25. Savion

TWENTY-FIVE

SAVION

After having such a wonderful weekend with Declan, the work week kicked me in the balls. It has been difficult trying to smile at everyone at work and hearing people whisper about Declan and me in the background. Although I behave civilly and walk away like I hear nothing, I still wish I could walk right up to them and tell them to their faces to mind their own damn business.

But Declan… Declan has been my saving grace.

Even though he's been super busy with the band this week, he's spent every night with me at my place. He's the first person I see in the morning and the last I see at night. Plus, we exchange texts throughout the day. I'm not going to lie to myself, though. I miss his presence during the time in between. I miss seeing him in the flesh, when I can touch him with my fingertips, and my hands… and my tongue. When I can inhale that unique scent of his and listen to the deep timbre of his voice.

I'm in my office at the museum, poring over some fossil fragments, when my phone vibrates on the desk. I ignore it; it's probably just another email alert or some calendar reminder. But then it vibrates again, this time much longer, and curiosity gets the better of me.

I wipe my hands on my pants and pick up the phone. Unknown Number . My thumb hovers over the screen, a tight knot forming in my stomach. Against my better judgment, I unlock it.

The first thing I see is a screenshot. My face, distorted, scarred, blown up in brutal detail. I squint, trying to process what I'm looking at. Then I see the words beneath it—cold, mocking captions that twist my insides.

Beauty and the Beast... except this time, the beast doesn't turn into a prince.

Guess every rockstar needs their pity project.

I freeze, the air thick and suffocating around me. My pulse thrums in my ears. I scroll down, my hands shaking as more images flood the screen—memes, all with me as the punchline.

There's another photo. This time, my face is Photoshopped onto Stripe, the snarling antagonist from the Gremlin s movies. The c a ption reads: Don't feed it after midnight. My heart lurches, plummeting into a hollow pit somewhere deep inside me. It's like someone reached into my chest and squeezed, hard, because this... this was meant to cut me. Bullseye. It hits dead center.

Worse, the post is getting tons of interaction. Comments stack up underneath, each one twisting the knife a little deeper.

A face only Gizmo could love!

Beware: transformation complete!

From rockstar to rock bottom!

And the one that really kills me: Stripe's long-lost twin found in the fossil record!

My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out everything else. The world around me fades, and all that's left is that image—me, warped and hideous, something to be laughed at, mocked. Each comment digs in like a claw, ripping away any confidence I thought I had left.

I'm their joke. Their punching bag. And the worst part? It's working.

I continue to scroll down and see the things being said about me not being a star or belonging to the entertainment world. These words hurt me, even as they intrigue me. What do these people know about me? I'm compelled to search as if there's no tomorrow. It's like an invisible force is urging me to know how the world sees me, because I sincerely don't understand why they have so much to say without having any personal knowledge of the person that I am. Maybe when I see myself through their lenses, I'll understand… so I do the one thing Skye told me never to do. I bite my lip as I type my name into the search box. Within seconds, everything Google knows about me appears before me on the screen.

It seems as if I'm the current topic on the internet, because every fan of Orion Skye has something to say about me. Well, not every single fan… but it seems like hundreds, if not thousands, of them are talking about me. I see a few encouraging comments from people who post very positive things about our relationship and seem to believe their idol, Declan, has created a new standard to define beauty and love. Many others offer scathing remarks about my scars. To some, I'm an opportunist who's not deserving of love and am emotionally blackmailing their favorite Orion Skye member into being with me. A heaviness in my chest threatens to overwhelm me, yet I press on, diving into the rabbit hole that is social media.

One thing that catches my attention is a meme created from my picture. My photo is collaged with the hunchback of Notre Dame and the caption inscribed on it reads: Who's uglier?

I've known my face isn't easy to look at. The scars have been there long enough for me to come to terms with them—or at least, I thought I had. But seeing them displayed like this, turned into something ugly and disgusting for the whole world to mock? It's like someone's ripped open a wound I thought had healed.

Another has my photo collaged with Mr. Scratch, a serial killer who appeared on Criminal Minds a time or two, and it's captioned: Who would you choose for your scary bedtime story ?

My heart slams into my ribs, hard. My fingers twitch, wanting to throw the phone across the room, but I can't tear my eyes away from the bile spreading on the screen. Each swipe reveals something worse—a comment, a cruel joke, a harsh reminder of every insecurity I've spent years trying to bury.

I hear my internal voice wailing in my head: " You're not good enough for him."

It's hard not to feel hurt, and anger, and fear. It's hard to suppress the tears that prick and burn the backs of my eyes and flow down my cheeks.

If these people only knew half of what I've gone through, and what I'm still going through. If they only knew. I didn't cause these scars on my face myself. In fact, I had nothing to do with the actions of that criminal, Brock—my ex-best friend, who apparently suffered an acute case of obsession with me. I didn't even have an inkling he was jealous of Haley, my ex-fiancée. The irony is Haley wasn't worth a grain of salt. As soon as I got burned, she bolted.

Suddenly, I'm back in that hospital room…

My hand trembles as I hold the mirror.

A team of doctors is in the room. My psychologist, Dr. Vivienne Charles, stands beside me. "There's no need to hurry." She places a soothing hand on my shoulder. "Look at your chest first, then move your way up a little at a time. Okay, Savion?"

There are some things in life that will be too difficult for me to do a little at a time and this right here… this is one of those things. I know I was badly burned. And although when Brock threw the acid at me, it felt like my entire body was inflamed, I don't think I could have possibly been burned beyond recognition.

My eyes don't linger too long on my chest and neck, since I know they aren't the worst of my injuries. Taking a deep breath, I hold the mirror up to my face.

Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod! Oh. My. God!

My stomach clenches and my breathing is restricted. I struggle to get my next breath and the next… and the next.

I blink. Hoping—fucking hoping—that what I'm seeing in the mirror is no more than a nightmare, and not my new reality. The left side of my face is raw and swollen. A few centimeters of my eyebrows are gone. Part of my left nostril is desiccated like a dried sultana grape.

The mirror crashes to the floor at my feet.

This isn't my face! It's a stranger's. No way can this be me!

I feel them bubbling in the pit of my stomach. The screams. Gut-wrenching, deafening screams. They want to burst past my lips.

"Nooooo! Why? Why?" How could he do this to me? Why did he do this to me?

Mom's arms wrap around me. "My child, the days are still young. You'll heal with time."

Dad is a man of few words. His gaze pins mine, and it exudes strength. It's as if he's shouting the words, "You've got this. You've already won." And I feel his strength—his determination—blanketing me.

"Your mother is right, Savion," Dr. Charles says. "This is not forever."

And finally I lock eyes with Haley—the woman who I was supposed to marry in a matter of months. And in her eyes I see disgust… and shame.

It's still there, gnawing at the back of my mind: the doubt, the humiliation.

And now Brock has the nerve to appeal to the court. The thought of him wanting to be a free man sends chills down my spine.

My stomach churns violently, bile rising sharp and bitter in the back of my throat. A dull, relentless ache pulses at the base of my skull, spreading like a heavy fog. My mind blanks out except for the endless, crushing loop of those words: You're not good enough for him.

That's what everyone's thinking, isn't it?

And they're right. I'm not. I've never been. Since the day Declan walked into my life with that effortless smile, I've wondered how someone like him could ever want someone like me. Love someone like me. Now the whole world is asking the same question.

The air around me feels thick, like it's closing in. My throat tightens, a cold, constricting band forming around it as I scroll through post after post. I didn't ask for this—didn't search for it—but it's everywhere. My face. My scars. My relationship splayed open for everyone to tear apart.

A crushing weight presses against my chest, making it harder to breathe. My breaths come in short, jagged bursts, each one more labored than the last. My hands grip the phone, fingers trembling, knuckles white as the edges of the device bite into my skin. The sharp pain keeps me tethered to reality, but it's not enough. My vision blurs, the screen turning into a mess of colors and shapes. The walls close in around me, narrowing, pushing in closer and closer until there's no space left to move.

No... not here. Not now.

The panic rushes up like a tidal wave, faster than I can brace myself, crashing over me. The roar in my ears—the pulse of my blood—grows deafening, drowning out everything else, suffocating me.

I've been here before. Last time, in the elevator with Declan, when it felt like the walls were squeezing the air out of my lungs, he stayed with me, his voice calm, his hand a solid weight on mine. He kept me here, in the moment.

But Declan's not here now.

The thought is enough to send the panic surging again, even harder this time. My heart races, pounding against my ribs like it's trying to break free. But I force myself to focus. I have to.

Come on, Savion. You know how to do this. Focus.

I squeeze my eyes shut, dragging in a breath that's ragged and thin, but it's something. I need something to hold onto. Name something.

"Desk," I whisper, my voice shaking. "Oak. Solid. Steady."

Another breath, slightly deeper, but the panic still clings to my chest, my pulse thrumming wildly in my ears. I push on.

"Bones... fragments... uh, Pleistocene. Part of a femur, cracked down the middle."

I open my eyes, scanning the room, even though everything still feels off-kilter, like it's swaying under me. I latch onto the first thing I see.

"Bookshelf. Mahogany. Four shelves... three full, one with a skull replica."

The words tether me, dragging me inch by inch out of the chaos. The room gradually sharpens, the air less suffocating. My breaths come slower, more even, though there's still that crushing weight sitting on my chest.

I wipe a shaky hand across my forehead, my palm slick with sweat. My heart is still pounding, my pulse loud in my throat, but at least I can breathe again. At least the walls aren't closing in anymore.

I glance back down at my phone, the cruel words on the screen a glaring reminder of how the world sees us. I know I should put it down, walk away, but I can't. It's like some twisted compulsion. I scroll again, more comments flashing before me.

It's only a matter of time before Declan wakes up and sees him for what he really is.

My hands tremble as I lock the phone, tossing it onto the desk like it's something filthy.

My breaths come out in shallow bursts again. I try to steady them. I try to remember how Declan looked at me this morning before he left, the way his lips brushed against mine, soft and tender, like I was the only thing that mattered. He'd fucked me so good. But those images—the things people said—claw at the edges of my mind, tearing at the fragile hope I've been holding onto, seeming to drown all the good things that happened mere hours ago.

It's hard for me to remember that in spite of everything that's happened over the last four years, I still have the love of my parents, a wonderfully supportive best friend, and a great job that I love. And Declan… who I've fallen in love with. Who makes me feel like the me I used to be, but even more than that… someone indescribable.

So that negates all the negatives of the paparazzi and social media, right?

I sit down hard in my chair, the squeak of the leather the only sound in the room now. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, pressing my hands against my forehead. My skin is clammy, cold despite the warm temperature in the office.

I've fought so long to move past this, to accept what I look like. But seeing it like this... it feels like all that progress, all that strength, is unraveling. I've spent years convincing myself I don't care what people think about my face, about the scars. I've learned to tune it out. But when it's about Declan , when it's about him and me... it's like a knife straight through.

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat too thick. I force myself to stand, hands gripping the edge of the desk for support. I need space. I need air.

But more than that, I need a reason to believe in this... in us.

My phone buzzes again. I flinch, my heart leaping into my throat.

What if it's him?

I glance at the screen. It's just an email notification, nothing important. I close my eyes, a mix of relief and disappointment swirling in my chest.

I sit down heavily, my legs weak beneath me. My chest feels tight, like someone's squeezing the life out of it, and I can't seem to catch my breath. Why did I let myself believe this could work?

Declan deserves someone who can match his shine, someone who doesn't make people question why they're together. I close my eyes, the anger simmering beneath the surface. Not at Declan, not at the faceless strangers behind their screens. At myself.

You should've known better, Savion. You don't belong in his world.

The words play on a loop in my head, louder and louder until I can't think straight. I try to focus on the fossils in front of me, try to breathe through the suffocating weight pressing down on my chest. But my mind is scattered, pulled apart by doubt, anger, and frustration. Every muscle in my body is tight, clenched as though bracing for a blow that's already landed.

I grab the phone again, fingers trembling. I want to delete the messages, block the number—can I block a number that comes up unknown?—pretend this never happened. But the damage has already been done, hasn't it?

My phone vibrates again, but this time I don't look. I can't. I push it away, hard, and it clatters to the edge of the desk.

The hollow ache in my chest grows, spreading through me like poison. Every second that passes tightens the grip of doubt. How do I face Declan after this?

I lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling. The light overhead blurs, and I blink rapidly, swallowing the lump in my throat. I want to scream, to smash something, to tear apart the walls I've carefully built around myself.

But instead, I sit there. Quiet. Helpless.

Hours pass; each tick of the clock seems like it's stretching into eternity. I sit at my desk, staring at the scattered bones, but I can't seem to focus. My mind races, spiraling back to the memes—the cruel words that claw at my self-esteem.

Did Declan see those posts? I can't ask him. What if he did? What if he looked at my scars and saw only a monster?

I pull my phone from my pocket, hesitating before texting him. I type out the message, deleting and rewriting it twice before I settle on something vague.

Me: Hey, I'm swamped with work and will need to catch up. I'll be tied up for a while and won't be good company. Let's see each other later in the week?

I hit send, and dread settles in my stomach. What if he thinks I'm avoiding him? I bury my face in my hands, fingers pressing against my temples as if I can push the negativity away. But I am, aren't I?

Moments later, my phone vibrates again. It's Declan.

Dash: Are you okay? You've been quiet today. I miss you.

His words stab at my heart. I want to tell him the truth—that I feel like a joke, that I don't know how to face him after seeing what people are saying. But instead, I deflect, tossing out another shallow response.

Me: Yeah, just busy. You know how it is. I'll be fine.

Silence stretches between us. I can almost feel his concern, the warmth of his affection. It makes my stomach twist.

God, I've got to tell him this much.

Me: I miss you too.

The rest of the day drags on. At five, an hour before my shift ends, my phone buzzes on my desk. It's my boss's boss, Mr. Perry, his extension lighting up the screen. I stiffen in my chair. Does he know about me seeing Declan? Has he read some of the things that have been said about me online?

"Mr. Hayes, could you come in for a moment, please?" His voice is authoritative, nothing unusual.

I take a deep breath, shaking off the lingering tension as I walk to his office. The walls are lined with artifacts, their stories blending with the sterile scent of paper and ink. Mr. Perry sits behind his desk, a stack of documents piled high in front of him, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Good news," he says, looking up, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "We've secured funding for the South Africa dig, and I want you to be part of it."

My heart skips a beat. South Africa—a dream come true. I can practically feel the sun on my skin, the thrill of discovery pulsing through me. But then the weight of the decision presses down, mixing with the chaos in my mind. I can't help but think about how far away it is, how much space it would put between me and Declan.

"It's a rotating project," Mr. Perry continues. "We're sending a team out for two weeks, and we want you to lead the excavation. You've worked hard for this, Mr. Hayes. You're ready."

I nod, my thoughts racing. On one hand, it's everything I've wanted—a chance to escape the noise of my life, the judgment of strangers. On the other hand, leaving feels like running away, like abandoning Declan when he needs me most. He's a private person despite his status, and being alone out there while people eviscerate the person he's dating might be tough on him.

But maybe this is what we need—some space to figure out what we need to do.

"Thank you," I manage to say, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "I'd love to go."

Mr. Perry's smile widens, but I can't mirror it. I can feel the weight of my decision settling on my chest, heavier than before. I'm not taking this opportunity for the sake of my career; I'm taking it to run from my fears.