38. Savion

THIRTY-EIGHT

SAVION

It's been a month since I was kidnapped, but I still remember it like it was yesterday. The disgust, the suffocation, the fear, the bruises, and the pain.

Brock was my best friend, and I had no idea he could become this monster. In hindsight, maybe there were signs I overlooked—subtle shifts in his demeanor I dismissed as insecurity when I got engaged to Haley. How he seemed to withdraw, his smiles replaced by tight-lipped expressions whenever I mentioned her. I brushed it off, telling myself he just needed time to adjust to my new life, to the fact that someone else was now the most important person to me.

But I never thought it would lead to this. The realization that someone I trusted so deeply could harbor such darkness twists my stomach into knots.

But it's thanks to Declan and the guys that I'm alive. I wasn't aware of everything that happened during my abduction, but I was told what the guys did to save me—how they fought tooth and nail to bring me back, like knights charging into battle.

The last thing I remember is Brock raising a knife to my face, the glint of steel catching the light as he hissed about marking me with his name. Then, blackness enveloped me. I woke up in a hospital room flooded with flowers and gifts, the scent of lavender and fresh roses filling the air. I was unconscious for forty-eight hours, the doctor explained, the shock too much for my body to handle. Miraculously, my wounds were minor.

But I remember how heavy I felt, how my joints ached like I'd been crushed under the weight of the world. It must have been from being shoved into the trunk of Brock's car, my body contorted and trapped.

Above all, I remember how I craved the sight of Declan's face. Even in that abyss, I felt his presence, a warm light guiding me back to the surface.

I remember that when I finally opened my eyes, he rushed to my side, his relief palpable as he enveloped me in a hug that was firm yet careful. I could see the pain etched on his face, but he quickly masked it with a smile.

But two other people were in the room with him: my mom and dad. They flew in from Antigua as soon as they'd gotten the news of what happened from Declan. Their concern was palpable in every word and gesture.

After the initial surprise of seeing my parents, and all the hugs and kisses were over–at least, for a moment–Declan drew my attention to something I hadn't noticed yet.

"Look, you've gotten flowers," he said, his voice a comforting balm.

His fans—no, our fans now, he insists—sent an avalanche of flowers and cards. Their messages overflow with love and support, each note a reminder that I'm not alone. We're working on how I can respond, crafting heartfelt messages of gratitude for the kindness they've shown me.

Within two days, I was discharged from the hospital, and Declan took me to his home, where my parents were also staying.

Mom and Dad spent three weeks with us, and every moment was just what my wounded soul needed. My mom doted on me, and her hugs wrapping around me felt like heaven. Both of them hit it off with Declan effortlessly. Declan and my dad went to see a couple of Grizzlies home games. In the evenings Mom and Declan cooked meals together, the kitchen filled with the rich aroma of spices and laughter. I couldn't help but feel a spark of joy seeing them together. And I absolutely loved when Declan and Mom served me healthy meals they'd prepared fit for a king. All of these things were like watching pieces of my life come together, the people I love most under the same roof, all of us getting along. Those moments contributed to my recovery in ways I can't fully articulate.

Speaking of social media, one of the most profound outcomes of my ordeal has come from a video Kelly made on TikTok. It was about our friendship and how I'm one of the most beautiful people she knows. " Savion is both badass and beautiful." Her words wrapped around me like a warm blanket. She used the hashtag "#scarredbeauty," inviting others to share their stories and photos of their scars. Her post went viral, garnering nearly one hundred million views.

I've watched as stories pour in from people who've faced their own battles, their words resonating deeply with me. This has become the catalyst for the support group I'm determined to start—Surface Beauty. It will be a sanctuary for those who struggle with the visible effects of burns on their appearance—the visible difference community. Together with Orion Skye, Crystelle, Kelly, and many dedicated volunteers, we're organizing workshops, online support, and counseling services.

All in all, I've made peace with social media. For a time, it felt like I was living in a world where it didn't exist. But now, thanks to Declan, I see it differently. He's a public figure, and I'm just lucky enough to be the man he loves. The negative comments that used to gnaw at me don't hold the same power anymore. The positive messages overshadow the hate, and I remind myself that loving myself is what truly matters. I'm learning to accept the love from others, especially from Declan, who has shown me what unconditional love feels like—unfiltered, powerful, and unwavering.

I know this journey is far from over. But with Declan by my side, I feel like I can face anything, every scar telling a story of survival, resilience, and the beautiful life I'm beginning to reclaim.

Twenty-five years.

Twenty-five fucking years.

That's the punishment Brock receives for the hell he put me through. When the judge reads that verdict, it feels like a boulder has been lifted off my chest. Finally. Declan's arms wrap around me, strong and warm, grounding me as happy tears spill down my face.

"Love you, Savion," he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. Around us, the courtroom buzzes with excitement, people murmuring their relief and satisfaction. But all I hear is Declan, all I feel is his arms, his steady heartbeat against mine.

Outside, it's a circus as usual. The media vultures are already there, microphones out, cameras flashing. Declan steps in front of me, trying to shield me, his protective instinct kicking in.

"How do you feel knowing that your two-time attacker will now be in prison for twenty-five years?" one reporter shouts, her voice sharp and cutting through the noise.

I stop. Not because I want to, but because my body freezes. The weight of her words hangs in the air, reminding me that even though this chapter is closed, there's still so much I can't get back. Declan's hand finds my shoulder, his touch firm but gentle, silently asking if I'm okay. I nod, signaling that I can handle it.

"I think... relieved is the best word to describe how I feel." My voice doesn't waver, but inside, there's a storm. I turn away from the reporters and continue toward the car, the rest of them firing more questions, but I don't hear them. I don't care.

We slip into the car, and I shut my eyes, letting the tension bleed out of me. Declan's hand finds mine again, his thumb tracing slow circles on my skin. He's my anchor, my peace in all this madness.

"It's over now, beautiful," he says, his voice low and soothing. He lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against it before starting the car.

But as we drive away from the courthouse, my chest tightens. Is it really over?

Brock's face flashes in my mind, those cold, dead eyes of his, the smirk he wore even in court. I remember the way he manipulated me, how he turned my fears into a weapon against me. All those calls I dismissed and assumed were from jealous fans of Declan or the band— they were all him . Brock had twisted my perception, messing with my head. Just another way he tried to ruin my life.

Weeks before, Mr. Roberts, my lawyer, told me his office had been notified that Brock had been granted the right to a retrial. I'd tried to brace myself for the court battle, the testimonies, the pain of seeing him again. But no one said a damn word about him being out before the retrial.

And I had no idea. Neither did Mr. Roberts. While I was left preparing for a courtroom showdown, he was out there, already gathering resources and making connections to destroy me all over again.

How was I supposed to know? To prepare? By the time I found out, it was already too late. The system failed me. It didn't matter that Mr. Roberts was supposed to be in the loop. No one thought to notify him when Brock was released. Or they did, and the message got buried in the mess of bureaucracy and broken systems. Either way, the result was the same: I was blindsided, and Brock had all the time he needed to strike.

Declan's grip on my hand tightens, pulling me out of the whirlpool of my thoughts. I open my eyes and meet his gaze—steady, warm, filled with that quiet strength he always carries. He knows. He always knows when I get lost in my head like this, when the weight of everything we've been through sneaks up on me and threatens to pull me under.

"We're safe now," he says softly, his voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. But there's a question in his eyes, a flicker of concern like he's searching for reassurance that I believe it, too.

"Yes, we are," I say, squeezing his hand in return. And we really are. Safe. Here. Together.

I squeeze his hand, nodding in affirmation. And for the first time in weeks, I wonder about forgiveness.

After everything Brock's done—the kidnapping, the way he looked at me like I was nothing but a possession to be destroyed if he couldn't have me, the terror, the moment I thought I might not survive—I can't bring myself to forgive him. And I don't think I ever will.

The Babemba ritual I read about in South Africa, the idea of lifting someone up after they've done wrong—it feels distant now. I can't imagine circling Brock and speaking of his worth, not when he's taken so much from me. Not when he tried to take my life a second time.

Maybe forgiveness isn't always the answer. Maybe it's okay if I can't find it in my heart to forgive him. I don't have to. I don't need to. What I need is to heal, to move forward with my life—with Declan, with the people who love me.

I don't have to forgive Brock to be free. I just need to choose life. My life, with all its scars, all its struggles, and all its beauty.