Chapter 7

Chelsea Hardy POV:

My mind went blank. A white-hot shock. This wasn' t happening. This couldn' t be happening. Every nerve ending in my body screamed in protest. The dream. The nightmare. It was real.

His hands, once so gentle when guiding my sketchbook, were now rough, fumbling at my waist. His kiss was not a kiss of affection, but a desperate, clumsy plundering that tasted of stale alcohol and an unfamiliar hunger. It was a violation.

I pushed against his chest, a strangled sound caught in my throat. "Holden! Stop!"

But he was strong. Drunk, but strong. He pressed closer, his body heavy and insistent against mine. "Kamryn," he slurred, burying his face in my hair. "Kamryn, darling... don't be shy."

The name hit me like a splash of cold water. Kamryn. He thought I was Kamryn. The horror intensified, twisting my stomach into knots. He couldn' t even tell the difference. I was just a body, a stand-in for his fiancée.

He scooped me up, his arms surprisingly steady despite his inebriation. My feet dangled uselessly. He carried me, stumbling, out of my room and down the hall, in the direction of his bedroom. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at my throat.

He pushed open his bedroom door with a shoulder, then stumbled inside, letting me slide onto his bed. The mattress sagged under my weight. I scrambled backward, trying to put distance between us, but he was too quick. He loomed over me, his eyes unfocused, shining with a frightening intensity.

"Holden!" I practically screamed, my voice raw with terror and disgust. "It's me! Chelsea! Your sister!"

The words, sharp and desperate, seemed to pierce through the thick fog of his intoxication. He froze. His body, which had been pressing down on mine, went rigid. His eyes, still bleary, slowly focused on my face. The recognition, when it finally dawned, was a chilling, horrifying sight.

His jaw went slack. The flush drained from his face, leaving it pale and drawn. He pulled back, his hands dropping from my body as if I had burned him. A flicker of something-shame? horror? confusion?-crossed his face.

For a long moment, we just stared at each other, the silence deafening. The air crackled with unspoken terror, shame, and a profound, agonizing betrayal.

Then, with a sudden, jerky movement, he turned away, running a hand through his hair. "Chelsea..." he mumbled, his voice hoarse, barely audible. "I... I don't know what-"

He paused, then turned back, his eyes still clouded, but now with a feigned confusion. "What are you doing in my room, Chels? And why are you... upset?" He tried to sound innocent, bewildered. The gaslighting. The familiar pattern.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape. He was going to pretend it didn't happen. He was going to blame me.

"Holden," I whispered, my voice trembling, "you were-"

He cut me off, a sudden anger flashing in his eyes. "I was tired, Chelsea! And drunk! And you were... you were just there." He gestured vaguely, as if my presence alone was the cause of his actions. "What were you even doing in my room, anyway?"

My throat tightened. The injustice of it all. The unfairness.

He sighed, a long, exaggerated sound. "Look, I'm sorry if I scared you. I obviously thought you were Kamryn. It's late. You should go back to your room." He turned his back to me again, feigning exhaustion.

But then, just as I started to get up, he turned back, his eyes still heavy-lidded. He reached out, pulling me back onto the bed, his arm going around my waist. "Just... stay," he mumbled, his voice surprisingly soft now. "Just for a little while. I don't want to be alone."

My body stiffened, cold and rigid in his embrace. Don't want to be alone. Not I want you, Chelsea. Just I don't want to be alone.

I lay there, utterly terrified. His breath was warm on my neck, heavy with the scent of alcohol. I wanted to scream. To fight. To run. But I was paralyzed. What would happen if I woke him up fully? What if he turned angry again?

I closed my eyes, a silent plea escaping my lips. Please, let this nightmare end.

He shifted, pulling me closer. His hand, once so violating, now rested innocently on my hip. He was already falling asleep, his breathing deepening, evening out.

I was trapped.

The claustrophobia was suffocating. My heart beat a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I felt a wave of dizziness, my head spinning. The room, his scent, his presence-it was all too much.

I felt like I was drowning, unable to move, unable to breathe. My vision blurred. I closed my eyes, willing myself to disappear. The exhaustion, the terror, the sheer emotional weight of it all, was crushing me.

And then, mercifully, the darkness took over. I slipped into a restless, fitful sleep, curled against the man who had just shattered the last fragments of my trust.

When I woke, the morning light filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the room. Holden was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to me. He was fully dressed, impeccably so, as if last night had never happened. He ran a hand through his hair, his shoulders slumped.

He looked around, then his gaze landed on me. His eyes were shadowed, a complex mix of emotions swirling within them. Shame? Guilt? Anger? I couldn't tell.

He broke the silence first, his voice low and tight. "Chelsea. What were you doing in my bed?"

My breath hitched. My face flamed. The sheer audacity of his question. He was blaming me. Again.

"Holden, you know perfectly well what happened," I said, my voice trembling despite my efforts to control it.

He stood up, turning to face me fully. His expression was stern, disapproving. "All I know is I woke up, and you were in my bed. After I explicitly told you not to cause any trouble. What do you think Kamryn would say if she found out?" He jabbed a finger at me. "You need to be more careful, Chelsea. Your behavior is inappropriate. You need to respect boundaries."

My mouth opened, then closed. The words of protest, of explanation, died on my tongue. What was the point? He would never believe me. He would never take responsibility. He would twist it, blame me, make me the villain.

The realization was a cold, hard stone in my stomach. This was his pattern. His control. His manipulation. And I was done.

"I'm sorry," I said, the words tasting like ash. A bitter, humiliating surrender. "It won't happen again."

He nodded, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. "Good. Now get dressed. And stay out of trouble. Kamryn's arriving soon, and I don't want any drama before her parents get here."

I watched him turn and leave, the click of the door echoing in the silent room.

My heart was a barren wasteland. Eighteen years. Wasted. All of it. The love, the dreams, the hope. All for a man who saw me as a problem, a burden, a sister who conveniently could be mistaken for his fiancée in a drunken haze.

I got out of bed, my body aching, my mind numb. My flight was in a few hours. I would leave. And I would never look back. He would never see me again. Never touch me again. Never accuse me again.

I was gone. For good.

My hand, on the doorknob, froze. Kamryn. My mother. They were downstairs. What if they saw me coming out of his room? My heart hammered. The shame, the humiliation. It would be unbearable.

I cracked open the door, peering into the hallway. Empty. I slipped out, my footsteps light and silent, like a thief in my own home. I made it to my room, closing the door softly behind me. I leaned against it, my body trembling.

Just as I started to pack the last few items, a voice from the hallway startled me. "Chelsea? What are you doing in Holden's room?"

My blood ran cold. Kamala. She stood there, a perfectly manicured brow raised, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. She had seen me.