The manuscript was not meant to be seen. Divine realized this the moment her trembling hands brushed across the stack of pages half hidden beneath Xavier’s desk. She had entered his private study once more, this time without invitation, drawn by a compulsion she could not explain. Something in her bones told her that answers waited here. Something darker whispered that she might never come back the same once she found them.
The candlelight was low, flickering shadows against the floorboards. The air smelled of old paper, ink, and the faint trace of Xavier’s cologne, a scent that clung stubbornly even when he was not present. She lifted the first page, her pulse hammering in her throat, and read the opening line.
The woman walks between two graves, one dug by the hands of the man who once owned her body and the other prepared by the brother who cannot release her soul.
Divine froze. The words felt like a trap closing in on her chest. She turned the page quickly, hoping she had misread, but the story unfolded in brutal clarity. The woman in the pages was not a character. She was herself. From her earliest childhood memories to the smallest scar on her wrist, the manuscript described her life with precision that left no room for doubt.
Her mouth went dry as she read passages that mirrored Maverick’s cruelty. The author wrote of whispered threats in the dark, of hands that bruised and lips that promised love while delivering pain. The details were too sharp, too private, as if Xavier had been standing inside the room all those years ago. She swallowed hard and forced herself to read on.
The pages shifted. The story now charted a future that had not yet happened. She saw Maverick’s name woven into betrayal, an encounter written with inevitability. She saw Xavier’s name followed by surrender, the text describing her body drawn to him, her mind unraveling under his gaze until she gave herself fully. And then came the final chapter, still incomplete, yet its outline was already scrawled. Her death. Not by Maverick or Xavier but by Sid, her brother, his hands written as the last touch upon her throat.
Divine staggered back, the manuscript nearly slipping from her grasp. The room seemed to tilt around her, walls closing in as though the words themselves had reshaped reality. She whispered aloud, no no this is impossible. But the pages remained, black ink telling her destiny with merciless calm.
A voice came from behind her, smooth and heavy like velvet soaked in smoke. You found it.
Divine turned sharply. Xavier stood in the doorway, his tall figure framed by shadows. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes gleamed with an unsettling satisfaction.
You should not have touched that, he said, stepping closer. His tone carried no anger, only certainty, as if this moment had been scripted as well.
Divine’s voice broke. What is this. How do you know. How could you possibly write these things.
Xavier’s gaze softened, almost pitying. I do not choose the story, Divine. The story chooses me. From the first night you stepped into my dreams, your life has been unfolding on these pages. I only record what has already been written by something greater than us both.
Her chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. That is madness, she spat. These are my memories, my secrets. You could not have known them unless you were there. Unless you are lying.
He shook his head slowly. You mistake my gift for intrusion. I am not your tormentor. I am your witness.
His words sent a chill through her. Witness. As if her pain had been entertainment, as if her scars had been scenes staged for his pen. She wanted to scream, to rip the manuscript apart, but a part of her was terrified that destroying the pages might destroy her too.
She forced herself to speak. The last chapter. You wrote that Sid kills me.
Xavier’s eyes did not waver. That is what the story demands.
Tears blurred her vision. No. I will not let you or anyone decide my ending.
He stepped closer until the space between them was thin as breath. Divine felt his presence surround her like a tide she could not resist. He lifted a hand as if to touch her cheek but stopped inches away. His restraint was worse than contact.
The story is not a cage, he whispered. It is liberation. You resist because you still believe in chance. But chance is chaos. I offer you meaning.
She pushed past him, clutching the manuscript to her chest. Her heart pounded with a mix of terror and fury. She fled into the night, the sound of her footsteps echoing in the empty streets. Behind her she thought she heard his voice call her name, not in anger but in longing.
Back at her apartment she spread the pages on the floor, scanning them again under harsh light. Stacy arrived unexpectedly, finding her surrounded by the words as if they were evidence at a crime scene.
What is this, Stacy demanded, her eyes wide.
Divine explained in a rush, her voice shaking. Stacy listened, growing pale as she read fragments aloud. Betrayal by Maverick. Surrender to Xavier. Death by Sid. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
This is sick, Stacy said. He is not a prophet. He is a manipulator writing you into his fantasy.
Divine shook her head, clutching her arms. But how could he know the things Maverick did. Things I never told anyone, not even you.
Stacy crouched beside her, her hand gripping Divine’s shoulder. Trauma leaves marks, she said firmly. Men like him know how to read them. He could guess, he could invent, and you are filling the gaps with your fear.
Divine wanted to believe her, but doubt gnawed at her bones. The precision of the manuscript was too sharp, too cruelly exact. And yet the alternative was unthinkable: that her life was nothing more than a script written by Xavier’s hand.
Days blurred after that discovery. Divine carried the manuscript everywhere, unable to destroy it, unwilling to ignore it. Each time she opened it her eyes sought the unwritten final lines, desperate to see if they had changed. But the pages remained incomplete, as if waiting for her next choice to fill them.
Sid grew suspicious. He saw the toll etched into her face, the sleepless nights and trembling hands. One evening he confronted her directly, demanding to know what she was hiding. When she refused, he searched her bag and found the manuscript. His face hardened as he read the words predicting his own hands as her executioner.
What kind of poison is this, he thundered, shoving the pages at her. He wants to turn me into a monster. And you believe him.
Divine pleaded with him to calm down, but Sid’s eyes burned with wounded pride. He swore he would destroy Xavier for planting such lies. His rage frightened her. For a brief, terrible moment she saw in his glare the same shadow described in the manuscript, the brother turned executioner. She snatched the pages back and begged him to leave it alone, but his fury left a scar that would not fade.
That night she dreamed again. In the dream Maverick appeared, his smile sharp and cruel as always. He whispered lines that matched Xavier’s text, promising betrayal, promising return. She woke drenched in sweat, certain that the next chapter of her life had already begun.
The manuscript lay beside her bed. She opened it once more, heart pounding. A new line had appeared, one she was sure had not been there before. The betrayer returns when the shadows are weakest and the moon is thin.
She stared at the sentence until her eyes blurred. The betrayer. Maverick. His reappearance had been foretold.
Divine pressed her forehead against the page, torn between despair and defiance. If the story was real, then her fate was already sealed. If it was manipulation, then she was still living inside Xavier’s imagination. Either way, she felt trapped in a labyrinth of ink and prophecy.
She whispered to herself in the silence of her room. I am not a character. I am not. But even as she said the words, the manuscript waited patiently, as if knowing she would return to it again and again.
The story was not finished. And neither was she.
ns216.73.216.13da2
and then Add to home screen.