Chapter 20

The next morning, Alan surfaced from a deep, restless sleep, his mind still clouded by the haze of a night cut far too short.

Sunlight seeped weakly through the half-closed blinds in his room, casting dusty streaks across the floor littered with scattered clothes and forgotten textbooks.

He groaned as he stretched, his muscles aching like he’d been dragged through a brutal workout, and fumbled blindly on his nightstand for his phone. The screen lit up with a harsh glare that stung his eyes, showing the time: barely seven.

Another day of classes loomed ahead, packed with math equations and droning professors who seemed to suck the life out of everything.

He unlocked it with a lazy thumb swipe, scrolling past the usual notifications—a lab reminder, a group chat from his buddies about some upcoming party—until his eyes snagged on an unexpected name: Rebecah.

What the fuck, Rebecah? he thought immediately, his brow furrowing deep.

And then, like a floodgate bursting open, it all crashed back in a raw, almost tangible rush. The previous evening, which had felt so distant upon waking—like a nightmare shoved to the back of his mind—hit him with chilling clarity.

Her in his apartment, that surreal invasion, the threat lurking like a vicious shadow, the video—fuck, the video. His gut twisted sharply, a sour bile rising in his throat, forcing him to bolt upright on the edge of the bed.

He’d almost forgotten, or at least buried it in some dark recess to get through the night, but now, right at dawn, it all surged again: the blackmail, the manipulation, that clammy betrayal clinging to his skin like chilled sweat.

The messages popped up when he tapped the notification, and he read them with mounting dread, the words etching into his brain like sharp edges: “Come on, a little reminder so you don’t forget: reconcile with your sister, and make sure she feels plenty guilty. She needs to realize you’re a victim too, and that her own sister didn’t back her up when it mattered. The goal is for her to tell you it’s not your fault, got it? Once she says that, we move to the next step. 😘”

And the next one, like a final blow: “Oh, and you’ve got a week max, or the video goes out to everyone. Kisses! 😏😉”

Alan froze on the screen, his heart thudding heavily in his chest, those mocking emojis hitting like a smug slap.

A week. Fuck, just one week.

He set the phone down on the bed like it scorched him, stood up on autopilot, his legs shaky, and headed to the tiny bathroom in his apartment. As he got ready—mechanical toothbrushing, clothes pulled on without a thought—his mind looped on one thing: that fucking video. Him coming, that raw vulnerability captured in full, laid bare like an open wound. Panic gripped him hard, a deep unease knotting his insides: what if Mom and Dad saw it?

The mere thought drilled into his head, a gut-wrenching revulsion mixed with shame that had him sweating despite the cool morning air. Their disappointed stares, their unspoken questions, the family bond he’d already cracked without meaning to—all for what? For this lunatic pulling strings like a sadistic puppeteer. Under the shower, hot water pouring over his skin, he tried to pull himself together, drawing in deep breaths to push back the nausea, exhaling slow to quiet the storm in his head.

He ran through his options one by one, like a desperate checklist: tell someone? No fucking way—Rebecah had forbidden it outright, threatening to send the video if he breathed a word, whether to Madison or anyone else. Report this psycho? How? The cops? Hell no—not even worth considering; one wrong move, and it all blew up, the video spreading mercilessly. He kept thinking, soap stinging his eyes without him noticing, hunting for a loophole, an out, but nothing came.

Zero. Just emptiness, and this creeping resignation seeping in like slow poison: fine, he had to find a way to get her forgiveness. Fuck, Madi ... what kind of shit have you gotten us into...

The morning lecture blurred by like a haze of static, a jumble of droning voices and slides flickering across the massive auditorium screen. Alan slumped at the back, his spine curved against the unforgiving seat, his pen frozen between his fingers, staring at a blank spot on his empty notebook.

He wasn’t absorbing a single thing—not a word about differential equations or the circuit diagrams scrolling past—his mind churning in some distant storm, locked in a relentless cycle: how to earn her forgiveness without it reeking of bullshit, without the whole thing screaming manipulation from a mile away? At the same time, the chill between them gnawed at him deep inside, a nagging itch twisting his guts, like an emptiness swelling with every silent hour.

He wanted things to get better, genuinely—not just for Rebecah and her twisted blackmail, but for them, for that sibling bond that had always been rock-solid before everything spun out of control. Hell, he figured he’d just be straight with her; after all, Madison knew him inside out, she’d see right through any game, she’d get it ... or at least, he hoped so, that sharp edge of dread clamping his throat.

He made up his mind to catch her right before her swim practice—that was the sweet spot. He bailed from the lecture hall early, shoving his stuff into his bag with a rough jerk, blowing off the quizzical stare from the guy next to him who muttered, “Hey, dude, don’t even think about hitting me up for notes, alright?” without getting a peep back.

Madi had her training slot from noon to two; if he didn’t want to miss her, he’d better hustle straight over, cutting across campus with hurried strides, the midday sun pounding his neck, cranking up the anxious sweat already dotting his skin.

Outside the campus pool entrance, he waited, leaning against a chipped wall, almost awkward as people streamed by—students in workout gear, rushed professors, bursts of laughter he couldn’t join.