Chapter 5
Holly
I wanted tonight to be normal. Just a casual date—drinks, maybe dinner, something easy. I had to remind myself this was the right move. Logan was safe. Logan was not Damien.
As I stood in my bedroom, the faint scent of lavender from the candle flickered around me, but it couldn’t chase away the tension coiling in my stomach. The way Damien had waved at me during the scrimmage haunted me. That slow, deliberate gesture felt like a brand against my skin, igniting all those feelings I thought I had buried.
I pushed it aside and opened my closet door. A jumble of clothes greeted me—dresses and tops all crammed together like my thoughts. I rifled through them, searching for something that would convey casual yet cute without screaming desperation.
A soft blue top caught my eye. It hung delicately on its hanger, just loose enough to be comfortable but still flattering. I pulled it out and held it against myself in front of the mirror. It felt right.
But then doubt crept in. What if Logan didn’t think I looked good enough? What if he compared me to someone else?
I tossed the shirt back into the closet and grabbed a fitted black dress instead. It hugged my figure perfectly and made me feel confident—or at least it used to before everything with Damien unraveled.
The thought of calling Everly flitted through my mind, but she was off with Cooper, chasing dreams that weren’t mine while I stayed stuck here. Besides, Cooper was Damien's older brother; any conversation about tonight could wind its way back to him, and I couldn't let that happen.
Not that I didn't trust Everly, but still.
I sighed as I pulled on the black dress, adjusting it carefully before glancing in the mirror again. My hair fell in waves over my shoulders—a familiar sight that felt almost comforting.
Tonight would be fine, I told myself as I fastened a simple necklace around my neck. Logan wouldn’t be anything like Damien; he wouldn’t send me spiraling into memories of pain and confusion.
I took a deep breath and gave myself one last look in the mirror before stepping away from its reflection—a new resolve blossoming within me as I headed for the door.
This is what moving on looks like , I reminded myself. This is what empowering yourself feels like.
I hope if I said it enough times, I would actually believe myself.
I arrived at The Pour House ten minutes early, my heart drumming in my chest as I stepped inside. The place buzzed with life—laughter and chatter floated through the air, mixing with the rich scent of roasted malt and hops. The ambiance struck a balance between rustic charm and modern elegance, with exposed brick walls adorned by local art and vintage brewery paraphernalia.
Warm light glowed from hanging Edison bulbs, casting a golden hue over the polished wood tables. I scanned the room, spotting clusters of people at the bar, their glasses clinking together in a celebratory toast. In one corner, a couple laughed over shared plates of artisanal pretzels and gourmet cheese.
I felt a pang of envy. Those couples seemed so at ease, completely unburdened by shadows of past relationships. I shook my head, trying to clear the memories of Damien that still lingered in the corners of my mind.
The bar stretched out like an inviting centerpiece, gleaming under the lights. Rows of craft beers lined up on tap showcased an impressive selection—each label more intriguing than the last. I caught sight of a chalkboard near the entrance listing their seasonal brews. My stomach growled; even though I wasn't here for dinner just yet, I could already imagine myself sampling a flight of local dips.
I took a deep breath and headed toward a cozy table by the window, its view offering glimpses of the bustling street outside. As I settled into my seat, I couldn't help but notice how perfectly this spot aligned with what I wanted tonight: an escape from reality wrapped in warm wood and laughter.
As I glanced at my phone for what felt like the hundredth time, anticipation mingled with anxiety in my stomach. Was this really going to work? Did I want it too? I hated I kept thinking about Damien. I hated that he lived rent free in my thoughts.
I settled into my chair, scanning the bar again for any sign of Logan. Maybe he was caught in traffic. Or maybe he had to park further away.
“Can I get you anything to drink while you wait?” A cheerful waiter approached, his smile warm and genuine.
“Just a water, please,” I replied, forcing a smile in return.
He nodded and disappeared back toward the bar. I told myself Logan was just running late. I had been late before; it happened. Nothing to worry about.
Usually I texted out of courtesy, but maybe Logan wasn't the same way. Which was fine.
As I glanced around the room, laughter erupted from a nearby table. A group of friends raised their glasses, their joy echoing off the walls and reminding me of how alive everything felt here.
The waiter returned with my water, placing it gently on the table.
“Are you ready to order?” he asked, glancing at the menu still untouched in front of me.
“I’m waiting for someone,” I said, hoping it sounded casual rather than like I was already anxious.
“Got it! Just let me know when you're ready.” He offered another smile before walking away.
I stared into my glass, watching the condensation bead on the outside as if it held all the answers. Time slipped by slowly. Ten minutes passed without any sign of Logan.
Then ten turned into twenty.
My stomach tightened as my mind raced through possibilities—what if he forgot? What if something came up? My pulse quickened as the room’s lively atmosphere faded into a dull hum around me.
Twenty turned into thirty.
Why wouldn't he text me?
Was this some kind of joke?
I took a sip of water, but it felt heavy in my throat. Each tick of the clock echoed louder in my ears until they drowned out everything else—the laughter, clinking glasses, and even the low murmur of conversations buzzing around me.
Where was he?
I leaned back in my chair, glancing at the entrance one more time, searching for that familiar figure with an easy grin that seemed to put everything right. But there was nothing but faces blending together—none belonging to him.
I glanced at my phone again, irritation creeping into my chest. Logan wasn’t the type to flake. He had seemed genuinely excited about tonight.
I took a deep breath, pushing back the wave of disappointment threatening to wash over me. I needed to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was caught up in traffic or something came up last minute.
I hit the call button, my heart racing as it rang. One ring, two rings... I held my breath. The third ring echoed in my ears before it went to voicemail.
“Hey, Logan. It’s Holly,” I said when the beep finally came, forcing a casual tone despite the nerves prickling at my skin. “Just checking in... if you’re still coming?”
Silence answered me as I hung up, biting my lip to keep from overthinking it all.
After a moment of hesitation, I sent a quick text:
Hey! Just wondering where you are? Hope everything’s okay!
I stared at the screen, willing it to light up with his name—just something to ease this growing knot in my stomach. But nothing happened.
A wave of frustration surged through me, and I glanced around the bar again. The chatter felt louder now; laughter echoed like a cruel reminder that I was alone here waiting for someone who might never show up.
Logan had been so different from Damien—so steady and kind—but even with those thoughts running through my mind, anxiety twisted inside me like a coiled snake. I couldn’t shake off that lingering feeling of being watched.
I tried calling him again, hoping for an answer this time. It rang once more—twice—then clicked over to voicemail again.
“Seriously?” My voice dropped low as I glared at my phone in disbelief. I typed out another message:
Still waiting! Let me know if you’re okay.
As soon as I hit send, dread settled heavily on my shoulders like an unwanted weight. Why did it feel like there was a shadow hanging over this whole night?
I leaned back in my chair, forcing myself to breathe slowly. I had promised not to overthink it. Maybe Logan’s phone died. Maybe he got caught up at the rink, talking strategy or something important with the guys. It happened.
You need to chill.
But then I noticed something—a ripple of whispers weaving through the bar like a current. My heart began to race as I strained to catch snippets of conversation floating on the air.
“Did you hear about Logan Hartley?”
The name struck me like a punch to the gut. My stomach dropped, twisting into knots.
“Fight—no, worse than a fight.”
“Hospital.”
Each word seemed to slice through the ambient noise around me, sharpening my focus and heightening my fear. A chill spread through my fingers, turning my hands ice-cold as dread pooled in my gut.
I shot a glance around the room, desperate for context, searching for familiar faces who might know what was happening. A group of guys near the bar looked serious, their heads bowed together like conspirators hatching a plot.
Panic twisted tighter inside me as I scrolled back through my texts with Logan. Had he been in some kind of trouble? The whispers continued, swirling around me, growing louder and more frantic.
“He didn’t deserve that,” one girl said, her voice laced with shock. “He was just out for a run.”
A run? My thoughts spiraled out of control. Was Logan hurt? I bit down hard on my lip, feeling the sting of anxiety threaten to spill over into tears.
I couldn’t stay here any longer—not while everyone gossiped about his fate like it was some kind of sick game.
With shaking hands, I grabbed my phone and stood up abruptly from the table, scanning for any sign of movement at the entrance or anywhere that could lead me closer to answers. The waiter approached again with a curious look.
“Are you all right?”
"I… I have to leave. I'm sorry."
"Can I do anything to help?"
I waved him off but didn’t stop moving toward the door. My heart raced as fear clawed at my insides—the last thing I needed was another round of whispers about someone I cared about being in danger.
I hurried out of The Pour House, the cool night air hitting me like a splash of cold water. My heart raced, pounding in my ears as I navigated through the clusters of people lingering outside. A few couples laughed, their voices echoing into the night, but I felt completely disconnected from their joy.
As I approached my car, a worn-out Honda parked at the far end of the lot, doubt gnawed at me. Maybe I was being dramatic. Maybe Logan just wasn’t interested anymore. He had been so excited about tonight, but perhaps that had changed.
I fished my keys from my bag and clicked the unlock button, the soft beep slicing through my swirling thoughts. It would suck if he didn’t want to see me again—if this was just another disappointment layered on top of all the others.
But then I remembered those whispers: “Fight... hospital...”
What if something had happened to him during his run? What if he’d gotten hurt? I could almost picture it—a twisted ankle or worse. My stomach churned at the thought. It would be awful, and yes, I would check on him. But that didn’t mean it had to be anything more than concern for someone who might need help.
I slid into the driver’s seat and closed the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment as I collected myself. The inside felt like a small cocoon—familiar and safe—yet anxiety still crackled in the air.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, jolting me back to reality. I fished it out and glanced at the screen. No new messages from Logan; just a notification about an upcoming game.
Frustration bubbled within me as I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat. It shouldn’t feel this complicated—wasn’t it easier to let things be?
I turned on the ignition and felt the engine rumble to life beneath me. Maybe this time I should take a step back instead of jumping into things headfirst like always. Perhaps that was what all these chaotic emotions were telling me.
Still, as I backed out of my parking space and into the street, unease settled deep in my chest like an unwelcome guest refusing to leave.
I clenched the steering wheel, my knuckles white as I hit redial for the third time. The phone rang once, twice, then straight to voicemail again. Frustration surged within me. Why wouldn’t he answer?
Logan had been so dependable. The kind of guy who didn’t just disappear on a whim. I tried to shake off the dread pooling in my stomach, convincing myself he was probably just busy or wrapped up in something with his teammates.
Taking a deep breath, I dialed his number again, praying this time would be different. It rang through, but no one picked up.
Just as I was about to hang up, the call connected.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end sent a chill down my spine. It wasn’t Logan.
“Who is this?”
My mouth went dry as I struggled to find my voice. “It’s Holly. I—I was supposed to meet Logan for dinner.” A beat. "Who… who is this?"
"Logan's mother." She sounded panicked and exhausted, like she’d been running a marathon and had only just caught her breath.
"Oh." I swallowed. "Is… is Logan okay?"
Silence filled the air between us for a moment that felt like an eternity. My heart raced, thudding against my ribs like it wanted out of my chest.
And then came her words— “ Logan’s in the ER. His fingers—his hand?— ”
My breath hitched in my throat, every word slicing through me with razor-sharp clarity. “What happened?”
“I don’t know all the details,” she replied quickly, her voice trembling with worry. “He went for a run and... and something went wrong.”
Panic surged through me like ice water flooding my veins. Images of Logan crumpling under some unseen weight flashed through my mind—tripping over roots or slipping on wet pavement—and I swallowed hard against the rising tide of fear.
“Is he okay?” I managed to ask, though every part of me screamed that it was too much to hope for.
Another pause stretched out before her answer came, heavy with uncertainty. “They’re working on him now.”
Tears pricked at my eyes; I blinked them back furiously. This couldn’t be happening—not after everything we’d discussed about starting fresh, not after he had seemed so enthusiastic about tonight.
“Some guy attacked him. We don’t know who,” Logan’s mother said, her voice shaking with distress.
My heart dropped into my stomach, the room spinning around me as her words echoed in my mind. I felt light-headed, disoriented by the gravity of the situation.
I knew who.
Images of Damien surged through my thoughts, sharp and unrelenting. My fingers trembled against the steering wheel as I tried to focus on what Logan’s mother was saying next, but her words faded into a blur. She was distraught, struggling to hold it together, and all I could think about was the brutal hit I’d seen earlier at the rink.
Damien.
My stomach twisted painfully at the thought of his violent energy—his insatiable need to dominate. I fought back tears, desperate for clarity amidst this whirlwind of panic.
“Holly?” she asked again, her voice breaking through my haze. “Are you still there?”
I whispered an apology, barely managing to find my voice before hanging up abruptly. I wanted to rush to the hospital, to check on Logan and make sure he was okay, but a gnawing instinct warned me that doing so would be a terrible idea. What if Damien was still out there? What if he saw me? What would he do to Logan?
I pressed my palms against my thighs in an effort to steady myself, but they shook uncontrollably instead. Each breath felt heavy as fear tightened its grip around me. The weight of it all settled like a stone in my chest; every beat of my heart echoed with anxiety.
No more thinking about Damien—about how easily he could slip back into my life and turn everything upside down again.
I needed space.
With determination edging out panic, I turned the car toward campus and headed home—back to the luxury house where I lived with my father. It felt like a sanctuary even though it had never truly felt like home.
As I drove through familiar streets lit by streetlamps casting warm glows on dark pavement, each turn led me further away from chaos—but also deeper into dread. The looming shadows of uncertainty filled every crevice of my mind as thoughts spiraled around Logan’s safety and Damien's unpredictable nature.
I had to breathe through it all—just get home and regroup before facing whatever came next.
I finally pulled into the driveway, relief flooding my senses as I parked the car. The familiar surroundings wrapped around me like a warm blanket. Here, the world felt safe, cocooned from whatever chaos swirled outside these walls.
But just as I settled into that moment of peace, my phone buzzed against the console, shattering the stillness. My heart lurched as I grabbed it, hoping for a message from Logan—a sign that he was okay.
Instead, I found a text from an unknown number.
You’re going to regret that smile, little lamb.
Everything inside me turned cold. The breath caught in my throat as I stared at those words, pulse pounding in my ears like a drum.
Damien.
He knew. He planned this.
Panic rushed through me like ice water. I sank back against the seat, staring at the screen with disbelief and dread pooling in my stomach. My mind raced through all the moments that had led to this—his mocking wave at the rink, how easily he had shifted from playful to predatory in an instant.
I should be afraid.
But as fear clawed at my chest, I felt something else stir beneath it—a twisted sense of thrill mixed with dread. My heart pounded not just from fear but from a recognition of Damien's power over me. The intensity of his presence ignited a strange response deep within me that both terrified and intrigued me.
Why was I feeling this way?
I forced myself to take slow breaths, grounding myself in reality. This was not just some game; this was serious. He could do anything now—cross lines that shouldn’t be crossed because he was Damien Sinclaire, and he had always been unpredictable.
A rush of nausea churned in my gut as I imagined him lurking just outside my line of sight, waiting for his moment to strike.
And yet...
I couldn't shake the unease that settled like a weight on my chest—not entirely fear but something darker and more complex swirling beneath it all. It felt like stepping into shadows that danced on the edge of light—familiar yet foreign—and it unsettled me even more than Damien’s words ever could.
With trembling fingers, I typed out a reply but hesitated before hitting send. What did I want to say? Did it even matter?
Instead, I deleted the text and forced myself to go inside.
I didn't want to think about Damien or how he made me feel. It was too dangerous.