He waves a hand, as if I’m missing the point.
“You’re still operating from fear,” he says. “Like you’re waiting for something bad to happen. But you have to understand… you create your reality.”
My hands curl into fists in my lap. Nails digging into skin.
He smiles slightly, like he’s proud of himself. “Your energy is heavy,” he continues. “It affects the whole space.”
I blink hard. I can’t even respond.
What do you say to someone who invited you into his home and now acts like your trauma is an inconvenience to his vibe?
He takes another sip of coffee. Then leans forward. “And I need you to be more intentional about healing.”
There it is again.
Healing.
He loves that word. It makes him feel like a saint. Like a guru. Like he’s doing something noble instead of what he’s actually doing—policing my existence.
I nod, because I don’t have the strength to fight. “I am,” I say.
His eyes narrow. “Butareyou?”
My body folds in on itself. That old reflex—the one that makes me shrink, placate, say whatever keeps the peace.
Because peace is survival.
“I’m doing as much as I can,” I repeat.
He leans back, like that’s the answer he wanted. “Good,” he says. “Because I can’t carry you.”
My chest goes cold.
Carry me.
As if I asked him to.
As if I’m not already paying for this in humiliation.
CHAPTER 6
IVY
Istare at the carpet.
Adrian keeps talking. “And…” he adds, like he’s casually adding a footnote to my life. “The way you called the police the other day. Because your ex’s father got in touch with you. Why do you think you did that?”
“Because… that’s what you’re meant to do when someone violates a restraining order?” My voice comes out thin, wrong. “Report it to the authorities?”
He shakes his head, like I’m naive. “Ivy,” he says, “I really think you’re trying to stay attached to this guy. I think a part of you secretly likes the… drama.” He draws the last word out like it tastes good.
My stomach clenches. Bile rises up my throat. “No! That’s—” I swallow. “That’s what you’resupposedto do.”
He shakes his head again. “You had a choice to let all that go when you moved here,” he says. “Have a clean start. But you’re clinging to it. Like you get something from it, even if it’s not good for you.”
I feel myself shrink against the couch.
He shifts topics now, as if he’s done something benevolent. Masculine and feminine energy. Women unconsciously sabotaging their own freedom. How I’m addicted to chaos.