better yet, tell him you never loved him!”

I whisper before I can stop myself, “But I do.”

She laughs. “God, you’re such a child.”

Riser steps closer, his shadow consuming me. “Write,” he orders, voice like gravel.

Tears sting my eyes. I can’t. I won’t !

Then—

“911, please state your address and emergency.”

Heads whip toward the hallway. Atticus stands there, defiant as Wilbur, his phone on speaker.

“42 Palm Road,” he says proudly. “Two intruders. One male, one female. Send help.”

Meghan hisses, “You retarded—”

But I spring to life. I crumble the letter and hurl it at her face.

I scream toward the phone: “Help me! They broke in! Meghan and Riser! They’re threatening me! Get here fast!”

The dispatcher replies, “Officers are on their way.”

“Better run,” Atticus warns, eyes blazing.

Meghan shoots daggers at me. “This isn’t over.”

They bolt.

Minutes later, blue and red lights bathe the living room in color. I tell the cops everything. So does Atticus.

They leave, heading to find Meghan next. But I slump on the couch, trembling, mascara streaking my cheeks.

“Why are you crying?” Atticus asks gently.

I choke back a sob. “I’m sorry. You did so good… I just miss Grayson and stupid Meghan always makes it hurt worse.”

Atticus frowns and mutters in disgust: “Wicked Lord Grayson.”

I smile, eyes watery. “He helped me get you back, remember?”

“Are you sure? ”

I nod. “All of it. The house, the second job. You. He wasn’t perfect, but we both owe him.” I sigh in despair. “Meghan said he still loves me, too. I believe her. I believe her truly loved me. In his own twisted way.”

Atticus pauses... then holds up his phone.

“Quick-Quotes Quill,” he says.

I blink. “What?”

“Rita Skeeter used one. This is mine.” He taps play.

Meghan’s voice floods the room. Every word. Her confession. The setup with Riser. Faking the restraining order violation.

I gasp. “Atticus! This is… this is everything!”

He smiles shyly. “Sister Charlotte deserves her love story.”

Tears flood again. I wrap him in a hug, squeezing hard. Then I leap to my feet, grab the keys, and fly out the door with Atticus’ phone in hand.

Grayson’s not staying behind bars. Not if I can help it.

Besides, I need to know the truth, like why he talks to Meghan instead of me.

And once and for all, the secret she won’t share: Why he needs to hurt me.