Act Like You Love Me (Jessica) novel Chapter 50

Chapter 50

Chapter 50

Jessica’s POV

“Where the fuck…”

I was currently elbow-deep in my suitcase, tossing silk slips and denim aside like a woman possessed.

My heart sank as I reached the bottom corner, my fingers meeting nothing but the smooth polyester lining of the bag.

I stopped, and stared at the empty corner of the suitcase. My favorite pair of socks weren’t there.

It sounds ridiculous, I know. They’re just socks.

But my faded lilac socks were more than just fabric; they were a psychological anchor.

They were the ones I wore during every finals week, every late-night breakdown, and every rare moment of peace I’d managed to find over the last four years. They were my “reading socks.”

Without them, the ritual felt broken. I couldn’t explain the science behind it, but without that specific shade of worn-out purple hugging my ankles, my brain refused to settle into a story.

“Great. Just great,” I muttered, shoving a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

Frustrated, I kept rummaging, shoving aside a swimsuit I probably wouldn’t wear and a crumpled hoodie.

My fingers brushed something hard and leather-bound. At least I didn’t forget my novel.

For a second, relief washed over me. I pulled it out, but the relief died instantly.

It wasn’t my novel. It was my journal.

“No… no, no, no.” I scrambled through the rest of the bag, dumping half of it onto the floor in a frantic pile.

My book-the five-hundred-page fantasy escape I had been saving for this specific hell-trip-was nowhere to be found. In its place, I had somehow grabbed this.

I groaned, a long, low sound of defeat, and let my body go limp. I slumped back onto the hardwood floor, limbs sprawling dramatically.

How does someone mistake a thick, leather-bound journal for a paperback novel? My brain was clearly fried.

I stayed there for a minute, staring up at the elegant ceiling of the cabin/

How was I supposed to drown out reality now? I already had a dull headache pulsing behind my eyes, a gift from the afternoon’s festivities.

Between Kennedy’s predatory, wicked “I-own-you” smile and Fiona’s hateful glares, my mental capacity was at zero.

I just wanted to disappear into a world of dragons or star-crossed lovers-anything that wasn’t a floating fortress of Tyrone family drama.

Eventually, the hardness of the floor became too much to ignore. I pushed myself up, my joints protesting, and headed for

the bathroom.

If I couldn’t escape into a book, I’d escape into the steam.

The bathroom was a masterpiece of white marble and polished chrome, smelling faintly of eucalyptus and expensive soap.

59

Mon,

Chapter 50

The shower was massive, with a rainfall head that looked like it belonged in a spa.

I stripped down and stepped under the hot spray, closing my eyes as the warmth spread slowly over my skin.

The water pressure was perfect. It was strong enough to knead the knots from my shoulders but gentle on my skin.

When I stepped out, I stood before the vanity, staring at the array of skincare products Aaron had bought for me.

He got them for me back in my second year, when the stress of keeping my head above water had manifested into a red, angry rash across my cheeks.

I remember how hideous I felt.

I spent weeks trying to hide behind my hair, waiting for the inevitable joke that never came.

Aaron hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t teased me, and he hadn’t even pointed it out.

Instead, he’d just shown up one evening, shoved a neatly wrapped bag of high-end, dermatologically tested creams into my

hands.

“Figured you needed this,” he’d said casually, like it was no big deal. But hell-it was.

I’d never been the type to have a routine. I was too broke, too busy-mostly too broke-to afford one.

Looking at the bottles now, a small, involuntary smile tugged at my lips.

I’d spent so many years focused on the ways he’d hurt me, the ways he’d pushed me away, that I had almost missed the quiet trail of breadcrumbs he’d left behind.

There’d always been signs he cared, even back then: the quiet check-ins after bad days, the way he’d stock the fridge with my favorite snacks without asking.

Little things that chipped away at the bully image from our past, building this… whatever we had now. It made my chest warm, a quiet gratitude blooming in the midst of the cruise chaos.

I finished my routine, and my skin felt deeply hydrated.

I pulled on a pair of soft cotton pajamas, and slid under the heavy duvet of the king-sized bed, but the silence of the room was too loud.

I missed my book. I tried opening a reading app on my phone, but after five minutes, my eyes began to ache. I hated reading on a screen; it felt clinical, and it always made me drift into a restless, unsatisfying sleep.

I tossed. I turned. I groaned into the pillow.

Finally, I sat up, and ran my fingers through my damp hair in frustration. I was about to give up and walk out onto the balcony just to watch the dark water, when I saw it.

The journal was lying on the floor. I hadn’t put it back in the suitcase. It was splayed open near the nightstand, its cream- colored pages catching the dim light of the bedside lamp.

I padded across the room, my bare feet silent on the rug, and picked it up. I sat back down on the edge of the bed, the weight of the leather familiar and heavy in my lap.

This journal had originally belonged to my mother. I’d found it years ago, tucked away in a box of her things that my father, in his grief-fueled haste to erase her, had somehow overlooked.

She had only ever written on the very first page. A short, lyrical introduction of herself, her dreams of being a writer, and the hope that this book would hold her “truest self.” After that, the pages were terrifyingly blank.

13:16 Mon, Jan 12

Chapter 50

When I found it at sixteen, I decided to fill that void. It became the place where I poured everything I couldn’t say out loud.

I often wondered if the reason I felt so compelled to write in it was the same reason she had bought it in the first place-to find a sanctuary in a world that felt too loud.

I began to flip through the entries, the paper whispering against my thumbs. A small, bittersweet smile teetered on my face as I read.

I saw the entry from the first day I met Aaron-how I’d described him as a “brooding, arrogant titan” who I hoped I’d never have to speak to again.

Then, a few pages later, the entry from the first time he truly made me cry, the ink blurred in places where my tears had hit the page.

But as the pages turned, the tone shifted.

I read the entry where I confessed, with terrifying honesty, that I was falling for him.

I read about the night he stood up for me against those guys at the ice cream shop, and the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching. It was a map of my heart-the messy, unedited history of us.

I was deep into an entry from last winter, reliving the moment I realized I’d let him in too deep to ever truly get him out. when a shadow fell over the page.

I didn’t hear the door open. I didn’t hear him walk across the room.

Suddenly, a large, familiar hand moved into my field of vision. I looked down, and all I could see were my own fingers clutching the edges of the book and Aaron’s palm as he reached down.

He didn’t pull it away. He just stood there, his body heat radiating off him, his eyes locked onto the cursive script of my most private thoughts.

My heart stopped. My breath hitched in my throat, a physical lump of panic forming instantly.

“Aaron,” I whispered, my voice trembling.

He didn’t look at me. He was reading. His jaw was set tight, and I watched his eyes track across the page-the page where 1 had written, in no uncertain terms, exactly how much power he had over me,

The silence in the room became suffocating, broken only by the distant, rhythmic thrum of the ship’s engines.

I wanted to slam the book shut. I wanted to run. But I was frozen, anchored to the bed as he peeled back the layers of my soul, word by agonizing word.

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13:16 Mon, Jan 12