Chapter 024

***~Michelle~***

I hadn’t planned to be back until tomorrow evening, but I could no longer stay. The hotel didn’t feel safe.

So here I was, a day early, unlocking the door to my apartment and stepping into something that felt familiar but slightly... off.

The scent of lavender lingered faintly, but the furniture was wrong—or rather, its arrangement was wrong. The armchair, always angled toward the window to catch the sunlight, now faced the television. My books, usually stacked neatly on the side table, had been shifted slightly to the left.

Barbara had been here. I didn’t need to look for a note or call her to confirm it—I knew her habits as well as I knew my own.

She’d dropped by while I was away, and it wasn’t unusual for her to straighten up the place—or, as she put it, “fix what you always get wrong.”

Normally, I’d roll my eyes and laugh at her need to rearrange my life.

I dropped my suitcase by the door and sat on the couch, ignoring the stiffness of the cushions beneath me. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

For a moment, I froze, the memory of the last message flashing through my mind. The timing had been too perfect—the kind of coincidence that makes your skin crawl because it doesn’t feel like a coincidence at all.

Who’s he?

That’s all it said, but I didn’t need context to know who it was from. My stalker.

The thought of my stalker knowing about Jaxon sent a chill down my spine. This wasn’t just an invasion of my privacy anymore—it was a potential threat to someone else.

My stomach churned at the thought of Jaxon being dragged into this mess simply because he’d been kind to me. I’d always believed I could handle the texts and the unsettling sense of being watched as long as it only affected me. But now? Now, the stakes had changed.

I spent the day on the couch, binge-watching a crime drama. Probably not the best choice, but it kept my mind occupied enough to dull the edges of my fear.

Every so often, I’d glance at my phone, half-expecting another message to appear. None came. Still, I knew he was watching me.

Realizing I’d spent almost the entire day on the couch, I got up, carried my suitcase to the bedroom, and changed into fresh clothes.

I needed to get out, to move, to remind myself that the world outside wasn’t as suffocating as the four walls around me. Throwing on a hoodie and sneakers, I stepped into the cool evening air.

The streets were still busy, and I joined the flow of people, walking aimlessly without a destination in mind.

I just needed to keep moving, to clear my head. I should go to the police—or better yet, tell Jaxon what was at stake. He needed to know, to be careful.

I must not have been paying attention because I didn’t notice the screams or frantic gestures of the passersby.

By the time I realized I was in the middle of the road, the car was almost upon me.

There was a screech of brakes, the blare of a horn, and a rush of air as I stumbled backward. My knees buckled, and I hit the pavement hard. The world tilted, voices rising in a chaotic blur around me.

“Are you okay?” someone—likely the driver—asked, their voice sharp with anger.

I nodded numbly, unable to speak. My hands trembled as I pushed myself upright, the weight of what had almost happened crashing down on me. I could’ve died. Just like that, in the blink of an eye, it could’ve all ended.

The crowd buzzed with questions and advice, but I barely registered any of it. My gaze locked on the man pushing through the throng, his gray eyes meeting mine. Jaxon.

“Michelle,” he said, his voice steady yet urgent as he crouched beside me. “Can you stand?”

I nodded again, the sound of my name cutting through my daze in a way I hadn’t expected. He didn’t wait for an answer, slipping an arm around my shoulders and helping me to my feet.

The crowd murmured, their curiosity piqued, but Jaxon ignored them. He guided me away, his grip firm but gentle, until we reached his car parked a few feet away.

“Get in,” he said, and I obeyed without hesitation.

The leather seat was cool against my skin. Jaxon didn’t ask any questions, didn’t press for an explanation, nor did he offer one of his own. He just drove, his hands steady on the wheel, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. For the first time all day, I felt kind of safe.

I wanted to thank him, to explain, to say something that would make sense of the storm inside me. But the words wouldn’t come. So I sat in silence, letting the hum of the car fill the spaces between us.

God, I’d almost ended my life.