Chapter 123

CHAPTER 123

A LIVING ZOMBIE

ISABELLA

I lay curled on my bed, still in yesterday's clothes, still staring at the same crack in the ceiling.

Last night, I had walked out of the living room like a zombie. The headline was burned into my eyes. The newscaster's voice echoed in my ears. Camille had stood frozen by the couch, her face white, her hands shaking. Julien had reached for me, said something I didn't hear.

I hadn't responded. I had just walked. Up the stairs. Down the hallway. Into my room. I had closed the door and stood there in the dark, trying to understand how the world had flipped upside down in the space of a single news segment.

Alexander. A rapist.

The words didn't fit together. They couldn't. The man who held me in the dark, who whispered my name like it was something precious, who looked at me like I was the only woman in the world—that man couldn't be the same man who—

I pressed my palms against my eyes.

And still, even now, even after everything, I loved him. I hated myself for it. I hated that my heart hadn't gotten the memo. I hated that when I closed my eyes, I still saw his face.

I rolled over. The clock on my bedside table read 9:47 AM.

Camille hadn't come to check on me. Not once. I lay there, staring at the door, waiting for her knock. It never came.

Why would it? Her world had shattered worse than mine. Her father—the man she had idolized, defended, loved—had been accused of something unforgivable. The same week she learned he watched his best friend die.

I couldn't imagine the weight she was carrying. I didn't want to.

A knock finally came.

I didn't move. The door pushed open.

Julien walked in, carrying a tray. Steam rose from a cup of coffee. There was a plate of eggs, toast, a small bowl of fruit.

"I figured you wouldn't want to come down," he said quietly.

He set the tray on the bedside table. His eyes searched my face. I didn't have the energy to avoid them.

I hated myself. I looked at him—this man who had been trying so hard, who had made mistakes, who had drugged me and grabbed me and scared me. And still, he was here. Still bringing me breakfast. Still trying.

If I had just stuck with him. If I had never looked at Alexander. If I had stayed in my lane, been a good girlfriend, been a good friend—none of this would be happening.

I sat up. I took the tray. I ate.

The eggs were cold. The toast was soft. I didn't taste any of it. I chewed and swallowed because that was what you did. Because he was watching.

After a few bites, I set the tray aside.

Julien sat on the edge of the bed. "Are you okay?"

I nodded.

He leaned in and kissed me. His lips were soft, hesitant. I kissed him back. Because it was easier than explaining why I couldn't. Because I was tired of fighting.

He pulled back. "I love you, Isabella."

He stood. Took the tray. Walked to the door.

"I love you," he said again.

Then he left.

I sat there, staring at the closed door, and felt nothing.

I forced myself to shower. The water was hot, but it didn't wash away the numbness. I dressed in jeans and a sweater. I brushed my hair. I looked at my reflection in the mirror.

The bandage was still on my cheek. I peeled it off. The cut was healing, a thin red line.

I walked out of my room and down the hallway.

Camille's door was slightly open.

That was strange. Camille never left her door open. She was private about her space, her things, her grief.

"Camille?" I called softly.

No answer.

I pushed the door open.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn. Her bed was unmade, the sheets tangled. Her phone was on the floor, face down.

And there was blood.

A trail of it. Small drops. Dark red. Leading from the bed to the bathroom.

My stomach dropped.

"Camille?"

No response.

I followed the trail. My feet moved without permission, my heart pounding, my mind screaming.

The bathroom door was closed. I pushed it open.

The light was on.

Camille was slumped against the tub, her arm stretched out, a small blade on the tile beside her. Blood dripped from her wrist, pooling on the white floor.

Her eyes were closed. Her face was pale.

"Camille!" I dropped to my knees beside her. "Camille, wake up!"

She didn't move.

I grabbed her wrist, pressing my fingers against the wound. The blood was warm, sticky. I could feel her pulse. Weak. But there.

"Help!" I screamed. "Someone help!"