Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 209

Chapter 209

Noah

Lexie’s gaze lingered on the steam curling up from her mug, as if she were searching for hidden stories within the swirling mist. “When I was a kid, it was never-ending,” she began quietly. “Tutors, lessons, interviews — all of it. There were rules for everything: how to smile, how to sit, what to wear, even what I was allowed to want. Reporters would come to the house, and Dad would coach me on exactly how to stand, what to say. I did it all because making him proud felt like breathing. But no matter what, it was never enough. Always ‘Lexie, eyes up.’ ‘Lexie, shoulders back.’ ‘Lexie, we don’t say things like that.’”

Hearing this, I felt my chest tighten. Just when I thought my own childhood was rough, hers sounded unbearable.

“That’s a heavy burden for a kid,” I murmured, my voice thick with sympathy.

She nodded slowly. “I know. When I turned twelve or thirteen, I realized I had two choices: be perfect or be labeled a problem. So I chose perfect. Straight A’s, violin practice, community service, cheerleading — smiling until my face ached.” She hesitated, her voice dropping. “Then one day, I just snapped. I grabbed my mom’s sewing scissors and hacked off all my hair. Boy-short. It was the only thing I could control.”

I tried to imagine her like that — the flawless princess with a rebellious buzz cut. “What did he do?”

“He didn’t yell,” she said, and the bitterness in her tone was unmistakable. “That’s what hurt the most. He called a stylist and told them to ‘fix it.’ Said mistakes happen, but we learn from them. Then he doubled my schedule.”

I frowned, feeling the weight of her words. “So instead of backing off, you just pushed yourself harder.”

“Exactly.” She traced the edge of her mug absently. “I started counting calories like they were sins. I shrank myself until my clothes hung off me, the house staff whispered behind my back, and my mom started to panic. Dad called doctors, nutritionists. I got ‘better’ enough to smile at the next gala, so everyone decided I was cured.”

My stomach twisted. “Did he…?”

She shook her head. “He didn’t hit me, if that’s what you mean. Not then. He doesn’t have to. He scares people in other ways — controlling everything until you can’t even breathe without his permission.”

She let out a shaky breath. “I tried to escape again later, but differently. I started seeing an older guy. He said he loved me, but he didn’t. He just wanted control — just like my dad. Told me what to wear, who to text, when to eat… Then he got possessive, really scary. I thought it was love for a while, but it wasn’t. It was just another cage. Dad found out when some pictures almost leaked. I spiraled, got very depressed, started taking the wrong things too…”

A flush of heat rose up my neck. “Lexie…”

“He buried the story,” she said, her eyes fixed on the window now, lost in thought. “Then he buried me.” She gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “Not literally. I mean, he sent me to a ‘retreat center’ out in the country. Big house, white walls, gardens, soft music, soft voices. ‘A place to heal,’ the brochure said. But there were locks on the doors. It was a psychiatric facility.”