My heart flutters. “And that made you… obsessed?”
“It made me connected,” he corrects, his voice firm. “To you. To something in you that matches the parts of me I thought no one else could ever comprehend.” Ghost lifts his hand to trail his fingers down my neck, leaving a line of heat in their wake. “This is why you can’t lie to me. I need to know you understand me. That you feel something for me.”
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, the memory of that night colliding with the weight of his confession. “I don’t know anything anymore,” I say, my voice cracking. “Don’t do this to me.”
“Do what? Force you to see the truth?” he asks.
My breathing turns shallow as I try to fight the compulsion to surrender. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” I whisper. “You don’t know how to feel—”
“Don’t fucking tell me what I can or can’t feel. I’ve spent my whole life thinking I was incapable of connection, of… this.” He gestures between us. “But then I saw you, Geneva. I saw you, and it was like something inside me came alive. Something I didn’t even know was there.”
“Don’t make me responsible for whatever this is.”
“You’re not responsible for it,” he says, his voice softening. “But you are a part of it. A part of me. And you feel it too. All I want is for you to admit it.”
I shake my head, my tears blurring the sight of him. “You don’t understand what you’re asking of me.”
“Yes, I do,” he says. “I’m asking you to stop running. To stop lying. To stop pretending that you don’t feel this connection just as much as I do.”
I shake my head again, the movement frantic, as if sheer denial can unravel the truth between us. “I don’t feel anything for you,” I say, my voice trembling, betraying me. “Whatever you think this is, it’s not real. It’s manipulation.”
His jaw tightens, and I catch the hurt flashing in his eyes before it morphs into something harder, and more dangerous. He drags his hands through his hair, a bitter laugh escaping his lips.
“Manipulation?” he repeats, his voice rising with incredulity. “You think that I allowed myself to be incarcerated, and researched your parents’ murderers, just to mess with your head?” His hands drop to his sides, fists clenching as he glares at me, the strength of his fury bearing down on me. “If that’s what you really believe, then you’re fucking delusional, Geneva.”
My chest heaves, my breaths uneven, but I refuse to back down. “You’re delusional if you think I’m going to stand here and admit to something that isn’t true,” I say, my voice shaking. “You don’t love me, Ghost. You can’t. And I—”
“Don’t,” he growls, cutting me off, stepping forward with such forceful energy that my knees weaken. “Don’t you fucking dare finish that sentence.”
The charged tension in the air between us feels like it could explode at any moment. I take a step back, my heart pounding, but he follows, closing the distance until I’m pressed against the wall, his towering frame caging me in.
“You can keep lying to yourself,” he says, his voice smooth, each word like a knife slicing through my defenses. “You can keep denying what’s right in front of you. But don’t you fucking stand there and tell me I don’t know how I feel about you.”
My lips part, but no sound comes out. I’m trembling now, tears streaming down my face as his words hammer into me, relentless and unyielding.
“You’re scared,” he says, his voice softening just enough to make the anger in his eyes even more unnerving. “You’re scared because you know I’m right. Because you feel it too, and it’s killing you to admit it.”
“I don’t,” I whisper brokenly. But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. A weak, hollow lie.
He slams his hand against the wall beside my head, the sound echoing in the silence. I jump, but I can’t look away from him.
“You don’t?” he asks, his voice trembling with fury and something raw, agonizing.
The tears stream down my face even faster now, and I wish he wasn’t here to see them. That he wasn’t here to witness me falling apart. Because of him.
“I fucking hate this,” he mutters, stepping back, dragging a hand over his face as if trying to compose himself. “I hate what you do to me. How you make me feel like I’m losing control, like I’ll fucking die without you.”
I watch, frozen and shaking uncontrollably, as he turns and walks away, leaving me pressed against the wall, shattered and alone.
“Dominic Carter,” he says over his shoulder, his gait never faltering. “That’s the third and final man responsible for your parents’ murders. Now, there’s no reason to fuck with you anymore.”
The silence after Ghost leaves is crushing. I remain pressed against the wall, my body trembling, tears still streaming down my face. My mind races to process everything that he just said, but the storm he left in his wake refuses to settle.
Dominic Carter.
It takes me a moment to fully grasp the weight of what Ghost has done. He gave me the name, the final clue to solving my parents’ murders. It’s the final thread tying me to him. And by giving me the name, Ghost has severed it.
“Now, there’s no reason to fuck with you anymore.”
My stomach churns as the implications sink in. This was more than a declaration, it was termination. Ghost handed me the only leverage he had left because he’s done with me. For the first time since I met him, he’s the one who walked away.
I slide down the wall, my legs giving out beneath me, my body curling in on itself as a fresh wave of grief slams into me. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? For him to let me go? To take his chaos and obsession and leave me with my carefully constructed life intact?
So why does it feel like I’ve been gutted?
I press my palms to my face, trying to steady my breathing. His pain was undeniable, his fury almost tangible, but it was more than that. It wasn’t just anger. It was anguish.
Due to my rejection of him.
The realization steals the breath from my lungs. I’ve spent so long fighting him, denying him, refusing to give in to whatever this is between us. But then he called my bluff. And now he’s gone.
Not because he doesn’t care, but because I refused to admit that I do.
I wrap my arms around my knees, trying to hold together the pieces of me he’s broken apart. My mind replays his words, his confessions, and the way he’s looked at me like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. But now, he’s untethered himself from me.
And from what’s left of his humanity.
My thoughts spin faster, spiraling down into places I don’t want to go. As a psychologist, I know what this means. For someone like Ghost, who thrives on control, who’s built his identity on power and manipulation, this kind of rejection isn’t something he can simply let go of. It’s not something he can recover from.
If Ghost descends further into whatever dark place he’s already inhabiting, the consequences won’t just be personal. He’ll explode, taking everything and everyone in his path down with him. Because when people like Ghost lose control, it’s never quiet and it’s never contained.
It’s catastrophic.