Hunted

Naomi

Chapter 13

My heart feels like it's about to rip through my chest. Every beat is too loud, too fast, like it's trying to escape what I've just seen. The world doesn't just shatter—it implodes. My hands tremble as I stare down at the screen, that damn picture staring back at me.

I hadn't thought about it in so long, buried it so deep I'd convinced myself it didn't exist anymore. That night... I was drunk, careless. I thought he'd forget it too, thought he wouldn't care. But it's back now, and there's no undoing it. No running from it.

My phone slips from my grip onto the bed. I bury my face in my hands, fingers tangling in my hair as if that'll keep my head from spinning. It's been two weeks—two fucking weeks since that night, and I still can't get the image of Jayden out of my mind. What he did, what he recorded. And now this?

I can't breathe. My chest tightens, constricting like a vice around my lungs, and I suck in a sharp breath that barely does anything. The air, it's slipping away.

I fumble for the drawer beside my bed, knocking things over as I desperately search for my inhaler. My hand finally closes around it, and I bring it to my lips, inhaling deep. Slowly, the pressure in my chest starts to ease, but the shaking... the shaking won't stop.

I reach for my phone again. My hands are trembling so badly I can barely type, but I manage to send him the text anyway:

ME: Please. Just please stop this.

The reply comes exactly sixty seconds later, as if he'd been waiting for me to break.

MARCUS: I didn't ask for you to beg yet. Maybe later. Now, let's talk gifts. Should I send the picture to a few more people, or do you prefer something a bit more personal?

MARCUS: I've got plenty of ideas but I don't know which ones to choose.

The atmosphere here feels tense, and the addition of Marcus's response brings out a strong sense of control and manipulation. Here's a darker, more personal take on the situation, deepening the sense of anxiety and despair.

I toss the phone onto the bed, burying my face in my hands. My mind keeps circling back to one thing—Mom. I've already reported her missing to the police, but the longer the silence stretches, the heavier my chest feels, like I'm suffocating beneath the weight of it. Where is she?

I can't handle this alone. Not again. My eyes blur with tears, and for a second, I just sit there, letting them fall. My gaze drifts to the phone beside me, and I pick it up with trembling fingers.

ME: I'll do whatever you want. Please, stop it.

I wait. And wait. But there's no response.

My chest tightens as the minutes crawl by, and every second without a reply feels like my life slipping further out of my control. My focus is shot—I can't think straight, can't finish assignments, can't even sit through class without feeling like I'm coming undone.

I'm a mess. A fucking disaster.

Dad always knew I'd turn out like this—pathetic and helpless.

The phone finally chimes. It's Marcus.

MARCUS: I want the three years of my life back.

———

The words repeat in my head every night for two days. I can't stop staring at the phone, waiting for the next message that never comes. Each minute without it twists the knife deeper into my chest. It's been days, and I still can't focus—not on my classes, not even on finding my mom. The police haven't found her. No word, no leads. She's just...gone.