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“No, I’m not going to get mad. Tell me, Jolie.”

And she does. She tells me everything. About how she was betrayed by the man she mistook for her mentor. How she offered him her notes, and how he used that trust to destroy her. I take the story in with silence. There’s a part of me that’s vindicated seeing her brought so low, but there’s another part of me that breaks for her.

I listen to every word she says. My hands curl into fists as she comes to the betrayal.

This man. This Steven Rinde. He did this to her. He made her like this.

Despite everything, I want to protect her. I want to make this right. The taste of my protective rage builds in the back of my throat. It’s the same taste I had last night in the nightclub when I saw that man lay his hands on her. No one can touch her. No one can hurt her.

She’s mine.

I can’t believe I’m thinking like this. It’s too much. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be this affected by her. I shouldn’t be here, hearing her devastation.

I should fucking leave.

This woman is playing with my head.

But I don’t leave. Instead, I kneel down on the carpet beside the couch, my head level with Jolie’s.

“I can help you with this,” I whisper to her, our faces so close.

Jolie shakes her head.

“I don’t want your help. There’s nothing you can do to help.”

“I know people,” I say. “Lawyers. We can get on the phone tomorrow and we’ll drag Steven’s ass through the courts.”

“You can’t see it, can you? I don’t care about the legality of it all. My brother trusted me to deliver, and I didn’t. You don’t know what it’s like to have someone violate your trust.”

“I do,” I reply quietly.

Jolie blinks, and then her eyes dart away from mine.

There’s a long silence.

“I don’t even know why I messaged you,” she mutters. “You hate me. But you were the first person on my mind.”

“I’ve been telling myself that, but I know why. And so, I think, do you.”

My words are so quiet they’re barely a sound, but both of us hear it. They hang in the air between us.

I am as shocked as Jolie by what comes out of my mouth.

And as for her, Jolie leaps up from the couch, unable to process where our conversation was heading.

“I need a glass of water,” she announces.

“I can get one for you,” I say. “Sit back down.”

But she’s already in the kitchen, opening up cupboards frantically for a glass and then turning on the tap.

She gulps the water down as I watch her, waiting.

“It’s... I guess... it’s all ruined,” she says under her breath. “Why did I tell you all this? Why? You hate me. You said it yourself last night. You don’t care about me at all. Jesus, what am I doing? Why did I even go to you when you practically want me dead...”

“Jolie, sit down,” I say calmly. “You need to take care of yourself.”

She scoffs. At the room. At the situation. At me.