Their Favorite Toy

I woke up to the buzz of my phone, that sickly vibration on the bedside table that immediately told me I should've left it on silent. I reached for it anyway, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and letting reality sink its teeth into me, just like it always did.

Evelyn Grey, romance writer and public disgrace.

The screen was flooded with messages, emails, notifications. Half of them were media requests, the other half an ocean of vitriol from Liam's fans. The first message that caught my eye: You'll never be good enough for him, so why don't you disappear like you always do?

I'd spent my career writing about people who clawed their way to the top and fell in love along the way, but now I was the one falling-just not in the way I'd written. I was being gutted, slowly, like a spectacle for everyone to watch.

Two weeks ago, it was all private. Two weeks ago, I was just Evelyn Grey, who happened to be dating the untouchable Liam Wilde. Now I was the predator, the fan-girl-turned-stalker, and Liam, the poor pop star who'd been "duped." And he hadn't even come to my defense. Not once.

The messages kept coming in, each one like a tiny dagger: Clout-chaser. Stay in your lane. Liam deserves better than some washed-up writer.

Washed up. That one stung, probably because it was the most accurate.

My publicist's number blinked on the screen, and before I could talk myself out of it, I picked up. She didn't wait for me to say hello.

"Evelyn, have you seen the latest?"

Of course I had. But I wasn't about to admit that. "What is it now, Holly?"

"Liam released a statement this morning. He's, uh... well, he's denying everything. Said he 'barely knew you' and that whatever happened between you two was 'a regrettable misunderstanding.'"

A pulse of something hot and bitter surged in my chest, burning its way up my throat. "Of course he did."

She hesitated, her silence suddenly heavy. "Look, Evelyn, it's not great. His fans are already tearing you apart on social media. They're calling you... well, a lot of things."

I knew what they were calling me. I could read.

"So what now?" I asked, keeping my voice steady. "Do I vanish and let him get away with it?"

Holly sighed. "Honestly? That might be the smartest move right now. Lay low. Wait for this to blow over. You don't want to fuel the fire."

I forced a laugh, sharp as glass. "And I suppose 'lay low' also means watching my sales tank and pretending like I don't care about the fallout? That I'm not furious?"

"People will forget eventually. Scandals don't last forever."

Tell that to the last fifteen years of my life, spent carefully constructing a reputation that was now crumbling faster than a house of cards.

After I hung up with Holly, I slumped back against the pillows, willing my mind to quiet down, to find some shred of calm in the middle of this mess. But the more I tried, the louder the noise got-the endless notifications, the comments piling up by the second.

I reached for my laptop and pulled up the headlines, each one more sensational than the last:

Liam Wilde's Secret Lover Revealed!

Author Evelyn Grey: Fan or Fraud?

Pop Star Betrayed by Longtime Admirer!

Each article painted me with the same brush-a desperate woman who'd wormed her way into a celebrity's life, and now, into the headlines. They didn't know the truth. They didn't care to know it. It was easier to picture me as the villain, the crazy woman who'd deluded herself into thinking she was anything more than a passing fling.

I closed the laptop and stared at the ceiling, breathing slowly. I knew I should feel something other than this empty fury. Regret, maybe. Shame. But those were luxuries reserved for people with the time to feel them. Right now, I just needed to survive.

And then, the message came.

It was different than the others, cutting through the barrage with a single notification that somehow felt colder than the rest. I clicked it open, my eyes tracing over each word, slow and deliberate.

Stay away from Liam. I know where you live.

There was no name, no face, just the raw, unfiltered malice of someone who wanted me gone. And for the first time since this started, I felt a prickle of fear-the kind that settled in your bones and made you wonder just how much of yourself you'd be willing to sacrifice to make it stop.

The day started with a familiar dread. Another headline, another barrage of comments, all slamming into my phone screen like I'd signed up for some relentless punishment. I could almost hear them laughing as they typed each word, gleefully picking apart everything they thought they knew about me.

My coffee was cold by the time I got halfway through reading. The words seemed to smudge together-a relentless stream of insults, all delivered by strangers who believed they had me figured out. They loved to hate me. They knew nothing about me, but that didn't stop them from assuming I was exactly the brand of delusional, lovesick fool they needed me to be.

"This woman's insane," one comment read, perfectly polished in its casual cruelty. "Liam could do so much better. Imagine throwing yourself at someone who doesn't even remember your name. Sad."

Sad. Sure. Let's call it that.

I hadn't even left my apartment in days, but it didn't matter. The world had found me, trapped in my little bubble of social shame. And no matter how many times I refreshed the screen or tried to distract myself, the buzz of my phone kept dragging me back, like an itch I couldn't quite scratch.

I decided to brave the outside world. Maybe a breath of fresh air would change something. Or maybe I just wanted to prove I could still be normal, still walk outside and pretend like everything was fine. I pulled on my coat, grabbed my sunglasses, and made my way out the door.

The city was a mess of noise, cars blaring, people rushing, and every so often, a flash of a phone screen as someone's thumb scrolled through the same headlines that haunted me. I kept my head down, but paranoia crawled up my spine. Every stare felt like it lasted a beat too long, every whisper seemed to follow me, echoing in my head. Maybe I was being dramatic, but then again, I hadn't exactly signed up to be public enemy number one.

I ducked into a coffee shop on the corner, hoping for a moment of peace. The barista barely glanced at me as I ordered, which was a relief. At least someone wasn't interested in dissecting my life today. I found a seat in the back, cradling my coffee like it was some sort of shield, hoping it would mask the tightness in my throat and the sting in my chest.

And then it happened.

Two girls walked in, both of them carrying that same energy-heads down, talking in low voices, phones out and eyes flashing as they exchanged some scandalous piece of gossip. I didn't even need to hear them to know they were talking about me. I just knew.

"She's here, isn't she?" one of them whispered, not so quietly.

The other one shot a glance in my direction, then laughed. "I wonder if she knows how pathetic she looks."

Their voices were too loud, too intentional. They wanted me to hear. They wanted me to feel it, that slow, churning discomfort in my gut. And for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to look away. It was like watching a car crash, only this time I was the one behind the wheel, driving straight into disaster.

"Maybe she thinks Liam will still take her back."

The words hit like a slap, sharp and stinging. I clenched my fists, forcing myself to stay quiet. I'd let them think they'd won, let them have their twisted satisfaction. But inside, something snapped.

I stood up, spilling my coffee across the table. The noise was loud enough to turn a few heads, but I didn't care. I was done with the looks, the whispers, the relentless pity wrapped in thin layers of scorn.

I stormed out of the shop, barely aware of where I was going, my footsteps pounding against the pavement like I could somehow outrun the anger bubbling inside me. I walked for what felt like hours, weaving through crowds, ignoring the passing cars, the flashing lights, the constant hum of the city.

By the time I stopped, I was out of breath, chest heaving, my entire body humming with exhaustion and rage. It was all too much-the judgment, the pity, the betrayal. My life was splashed across screens, dissected and devoured, all while Liam sat in his high-rise apartment, untouched, unbothered, like this entire mess had nothing to do with him.

That's when I decided I was done. Completely, irrevocably done. I didn't need the city, didn't need the fame, and definitely didn't need the endless parade of people who thought they knew me. If I wanted any chance at peace, I had to leave.

The decision came fast, so fast it almost scared me. But for the first time in weeks, I felt... calm. Like maybe there was a way out of this nightmare after all.

Back at my apartment, I threw a few things into a bag. Clothes, notebooks, my laptop-just enough to survive, nothing more. I was leaving behind more than just a city; I was shedding the version of myself that had let all of this happen, the Evelyn Grey who'd been too trusting, too willing to believe in a dream that never actually existed.

I'm working in times two speed now as I quickly grab my phone and check available flights. Somewhere, anywhere, any city. Far away, where no one would think... or find me.

Anywhere please just anywhere. I frantically type. Tears blurring the screen. Zurich, Switzerland. Fine. I click purchase.

Just as I was about to head out the door, my phone buzzed. It was Clara, my last friend from the "before" days, back when I was just a writer and not some tabloid sensation. Her name lit up the screen, a tiny reminder of the life I was about to leave behind.

I stared at the call, my thumb hovering over the decline button. Part of me wanted to answer, to hear her voice, to let her tell me that everything would be okay. But another part of me, the part that was still raw and bleeding, knew that there was nothing she could say to fix this.

I watched the call ring out, letting the silence settle over me like a blanket. Clara would understand. Eventually, she'd understand.

With one last look around the apartment, I closed the door behind me and made my way to the bus station. It was late, the streets quiet, only a few scattered people moving through the shadows.

•••

The bus was waiting, empty except for a driver who barely glanced at me as I climbed on board. I found a seat in the back, pressing my forehead against the cool window. Outside, the city stretched out before me, all flashing lights and looming skyscrapers. My chest felt tight, a strange mix of relief and regret settling in as the bus pulled away, leaving everything I knew behind.

I'd landed just a few hours ago. I didn't have much of a plan coming here but I picked a small quiet town near Zurich. Adliswil.

For a moment, I let myself imagine what life would be like in a new place, where no one knew my name, where I could be anyone or no one at all. It was a strange kind of freedom, bittersweet but comforting.

The bus rumbled along, the city lights fading into the distance.

The cottage stood alone at the end of a winding road, bordered by thick trees that made it nearly invisible from the main path. It was just shy of being rundown, a modest two-story with chipped paint and weathered shutters. Somehow, that made it more appealing. This place had a story, an age, a weight to it, as though it had withstood its own battles long before I arrived.

The inside was sparse but functional-an old sofa that looked like it had been there since the 70s, a creaky wooden table, a fireplace that seemed to promise warmth if I could get it going. It was everything the city wasn't. Quiet, a little broken, but sturdy.

A place I could learn to disappear in.

I called Eddie from the kitchen, sinking into one of the kitchen chairs and watching the rain dribble down the windowpane.

He picked up after two rings. "So, does it fit your high standards, Your Majesty?"

I rolled my eyes. "It's perfect, actually. I might even keep it."

"Until you get bored," he said dryly. "Or until the tabloids find you and turn Adliswil into another circus."

"They won't find me, Eddie," I said, almost believing it myself. "This place... it's off the map. And I'm off theirs."

There was a pause. I could almost hear Eddie's skepticism over the line, his habit of weighing every risk in his head. "And you're sure you're okay? You don't sound-"

"I'm fine," I said, a little too sharply. "I just need space. Quiet. You know... a chance to figure things out."

"Whatever you say," he replied, voice softening. "Look, Ev... I know things have been-"

I cut him off, unwilling to let him finish that sentence. "I'll be fine. Just make sure no one else knows where I am, okay?"

He sighed, but didn't argue. "You got it. Just... take care of yourself."

The line went dead, leaving me alone in the silence.

•••

There's an irony in finding out you're not as alone as you thought, right when you were hoping for solitude. But that's exactly what happens when I meet the neighbors.

The invitation comes out of nowhere-a little note, slipped under my door that morning, scrawled in a slanted, looping script.

Dinner? Come next door at 7. We don't bite.

The words cling to me all day, echoing with a strange insistence. I know I could ignore it, act like I never saw it, but curiosity's always been my fatal flaw. Besides, I don't know a soul in this town. Maybe "next door" isn't so bad.

By the time 7 rolls around, I've convinced myself that it's harmless. I throw on a dark sweater and jeans, my hair left loose, and slip outside into the cool evening air. Their place is only a few steps away-an old but well-kept house with ivy creeping along the bricks, glowing faintly golden under the porch light.

I raise my hand to knock, and the door swings open before I touch it, revealing a man who looks like he belongs in a moody indie film. Lean, dark-haired, with a devil-may-care smirk that seems permanently etched onto his face. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, the kind of posture that suggests he's already sizing me up.

"Rhys," he says, and the sound is warm, with a hint of roughness around the edges.

"Evelyn," I reply, doing my best not to look fazed.

"Evelyn," he repeats, like he's testing out the sound of it. "Well, Evelyn, come in. We don't stand around in doorways here."

I step inside, brushing past him, the warmth of his gaze lingering on me as I enter. The house smells like something rich and spicy, a mix of leather and cloves. The lights are low, casting shadows that feel almost like they're moving, creeping around the edges of the room.

Before I can fully take it in, I see someone else-a second figure standing by the kitchen, back turned as he stirs something on the stove. He's taller than Rhys, broader, with dark curls that fall over his forehead and an intensity that's evident even from here.

"Evelyn," Rhys says, moving past me to gesture towards the figure, "meet Adrian."

Adrian turns, giving me a once-over, his expression unreadable. His gaze is sharp, lingering just long enough to make me feel like I'm the one being examined.

"Nice to meet you," I say, trying not to let my voice waver under the weight of that stare.

He nods, saying nothing, but his eyes hold onto mine for a beat longer than necessary. There's a smoldering silence that settles between us, one that Rhys seems to notice immediately.

"Well, don't all jump at once to entertain our guest," he says, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. "Evelyn, make yourself at home."

I raise an eyebrow, settling onto the couch, which is surprisingly soft. "Is this what you two do? Lure unsuspecting strangers in with dinner?"

Rhys laughs, low and lazy, leaning against the wall across from me. "Not strangers-neighbors. And besides, you looked like you could use some company."

"Oh, I did, did I?"

Adrian lets out a scoff from the kitchen. "You've been here a few days and you're already making assumptions about her?"

Rhys shrugs, unbothered. "I'm perceptive. Besides, she came, didn't she?"

I watch them both, caught between amusement and intrigue. There's a tension here, one that feels both comfortable and electric, like they've known each other long enough to pull each other's strings, but there's something simmering just under the surface.

The food, when Adrian finally brings it over, is surprisingly elaborate-a lamb stew with hints of rosemary and thyme, crusty bread that looks homemade. They're not exactly the kind of people I imagined would be living in this quiet corner of nowhere, but maybe that's the point.

We eat in a slow, charged silence, the clinking of forks and the occasional murmur of approval filling the spaces between us. I catch Rhys watching me every now and then, his gaze a mix of curiosity and something sharper. Adrian, on the other hand, keeps his eyes on his food, silent and reserved, but there's a tension in his jaw, a way his hand tightens on his fork that gives him away.

Eventually, Rhys breaks the silence, leaning back in his chair, his gaze fixed on me. "So, Evelyn, what brings you here?"

I let out a dry laugh, stabbing a piece of bread with my fork. "Wouldn't you like to know."

His grin widens, unphased. "Maybe I would."

Adrian looks up, watching me with a dark, unreadable gaze. "She's not going to tell you."

"Who says?" I shoot back, meeting his gaze head-on. There's something about him, a quiet intensity that makes me want to peel back the layers, just to see what he's hiding.

"People don't come here by choice," he says, his voice low and steady. "They come here to escape."

"Is that what you're doing?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

He just shrugs, his mouth pulling into a faint smirk. "Maybe."

I find myself leaning forward, elbows on the table, my interest piqued. "So, what is it? Some kind of witness protection program? A cult?"

Rhys laughs, the sound breaking through the tension. "Not quite. Think of us as... residents who like our privacy."

His words hang in the air, an invitation wrapped in a warning. There's something in his eyes, a flicker of something darker, something that feels almost familiar.

I tilt my head, matching his intensity with my own. "Well, privacy and I get along just fine."

Adrian's gaze sharpens at that, a slight frown crossing his face, but he says nothing. Rhys just smirks, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the table.

The conversation drifts after that, turning lighter, more casual. Rhys asks about my writing, about what brought me to this town, all with a charm that's disarming. Adrian, on the other hand, stays mostly silent, watching me with that same inscrutable expression.

After dinner, Rhys suggests a drink, leading us into the dimly lit living room. He pours a dark amber liquid into three glasses, handing one to me with a wink. "To new neighbors."

I raise my glass, feeling a faint buzz already settling over me. "New neighbors," I echo, taking a sip. The drink burns as it goes down, but there's a warmth that spreads through me, loosening the edges.

The conversation turns quiet, the three of us settling into a comfortable silence. Rhys sprawls on the couch, his arm stretched out behind me, his fingers brushing against my shoulder in a way that feels deliberate. Adrian sits across from us, his gaze flickering between Rhys and me, something unreadable in his eyes.

"So," Rhys says, breaking the silence, his voice a low murmur. "How do you like it here?"

I shrug, feeling the weight of his arm, the warmth of his gaze. "It's... different. Quiet."

"Quiet can be good," Adrian says, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. There's a vulnerability there, a crack in the armor, and for a moment, I feel like I'm seeing a different side of him.

Rhys chuckles, his fingers tracing a slow, lazy pattern on my shoulder. "Quiet can also be... lonely."

His words hang in the air, charged, and I feel my pulse quicken. I glance at Adrian, catching a flicker of something dark and possessive in his gaze.

The tension is palpable, almost suffocating. There's a part of me that wants to pull away, to put some distance between myself and whatever is simmering beneath the surface here. But another part of me-maybe the reckless part, the part that got me into this mess in the first place-wants to see where this will go.

And then I hear it. Muffled voices, coming from the kitchen. I can't make out the words, but the tone is unmistakable. Low, angry, heated.

I slip off the couch, moving quietly towards the sound, curiosity getting the better of me. I press myself against the wall, straining to hear, my pulse racing.

"You shouldn't have invited her here," Adrian's voice, cold and clipped, cuts through the silence.

"She's our neighbor, Adrian," Rhys replies, a hint of irritation in his tone. "Don't act like it's a crime to be friendly."

"There's friendly, and then there's reckless. She doesn't belong here."

I feel a chill run down my spine, the weight of his words settling over me like a shroud. She doesn't belong here.

I back away, heart pounding, the sense of warmth and comfort I'd felt earlier vanishing like smoke. I feel like an intruder, like I've stumbled into something I was never meant to see.