Page 66 of Pretty Little Trigger

CHAPTER 65

Alana

PRESENT

My alarm goes off at 6:30.

I don’t snooze it. I don’t groan or hide under the covers.

I just get up.

Hunter is gone.

And I realise now that he never existed.

Every word. Every gesture.

Every touch. All of it was a fabrication.

I was tricked. Manipulated.

I fell in love with a lie.

But I’ve made peace with something I used to fear: control is an illusion.

No routine is foolproof.

No plan is perfect. The only thing I truly own is my response.

And that knowledge? It’s not just survival.

It’s power.

So, I slip back into routine.

Different now. Sharper.

Quieter. Pilates in the mornings instead of training with him.

Then straight to work.

The control, even if it’s fake, makes me feel better.

Brush my teeth. Cold shower.

Hair in a sleek bun.

Moisturiser. Primer.

Concealer. One layer at a time.

Like habit. Like survival.

Like armour.

I move through the motions like I’m pressing play on muscle memory.

Then I step into the kitchen.

I open the fridge. Reach for the almond milk.

My hand pauses. The protein powder sits on the counter, scoop half-buried in chalky vanilla.

A reminder of a version of me that felt stronger.

Safer. I hover. Then I close the fridge.

No smoothie today. I tell myself I’m not hungry.

That I’ll eat later.

That I’m just short on time.

It’s a lie. But it feels like control.

Grief made a home in my throat and called it hunger.

The apartment feels too quiet now.

The city too small. Everywhere I look, he’s here.

In the furniture. In the silence.

The dinner with Ryan was just over a week ago.

Just over a week since everything changed.

Since everything broke.

I never followed up with Ryan.

Never replied to his emails.

Never texted him back.

I should.

At the time, I needed time to think.

But maybe time isn’t what I need.

Maybe what I need is space.

Distance.

A few weeks in New York.

That’s all he offered.

No commitment. Just a store visit first. Just space to breathe.

Maybe it’s time to go.

Not forever. Just… enough distance to breathe.