Page 15 of Unmasking Mayhem (Behind the Mask Duet #2)

I run a hand through my hair, the weight of my actions crashing down on me like a ton of bricks.

Thoughts whirl chaotically; all I can think about is how this was wrong and how Whitney trusted me in a way I never deserved.

I feel the hollowness in my chest expand, a pit that grows deeper with every fleeting second that passes.

I know I can’t just let her walk away like that—thinking that this is how relationships work, that hurt is a part of love.

I push myself off the wall, resolve hardening within me.

I have to fix this shit. I can’t let her live with the thought that this is what she deserves. No one fucking deserves that.

I move toward her door, my hand trembling as I raise it to knock.

But before my knuckles meet the surface, I halt.

The realization dawns on me—it’s too late.

I’ve broken something irreversibly. My heart races as I think of the look in her eyes, the pull of her vulnerability, and the realization that no amount of apologies can erase the fucking moment I just orchestrated.

What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if she’s already blocked me out of her life? The thought strikes like a fucking dagger. I stagger back, my back hitting the wall as I slide down, feeling utterly defeated.

Tension coils within me, making me feel like a caged animal.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, fighting against the familiar waves of self-loathing that wash over me.

I won't give in to the darkness. I refuse to let this cycle continue.

I have to confront my demons, face the fallout of my actions, and atone for the hurt I've caused.

With the weight of my resolve pressing me forward, I finally stand again, the pounding of my heart giving me a rhythm to move to. I pull out my phone, heart pounding as I send a text, knowing it’s a long shot but desperate for any chance to clear the air, to offer a glimmer of hope.

Whitney, I fucked up. I need to talk. Please.

I hit send, my finger lingering over the screen as if it can reverse everything that just happened.

Then comes the crushing silence. A silence that weighs heavier than the regrets stacked within my chest. I lean back against the wall, my breath shaky, and wait, praying she'll understand what I was too blinded to see until now.

Minutes stretch into an agonizing eternity, each second echoing in the empty space around me.

I can almost hear the clock ticking down to my inevitable doom, the countdown to repercussion, to the moment Whitney decides whether I deserve even a sliver of her forgiveness.

Just as I’m about to convince myself to leave, to run from the devastation I caused, my phone buzzes against the cold floor like a stray gunshot.

I snatch it up, hope igniting with a reluctant spark as I read her response.

Why? What could there possibly be left to say?

Her words are fucking blunt and raw, and they slice through me.

The silence of the hallway wraps around me again, suffocating, as I grapple with how to respond.

Every moment I hesitate feels like a fucking choice to walk back toward the darkness, but I can’t allow it.

Not when she deserves honesty, clarity—the truth behind my fucking madness.

I type quickly, trying to encapsulate everything I feel.

Please, just let me explain. I don’t want you to think this is how it should be.

I send the message, my heart thundering like a war drum as I wait for the inevitable response.

All I can do is replay the moments that brought me here, the myriad of wrong turns and poor choices.

The earlier thrill has evaporated, leaving only the cold aftermath of my actions.

Her second message comes almost immediately, a swift jab that digs deeper than the first.

What’s to explain? You did it because you wanted to.

The accusation hangs in the air like a heavy mist, and I can feel the heat of shame rising to my cheeks. No matter how I try to justify it, the darkness in me has always craved that rush of power, but it’s not where I thought I’d find solace.

Whitney, I didn’t—I don’t want to hurt you. I’m not like him. I just lost myself.

I type back, my fingers trembling as they hover over the screen. A moment passes, and I’m left staring at those words, wishing they could carry the weight of my sincerity. Just then, my phone buzzes again.

I thought you were different.

She responds, and I can almost hear the disappointment laced between the words.

You promised me you wouldn't be like him.

Her words tear at me until my stomach churns, reliving those moments in her apartment, every breath, every shudder more haunting than the last.

I know... I know, and I hate myself for what I fucking did. But I swear to fucking God I didn’t mean for it to go that far. I wanted you to feel good, not like this.

Good intentions don’t matter when you leave a person feeling broken.

She fires back, and I can picture the pain etched on her face, the confusion battling against her hurt.

You’re right.

My fingers hesitate again before I send the message.

You’re absolutely right. I had no right to push you like that. I don’t know what came over me. I promise I won’t do it again; I’ll work to be better.

Her response is slow to arrive, leaving me suspended in the agony of anticipation and guilt. The seconds trickle by like molasses, thick and slow. But finally, I see the three dots indicating she’s typing, and I hold my breath.

I can't just pretend this didn't happen, Crow. It’s always going to be there.

I feel my chest tighten, each word resonating in my heart as I struggle to find the right reply—anything that could convey the weight of my remorse and the depth of my understanding.

Please, let me show you that I can be better. I’ll take whatever time you need, but I can’t lose you. Not like this. I don't want to become a reminder of pain.

I send the message, knowing I’m laying everything bare. There's a risk that this may lead to further damage, but I know the alternative—a silence filled with resentment and doubt—is just as deadly.

The wait stretches again, and I breathe through the ache in my chest. The coolness of the night air offers no comfort, only a bitter chill that matches the turmoil inside me.

I force myself to remember the warmth of her laughter, the way her eyes light up at the smallest moments—those glimpses of joy I now feel responsible for tarnishing.

When her text finally arrives, my heart leaps into my throat.

Okay. We can talk. But just know—I won’t forgive easily.

Thank you

Change begins with acceptance—an acknowledgment of my flaws and the commitment to overcome them. For her, and for myself, I'll fight against the things that haunt me.