Chapter 131 Nightmarish Day “Do I drop you off at your place or… at your fiancé’s place?” Dean asked, his tone carrying an uneasy politeness. Outside, the rain had softened from its earlier violence. “Drop me off at my place first,” I said, watching the streaks of water racing each other down the glass. “I’ll be sleeping at Roman’s house tonight, so I need to pick up a few things from my place.” He still hadn't texted me back and I had started to worry that something was wrong. Dean nodded. “Okay. I'll—” But before he could say anything else, his phone went off, loud and shrill, making me wince from the unexpected loud intrusion. He flinched. “Sorry about that.” His eyes flicked to the caller ID, and I saw the color drain from his face. “Great,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Just great.” He pulled over abruptly by the curb and killed the engine. I didn’t ask who it was. I wasn’t in the mood to care about Dean’s drama, not after the day we’d had. I just sat back, letting the sound of rain fill the silence while he answered the call. “Good evening, sir.” His voice instantly changed. It was stiffer and more careful now. There was a pause. “No, I’m in Philadelphia right now.” Another pause, longer this time. “What? I basically drove here. How does that translate to fleeing? I’m literally with her sister right now! I drove her to visit their mom who’s in the hospital!” My eyes drifted toward him, though I didn’t turn my head. He looked tense—shoulders locked, jaw tight, fingers gripping the steering wheel even though the car wasn’t moving. “Of course, I understand,” he said after a beat. “But still, this is outrageous. All of this is insane because I did nothing to her—” His voice faltered. “What do you mean?” His tone spiked, breath catching. “That’s a lie! Someone’s obviously setting me up because I wasn’t even home all through yesterday. I was with Savannah Hart, as well! I drove to Philadelphia from Pennsylvania—” then he abruptly stopped. “Does my mom know about this?” He sounded… scared. I could tell even without looking at him. And yet, I felt nothing. No concern, no sympathy. Just the familiar, dull exhaustion sitting heavy behind my ribs. He was still talking — faster now, desperate. “How can my DNA be found there when I haven’t been near anything of Chloe's for weeks?!” He pauses, listening to whatever the person at the other side was saying. And whatever it was? It hit him like a punch. “Rape?! This is insane! Someone’s doing this on purpose! I’d never do that!” My head jerked slightly. Rape? For a second, my brain lagged. Dean? Being accused of that? It's almost impossible to believe. I know that night at the strip club was crazy and Dean was intoxicated and thus, was being controlled by his intoxication. The normal Dean would never do such a thing. He ended the call after a few seconds, breathing harshly, his knuckles white. I waited for him to start the car again. But he didn’t. He just sat there. Frozen.His phone slipped from his hand and landed in his lap. Both of his hands dropped to his knees, trembling slightly, and his eyes were fixed on nothing. The silence in the car became unbearable. “Dean?” I poked his arm lightly. He turned toward me slowly, like someone waking from a nightmare. And before I could react, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around me, pressing his head against my chest. I froze completely right then and there. His entire body shook as he broke down — sobbing into me like he’d been holding it in for years. It was quiet at first, then guttural, unrestrained. His tears bled through my shirt, and the sound of his choked breaths filled the car. I should’ve pushed him away. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t hug him back either. I just sat there, stiff, staring straight ahead at the blurry streetlights. The rain had slowed to a mist now, tapping softly against the glass. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had cried like this around me. On me. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were red and swollen, and his expression was hollow with shame. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. I cleared my throat. “It’s fine.” My voice sounded empty. He rubbed his face, groaning softly. “They found some of Chloe’s things—my DNA on them—by the river. It doesn’t even make sense, Sav. I haven’t seen her in weeks! I haven't even been close to the river in… years!” My chest tightened for the first time since the call. “What?” He dragged a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands like he wanted to rip them out. “Now her father’s adding sexual assault to the long list of ridiculous charges against me. And they expect me to just show up and cooperate, like I’m not being hunted for something I didn’t do.” The word rape still hung heavy between us, like smoke you couldn’t wave away. I blinked slowly. “That’s insane. They haven't even found her… or a body yet.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. That sentence was hard to make. “I know.” His voice cracked. “My lawyer told me to come back immediately, otherwise they’ll think I’m running. But if I go back and they arrest me, I might never make it out again.” He looked at me, desperate. “I don’t know what to do, Sav. I’m… I'm scared, Sav.” That admission—I’m scared—sounded foreign and pathetic coming from him. I exhaled through my nose. “When did this new evidence show up?” “Yesterday,” he said. “They’re saying it looks like the suspect was trying to dispose of them yesterday. But that’s impossible, because I was at your place, then at your office. Basically, I was with you the entire day.” I nodded. “You mentioned that.” He laughed—a dry, humorless sound. “If I was guilty, I would’ve thrown them into the river, not leave them sitting out for someone to see like an idiot.” He wasn’t wrong. But that wasn’t the point. My mind was working faster than I could keep up with. Something wasn’t right. Dean’s story didn’t fit — not because he was lying, but because someone else was obviously moving the pieces. And somewhere in the middle of it all was Chloe. My sister. The same sister who always had a way of twisting things. And her father? The puppeteer who was never a party to anything good. I stared out the window, the city lights flickering against the foggy glass. “Take me home, Dean.” My voice came out flat. He blinked at me, confused. “Sav…” “Dean.” I turned to him, meeting his eyes. “Take. Me. Home. Now.” He looked at me for a long second—searching for something, maybe mercy, maybe understanding—but all he found was exhaustion. With a sigh, he nodded and started the car. Neither of us spoke. The sound of the engine filled the silence, and the windshield wipers squeaked rhythmically across the glass. Dean’s hands gripped the steering wheel tight, knuckles white again. His jaw flexed. He kept blinking fast, like he was trying to keep the tears back. I didn’t look at him. My eyes stayed on the water streaming down the window because all I could think was: I need to see Roman.He would know what to do. He always did. Roman wasn’t the kind of man who panicked—he was deliberate, dangerous, and calm. If anyone could get to the root of this, it was him. By the time we pulled up outside my building, the rain had finally stopped completely. Everything now looked washed—the street glistening under the yellow lamplight. I reached for the door handle, ready to leave. But before I stepped out, I said quietly, “You should go home, Dean. You need to think clearly before you make any decisions.” He didn’t respond right away. His eyes were on me, searching again. “You don’t believe me, do you?” “I didn’t say that.” “But you don’t.” I paused. “My sister is missing. My ex is being charged with a long list of serious crimes. And I don’t know what to believe anymore.” That seemed to hurt him more than a direct accusation. He gave a small, defeated nod. “Right. Of course you don’t.”I got out without another word, closing the door behind me. The sound echoed through the empty street. As the car drove away, I stood there for a few seconds, letting the night air bite at my skin and cool my face. I started walking toward the building. My steps felt heavy, my head full. All I wanted was a shower, clean clothes, and Roman, to help me forget this nightmarish day. But when I reached my door, I saw it. A white paper taped crookedly to the wood, fluttering slightly in the breeze from the hallway. I frowned, stepping closer to read it. 24-HOUR EVICTION NOTICE For a few seconds, I just stared at it. And it stared right back. The hallway light flickered above me. My stomach went hollow as I reached out, tore the notice off the door, and stared at the bold black letters again—the date, the signature, the cold official stamp that made it real. Twenty-four hours. Everything felt like it was collapsing in slow motion.