He's trying to get you pregnant.
The thought arrives fully formed, ugly and undeniable. Last night we had sex. This morning he switched my birth control. The math isn't complicated.
One pill might not matter. But over time it would—
And that's not the point anyway. The point is that he came into my space while I was sleeping. Touched my things without permission. Tried to make a decision about my body, about what goes into it, about what might grow inside it… without asking me.
I hadn't taken today's pill yet, the routine interrupted by the wrongness my subconscious had been screaming about since I woke up. But I would have if I hadn't been suspicious. And tomorrow. And however many days this pack sat there with its smooth corners and its lies.
He tried to put something in my body without my consent.
The words form slowly, each one landing like a verdict.Something in my body. Without consent.
Adrian used to—
No.I slam the door on that thought before it opens all the way. This is different. Cole is different. Cole would never hurt me the way Adrian—
Adrian used to hold me down. Used to force himself into spaces I didn't offer, treating my body like property he'd purchased with a ring and a promise. I spent three years learning thatnomeant nothing, that my consent was irrelevant, that resistance only made things worse.
I left him. Rebuilt myself. Took back ownership of every inch of skin and blood and bone.
And now Cole Tanaka has tried to take that ownership away.
It's different. He didn't force you. He didn't hold you down. You caught it before—
It doesn't matter.
The fury rises hot and sudden, cutting through the shock. It doesn't matter that I caught it. It doesn't matter that I haven't swallowed any of his fake pills. It doesn't matter that one missed dose wouldn't have done anything anyway.
What matters is that he tried.
What matters is that he walked into my bathroom in the dark and touched my things and made a choice about my body without asking me.
What matters is that he thought he had the right.
Violation doesn't require completion. Intent is enough. You know this. You've sentenced men for less.
My hands are shaking. I press them flat against the counter and force myself to breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth, the way my therapist taught me years ago when the panic attacks were at their worst.
Think. Don't react. Think.
I need these pills. Not for contraception, but for the hormonal regulation that keeps my body from destroying itself the way it tried to after Chesca was born. If I stop taking them, I'm back to the hemorrhaging that almost killed me.
He doesn't know that. Or does he? He's been watching for seven years. He knows everything.
Does he know why I take them?
I don't know. I don't know what he knows or what he thinks he knows or what gaps exist in his seven years of surveillance. I only know that he switched my pills and I caught him and now I have to decide what to do about it.
Call the police. Call Sal. Flush the pills and scream until someone makes him pay.
Or.
The thought surfaces slowly, cold and clear.
Or let him think you don't know.
I open the medicine cabinet. Behind the expired Tylenol and the half-empty prenatal vitamins I never threw away, a sample pack sits where I shoved it six months ago.Just in case you travel,Dr. Martinez had said.