Chapter 16: Unfiltered Confession
The black device lay on the lavender rug like a dropped bullet casing. Sammy stared at it, her breath coming in short, sharp pulls that did nothing to fill her lungs. The air in her bedroom, usually scented with soft jasmine from the diffuser, now felt thick and charged, smelling of her own panic-sweat and the phantom steam from his shower.
Her phone was a live wire in her hand.
REBEL: It’s a window.
REBEL: You wanted one.
The words were a rebuke and an invitation, all at once. She wanted to throw the phone against the wall. She wanted to type back a vicious, cutting remark that would shatter his calm. She wanted to call Caleb right now and scream, Your best friend is a fucking psychopath.
But her thumb hovered. Her chest ached. A traitorous heat still pulsed low in her belly, a stubborn echo of what she’d felt watching him.
You looked. You didn’t turn it off.
He was right.
That was the unforgivable core of it. The shame wasn’t just that he’d done it. The shame was her own rapt, hungry silence. The way she’d leaned in, wiping the fog from the screen. The way her body had responded, ignoring every screaming alarm in her mind.
She sank to the floor, her back against the side of her bed. The plush carpet felt obscenely soft. She pulled her knees to her chest, making herself small. The sun slanted through the half-drawn blinds, cutting bright lines across the room that ended at the dark, silent rectangle of the gifted screen.
A window into him. A view she’d craved for years. A view he’d now given her, not with sweet words or shy glances, but with a cold, technological violation. And she’d devoured it.
The thought detonated in her mind, bright and blinding: That was the best present I’ve ever gotten.
It was a truth so dark it momentarily silenced the panic. It wasn’t the flowers Caleb sent on her birthday, already wilting in their tasteful vase. It wasn’t the expensive leather jacket from her parents last Christmas, still hanging in its dust bag. It wasn’t any of the safe, approved, lovely things she was supposed to want.
It was this. A stolen, intimate glimpse of Rebel Gage, raw and unguarded, meant for her eyes only. A secret that matched the one in her own heart.
Her mind raced down a treacherous path. If she had access to cameras like that… his house would be filled with them. She’d have been watching it for the last six years. She’d have seen him pad around his kitchen in the morning, sleepy and barefoot. She’d have watched him work on his bikes in the garage, muscles straining under grease and ink. She’d have seen him take showers, just like that one, every single day.
A dizzying, possessive hunger twisted inside her. The image was so vivid it stole her breath. She could almost picture herself with a bank of monitors, a cup of coffee gone cold beside her, her world narrowed to the flickering grayscale of his life. She’d know his routines. His moods. The way he looked when he thought no one was watching.
She’d know him.
The fantasy was so potent, so right, that for a second it completely overshadowed the monstrous wrongness of it. She was almost tempted to text him back, Put more in. I want to see the rest.
The recoil was immediate and violent. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets until she saw fractals of light. What was wrong with her?
He told you he loved you.
The memory of his voice in the dark, rough with emotion, was an anchor. It felt real. It felt like the only real thing in this spinning, messed-up situation. He loved her. He’d said it. And she loved him. She’d carried that torch for so long it had burned its shape into her soul.
So why was she lying? Why was she sitting here, trembling on the floor, typing out accusations she didn’t fully feel? He’d seen through her instantly. You wanted one. He knew her better than she knew herself.
She lowered her hands. She picked up her phone again, the screen lighting up her pale, strained face in the dimming room.
You wanted one.
She read his last text message over and over and over again. The letters blurred, then sharpened. He was right. She wanted it ravenously. So much it scared her. It was a hunger that felt older than reason, a deep, gnawing need that had been fed on stolen glances and fictional daydreams for years. He’d finally offered her real food, and she’d found it poisoned… and she was still starving.
And she wants more.
The admission, silent and internal, cracked something open inside her. A dam of pretense broke. She was tired of being the good little sister, the goth girl playing at edge in a gilded cage, the woman who pretended a kiss by a pool was just a mistake. She wanted the dark, complicated, terrifying truth of him. Even if it meant stepping into his shadows.
Her thumbs moved slowly at first, then with gathering certainty. She didn’t type an apology. She didn’t type an accusation. She typed the only honest thing left.
SAMMY: It was the best present I’ve ever gotten.
She sent it.
The three dots appeared instantly, a rapid pulse of digital life. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum in the sudden silence of the lavender room. She watched the glow of her screen, the confession hanging in the air between them like a held breath.
Then, they vanished.
No reply. Just a blank void beneath her message. The silence stretched, thin and razor-sharp. A minute passed. Two. The heavy quiet of the mansion pressed in, broken only by the distant hum of the central air. Had she crossed a line? Had her honesty been too much, too raw?
She felt exposed, more than she had watching him. She’d handed him a naked piece of her soul.
Her phone buzzed, a sharp vibration against her palm.
REBEL: Good.
That was all. A single word. It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t an explanation. It was an acknowledgment, final and complete. He knew she’d liked it. He knew why she’d liked it. The power of that knowledge thrummed through the line, a live wire connecting them across the city.
She bit her lip, hard. The coppery taste of blood bloomed on her tongue. She could feel her cheeks burning, a scalding heat that spread down her neck. She was flushed, red as a tomato, her skin and too-tight. Every nerve ending felt alert, raw. The aching throb between her legs was a relentless, undeniable pulse.
It wasn't psychotic. It was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen.
Her thumb moved, almost without her permission. She typed another truth, the words forming before her brain could filter them.
SAMMY: I wanted more.
She hit send. No hesitation. No backtracking. The admission felt like stepping off a cliff. It was terrifying. It was freeing. Maybe he’d give her more. Maybe this could be their thing, a twisted, private hide-and-seek played across screens and secrets. A game where the rules were written in lines of code and desperate looks.
His reply came faster this time.
REBEL: I know.
Of course he did. He knew everything. He’d probably known she would feel this way before she’d known it herself. The thought should have chilled her. Instead, it sent another wave of liquid heat through her. He understood this dark part of her. He didn’t flinch from it.
She leaned her head back against the bedframe, staring at the ceiling. The dark jade paint seemed to swim. What was she doing? This was the man who had installed the security in this house. Who had “fixed” the glitches. Who had cameras in places no one should.
A dark, curious thought slithered into her mind. If he had access to feeds here, in Caleb’s house… did he watch her, too? The idea was a bucket of ice water dumped over the heat. It should have repulsed her. It should have sent her screaming.
But another part, the part that had leaned closer to the screen, wondered what he saw. If he watched her pad around her room in her shorts and his t-shirt. If he saw her vulnerability, her private moments. The possessive thrill of it was sickening. And exhilarating.
Her phone buzged again.
REBEL: Look in the closet. Top shelf. Left side.
She froze. Her eyes snapped to her walk-in closet, the door slightly ajar. The inside was dark. He’d left something else. Another gift. Here, in her room. He’d been in here. The realization was a physical shock, a cold finger tracing her spine. When? How?
She pushed herself up from the floor, her legs unsteady. She crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate. She pushed the closet door open wider. The motion-sensor light flicked on, illuminating rows of black clothing, stacks of boots. Her eyes went to the top shelf, left side, behind a pile of old sweaters she never wore.
She reached up, her fingers brushing dusty wool, and found a small, flat box. It was black, unmarked. She pulled it down. It was light.
Sitting on the edge of her bed, she opened it. Nestled inside was another device. Sleeker than the first. A small, disc-like screen with a single, subtle button on the side. No instructions. She pressed the button.
The screen lit up. It showed a live feed of a room. A room she knew. It was Rebel’s living room, in his penthouse. The view was from high in a corner, looking down on his minimalist leather sofa, the dark hardwood floors, the bank of windows showing the glittering LA skyline just beginning to dusk.
He walked into the frame.
He was dressed now, in low-slung grey sweatpants and nothing else. His hair was still damp from the shower, his tattoos stark against his skin in the dim evening light of the room. He carried a glass of water. He didn't look at the camera. He settled onto the sofa, picking up a tablet from the coffee table.
He was just… living. Unaware. Or pretending to be.
She watched, mesmerized, as he scrolled, took a sip of water, rubbed a hand over his jaw. This was a different kind of intimacy. Softer. Domestic. A view into his solitude. A gift far more dangerous than the first.
Her phone lit up with his final message of the night.
REBEL: I love you Samantha.
The screen went dark. In her hand, the small disc showed him lifting the tablet, his face illuminated by its blue glow, utterly absorbed. She held a piece of his private world. She closed her fingers around it, the plastic warm from her grip. She didn't turn it off.
She lay down on her bed, the comforter cool against her skin, and held the device up. The screen glowed softly in the dim room, a blue rectangle casting light on her face. In it, Rebel scrolled, took a sip of water, and ran a hand through his damp hair.
He shifted on the sofa, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. A simple, tired gesture. She watched the subtle rise and fall of his bare chest. She was a ghost in his living room, invisible, breath held. The normalcy of the scene was its own kind of intimacy, more profound than the shower.
A dark, unbidden thought bloomed in the silence of her own watching.
She hoped she had been watched. The wish rose like black ink in water, staining everything. She hoped with a vicious, sudden clarity that every intimate, unguarded moment of her last six years had been fed into his eyes. Her late-night dances to sad music in her underwear, her frustrated tears over a crooked eyeliner wing, the way she’d sometimes hug her own knees on the floor just to feel held.
If he had seen all of that, then her years of pining weren’t pathetic. They were reciprocated. Her obsession wouldn’t be one-sided. It would be a secret dialogue conducted through glass and lenses, a twisted symmetry. The idea was a poison that tasted like absolution. It would mean she wasn’t alone in this.
Her phone, silent on the nightstand, felt like a dare.
She lowered the viewing device to her chest, its light illuminating the ceiling. The shadowed room seemed to press closer, full of potential eyes. Her breath hitched, not from fear now, but from a desperate, clawing want. She wanted the scales balanced. She wanted her private loneliness matched by his solitary, voyeuristic devotion.
It was the only thing that could make this okay.
A reckless energy buzzed through her veins. She snatched her phone, her thumb finding his name in her messages. The cursor blinked, a tiny, relentless pulse. She typed three words, a question and an answer fused together.
SAMMY: My room too?
She sent it into the digital night. The message hung there, bald and immense. It wasn’t an accusation. It was a confirmation request. A negotiation. She was handing him a piece of her, asking for a piece of him in return.
She held the device up again. On the screen, Rebel remained still on the sofa, eyes closed. Then, a subtle change. His head tilted. He opened his eyes. He wasn’t looking at his tablet anymore. He was looking straight ahead, at nothing, or at everything. A muscle in his jaw feathered.
Her phone buzzed in her other hand, making her flinch.
REBEL: Which one?
The air left her lungs. A cold, thrilling shock cascaded down her spine. He wasn’t denying it. He was asking for specifics. He was cataloging his crimes for her benefit. Which camera. Which moment. Which part of her stolen privacy did she want to know about first?
She couldn’t breathe. The walls of her sanctuary, her soft, scented refuge, felt paper-thin and teeming with hidden life. Every faint click of the house settling, every hum of the fridge, became the sound of a lens focusing. She looked at the smoke detector in the corner. The tiny LED light on her speaker. The benign, decorative vase on her dresser.
Any of them. All of them.
She typed back, her fingers trembling but sure.
SAMMY: All of them.
The three dots appeared. They lingered, pulsing, for what felt like an hour. She watched them, and she watched him watch her on the other screen. He hadn’t moved from the sofa. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone and shadow.
Her phone finally lit up.
REBEL: Good.
Then, a second message followed, immediate and final.
REBEL: Sleep now.