Chapter 6: False Healing

After my rescue, I didn’t dare go out for a long time. The betrayal, the threats, being stripped and photographed—each left a scar. I jumped at every creak, blinds drawn, Mom whispering that it would all be okay, but I couldn’t believe her.

Through it all, it was Marcus—cold, sharp-tongued Marcus—who never left my side. I’d never seen him so gentle, so patient.

He brought stacks of books, downloaded playlists, sat quietly on the edge of my bed. Sometimes he just read aloud, his voice a steady anchor in the storm.

He handled every detail—calling in favors, making sure Tyler and the others were punished, keeping Derek and Caleb away. His apartment became my safe haven—windows cracked for air, fridge stocked with ginger ale, sticky note jokes left on my pillow. He watched over me, quietly but relentlessly.

Some nights, I woke up screaming. Marcus never said a word—he’d just hand me a glass of water and sit with me until the sun rose.

Slowly, I opened up to him. My walls came down, brick by brick.

Late one night, I asked, "Why... are you so good to me?"

He was in sweats, spinning a pen between long fingers, glasses off, hair flopping over his forehead. The apartment smelled of coffee and old library books. For a moment, he looked almost shy.

He looked up, eyes soft. Instead of answering, he just smiled and asked, "Want to date me?"

The question hung between us, impossibly gentle. My breath caught, heart racing. I nodded, and something inside me finally started to heal.

His hand brushed mine, tentative and warm. For the first time in ages, I felt safe—and wanted.

With his care, I started to get better. Days blurred in a haze of laughter, Netflix marathons, late-night walks. I almost forgot the pain that brought me there.

Marcus seemed indifferent, but he was fiercely protective—locking his door, walking me to class, glaring at anyone who looked twice. It was as if he’d drawn a circle around me, daring anyone to cross it.

I was so happy I thought I might really fall in love. I doodled wedding dresses in my journal, wondering if he’d cry when I walked down the aisle.

But he was pretending.

No matter how many smiles or soft words, something was off. I ignored the doubts, clinging to hope.

Everything he gave me—was all fake.

When the truth came, it was sharper than any pain before. I realized too late I’d been playing a role in someone else’s script.