Page 102 of Sadistic

Mikhail:

Movement. She's leaving.

I type back:

Going where?

He responds:

Unknown. Want me to follow?

Like he really needed to even ask me that.

Yes. Discreetly.

I wait, pacing, checking my phone obsessively.

Eventually, he replies:

She's at her apartment. Dalla's with her.

At least she's safe. At least she has her sister.

I text her:

I'm sorry.

No response.

Can we talk?

Nothing.

I know I fucked up. Please.

Read receipts show she's seen them.

She's choosing not to respond.

The cupcakes were a mistake. The note was worse. I'm an idiot.

Still nothing.

You're right. I should have asked you. We should have decided together.

The read receipts disappear.

She's turned them off.

I call her.

Straight to voicemail.

"Revna, I..." I stop, not sure what to say. "I'm sorry. Not the kind of sorry where I explain why I was right. The kind where I know I fucked up and I don't know how to fix it. Call me. Please."

I hang up, pour myself a whiskey, then think better of it.

I need a clear head.