Ch. 34
Stan stumbles forward, his eyes narrowing as he tries to focus on me. “You… whore!”
The word slashes through the night like a knife, and he lunges, his hands outstretched as if he’s going to throttle me.
I step back quickly, dodging his grasp, but the room isn’t large, and there’s only so much space to retreat. “Stan, stop!” I command, trying to keep my voice firm, authoritative. “What are you doing? You’re drunk. You need to go back to your cabin and sleep this off.”
His movements are erratic, like a puppet whose strings have been cut and hastily re-tied. His breath, thick with the stench of rum, washes over me, and I have to resist the urge to wrinkle my nose in disgust. “Sleep it off?” he slurs, his words thick with venom. “You think I don’t know what’s going on? You think you can just… just sneak around behind my back?”
My heart pounds in my chest, but I keep my face neutral, trying to de-escalate the situation. “No one’s sneaking around, Stan. You’re imagining things. You’re not thinking clearly.”
His eyes dart around the dimly lit room, suspicion flickering in their depths. I can practically see the gears turning in his mind, trying to piece together a puzzle that doesn’t exist. Which, considering the circumstances, isn’t entirely off base. But I need to keep him focused on me, away from where Wake is silently watching, a predator in the dark, waiting for the moment to strike.
“Don’t lie to me, Phoebe,” Stan growls, taking another unsteady step forward. His expression is a twisted mix of anger and desperation. The distant light from the moon spills in through the open window, casting eerie shadows that stretch and distort his figure, making him seem larger, more menacing.
“I’m not lying, Stan,” I say, keeping my voice even. “No one’s here. You’re just confused. Look, let’s get you some water, and we’ll talk about this in the morning, okay?”
“Morning?” he sneers, his lips curling into a mocking smile that makes my skin crawl. “You think I’ll just forget about this by morning?” He shakes his head, and for a moment, his expression softens, a trace of the man I used to know before the alcohol and jealousy twisted him into this. “Phoebe… I don’t want to hurt you, but you’re making me crazy. I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”
The sincerity in his voice almost makes me feel sorry for him. Almost. But then I remember the bruises, the way he’s controlled and humiliated me, the fear that has kept me compliant for too long.
Then, I remember Wake, crouched in the shadows, his patience thinning with every passing second, and I know this has to end. It has to end now.
“Stan,” I say softly, taking a cautious step closer to him. “I don't know what you're talking about, but you have to calm down. We can’t have a conversation like this.”
He blinks at me, confused, and I seize the moment to edge towards the kitchenette, keeping the counter between us. I see his eyes follow me, still wary, still full of suspicion. But before he can react, I grab the nearest object—an empty wine bottle—and hold it up like a weapon.
“Get out, Stan,” I say, my voice low and deadly serious. The bottle feels heavy in my hand, a poor substitute for the kind of protection I really need, but it’s something. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.”
Stan stares at me in disbelief, as if he can’t comprehend what’s happening. His eyes, once bleary and unfocused, suddenly sharpen with a dangerous clarity. “Phoebe…?”
“Get. Out,” I repeat, each word like a nail being driven into the coffin of our past. There’s no going back from this.
For a moment, he just stands there, swaying slightly, his face a mix of confusion, anger, and hurt. Then, finally, he seems to realize that I’m not backing down. His shoulders slump, and he takes a stumbling step back towards the door.
But instead of leaving, he stops and looks at me, his face crumpling in despair. “I love you, Phoebe,” he says, his voice cracking. “But all you do is treat me like shit on your shoe. Like I’m some kind of disease.”
My resolve wavers for just a moment, the bottle in my hand lowering slightly. “Stan… You have a sick ass definition of love, if you think that's what's happening here. I want nothing to do with it.”
The words hit him like a physical blow, and he recoils, his expression turning from pain to fury in an instant. “You think you’re better than me, don’t you?” he spits, his voice rising with every word. “You’re just a stuck-up, cold bitch who thinks she’s better than everyone!”
I feel a cold fury building inside me, solidifying my resolve. “Yes, Stan. I do think I’m better than you. Because you’re pathetic. You’ve done nothing but harass me and make me miserable.”
His eyes flash with a mix of anger and desperation, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “I’ve given you everything!” he shouts, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I’ve done nothing but try to make you happy, and this is how you repay me?”
I stare at him, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and sorrow. “You’ve done nothing but torment me, Stan. I’ve tried to be a good student, a good colleague, but nothing is ever good enough for you! Why, Stan? Why would you do this to me when all I ever wanted was to learn from you?”
My voice breaks, the weight of the situation finally crashing down on me. “I used to respect you. I chose Llewellyn University for my Masters just to have the opportunity to work with you. But now? Now I just see you for what you really are—a disappointment.”
The words seem to wound him deeper than any blow could have. He stares at me, his face crumpling with grief, and for a moment, I think he might finally understand. But then he turns away, shoulders slumped, and staggers towards the door.
“Go,” I say, my voice flat and devoid of emotion. “Just… go.”
He hesitates for a moment, as if he’s going to say something, but then he thinks better of it. Without another word, he stumbles out the door, letting it close behind him with a soft click.
The moment the door shuts, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. My hands are trembling, and I have to set the bottle down on the counter before I drop it. The room is eerily quiet now, the only sound the distant crash of waves against the shore.
I feel Wake’s presence behind me before I hear him move, his footsteps silent as a shadow. The tension in the room is thick, almost suffocating, and I can tell immediately that something has changed.
Wake was angry – no, furious. But this time it wasn't at Stan.
It was me.
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