Page 14 of Shared Obsession

"We can't let her stay in this," Zayn says, voice low and fierce.

But after a beat, Dean sighs. "Okay, but what the hell do we actually do? We could go to the police, but with the department dirty, that’s a dead end. Exposing the contract? Bates would bury us in court."

Zayn rubs his jaw. "Even if we snatch her out, they’ll track us down. It’s not just Derek—his family has resources everywhere."

I pace, tension burning a hole in my chest. “We get proof, we go public. Social media, news, whatever it takes.”

Dean shakes his head. “That’s risky. If you go scorched earth, they’ll come after you—and Ayla. They’d spin it, call you obsessed, unstable."

Zayn grimaces. "We could try to flip someone in the house. Staff, security—maybe somebody hates Derek enough to give us leverage."

"Or we find something on Bates senior—blackmail, dirt, leverage. Make them back off," Dean adds, but even he sounds uncertain.

I lean against the wall, frustration mounting. “Every option feels like a trap. If we do nothing, she’s stuck. If we act, we risk her life, my life, yours."

For a minute, nobody speaks. The weight of it presses in, heavy and hopeless. I look back at the monitor—Ayla’s curled up, so small and alone.

Zayn finally breaks the silence. “We need a plan. A real one. But we can’t rush it. We’ll watch, we’ll dig, and if we get one chance, we take it.”

I nod slowly, torn between rage and fear. "We’re not giving up. Not on her. But we go careful. No mistakes.”

Dean runs both hands through his hair, frustration written all over him. “How the fuck do we get to him? Legal, illegal, it doesn’t matter—he’s untouchable.”

“Nobody is untouchable,” Zayn counters.

We lapse into silence, staring at each other, the enormity of what we’re up against settling in. No one has any good ideas. I turn back to the monitors, watching Ayla on the security feed—her silhouette small and lonely, curled up on the couch, her shoulders hunched like she’s trying to disappear.

How did it come to this? How did Ayla, who seemed so untouchable, so sharp and immune to the bullshit of shitty men, end up trapped here? How did she—who always seemed so strong, so untouchable, so quick to laugh off a drunk grab or shut down a sleazy comment—end up here, trapped under Derek’s thumb? Stripping was never perfect, but at least it was freedom. She could deal with bullshit all night, but she left it at the door with her heels in hand. It was gritty, it was exhausting, but it was hers. Compared to this—the contract, the control, the gilded cage—those nights on stage had to be better.

But maybe that’s the thing. Maybe Ayla thought Derek was her ticket out. Maybe she thought he was a way to escape a life that had started to feel like hell behind closed doors. Maybe the loneliness, the grind, the pretending got to be too much, and Derek’s promises sounded like hope. He told her he loved her. She believed him. Now she’s more trapped than ever—and I can’t figure out how to get her back.

I'm glued to the monitors for hours, watching Ayla on the grainy security feed while Derek clatters around in the kitchen. Now, she’s curled on the couch, exhaustion written all over her, eyelids drooping as she fights off sleep. For a split second, I almost let myself hope she might get a moment’s peace. But then her phone buzzes, the sharp vibration jolting her awake. She glances at Derek—making sure he’s distracted—then slips her phone from her pocket.

Whatever message she reads, it drains the color from her face. She goes absolutely ghost white—like someone reached through the screen and gripped her heart. I sit up straighter, every nerve on edge. I can’t see the words, but whatever’s on that screen, it’s bad. Really fucking bad. My pulse hammers as I watch her freeze, eyes wide and unblinking, her whole body trembling. Something’s just changed, and not for the better. I just wish to hell I knew what.

Ayla

Hey, princess.

The words light up my screen, and instantly, a wave of nausea crashes over me. My father. My brain shuts off, like static, as I stare at the words. Oh fuck. My emotions are all over. I haven’t heard from him in two years—not since the day I turned eighteen and slammed the door on my old life. How the hell did he get my number? My heart starts racing, every old memory rising like bile. I can almost hear his voice, dripping with control, and my hands start to shake. It’s like every alarm in my body goes off at once—danger, danger, danger.

Deep breaths, Ayla. He can’t get to you now. You’re safe. Well, safe from him. At least, that’s what I tell myself, but my body doesn’t believe it. I force myself to breathe in, breathe out, counting each inhale like it might keep the ghosts at bay. I don’t respond. I can’t. Instead, I text Alex—just a simple hey, like it’s any normal night.

His reply is instant. Who was that, darling? You went white as a ghost

I remember he told me he now has access to all the cameras in the house. That should terrify me. It makes no sense that this guy—Alex, who keeps showing up and ignoring every boundary I set—somehow hacked into Derek’s fortress, into my prison. I should be angry, I should be scared, but all I feel is confusion and this twisted sense of safety. Why do I trust him at all? He’s basically a stranger, a man who won’t listen when I say no, who keeps coming back even when I tell him not to. But when I picture him on the other side of the screen, watching, I feel less alone. Less invisible. There’s something about Alex—something steady, something relentless. Maybe it’s the danger, maybe it’s the hope, but for the first time in months, I almost believe someone might actually be able to save me.

My father, I text back, keeping it short and ice cold. That’s all Alex gets. The word alone is enough to make my stomach twist, but I force my hands to steady. I’ve never talked about my father to anyone since I started over—never had to, since no one’s ever asked. But I know Alex won’t let this drop, especially if he saw me lose it on camera. He’ll want to know what’s behind the panic, the shaking hands, the ghost in my eyes. But I’m not ready to dredge any of that up. Not now. Not with Alex, not with anyone. Some things are safer locked away, unsaid and untouched, no matter how much they burn.

7 years old- I wake up to a loud bang downstairs—daddy’s home! It’s really late, and the house is so quiet except for his big shoes clomping on the floor. I’m wearing my favorite pink nightgown with the puffy sleeves, the one that’s soft like a cloud, and I hug my teddy bear, Charlie, close while I listen to him come up the stairs. He always tucks me in when he gets home, even if I’m already asleep. I peek out from under my blankets, heart fluttering, and try not to look too excited when the door creaks open.

“Hi, Daddy,” I whisper, trying to sound sleepy and grown-up, but it comes out all giggly. He sits on the edge of my bed and smiles at me, but his voice is funny tonight—slower, heavier. He smells weird, too, kind of sour and sharp, but I don’t mind. I sit up and throw my arms around him for a hug, and he squeezes me tight. “Tuck me in, Daddy?” I ask, slipping under the covers, waiting for him to pull them up to my chin like always.

But tonight, he pulls the blanket down instead. My skin prickles. “Daddy, tuck me in?” I whine, not sure why he’s looking at me like that. He touches my leg, his hand sliding past my knee. A little shiver of fear runs through me. His hand slides up under my nightgown. “Daddy, please, tuck me in,” I say, voice small. Finally, he pulls the blanket up, tucks it in tight around me, and kisses the top of my head, brushing my hair back with a gentle hand. “Good night, my princess,” he whispers, and leaves me alone in the dark.

The memory claws at me—pain, terror, the weight of his hands—and for a moment, I’m drowning in it, completely lost. Then the sharp buzz of my phone in my hand jolts me back to the present, snapping me out of the flashback like a slap. Panic surges. My stomach twists, bile burning up my throat. I stagger to the bathroom, waves of nausea and fear crashing through me until I’m doubled over the toilet, retching until there’s nothing left. My skin is clammy, my whole body shaking. I’m sick, panicked, utterly helpless. I stand, gripping the sink, knuckles white, chest heaving as my heart hammers out a frantic, broken rhythm. Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Not for him. Not again.

My phone buzzes on the counter again—Alex.