บททั้งหมดของ Tangled Obsession : บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

Palmer POV The walls of Arrow’s penthouse were starting to feel alive. Every mirror seemed to watch me, every shadow lengthened like it had ears. Even the silence carried weight 😑—as if the apartment itself reported back to him when I breathed too loudly. 😩But tonight, I wasn’t in the apartment. Tonight, I was standing in the chilled hallway of the hospital again, clutching my father’s discharge papers. He was weaker, his skin almost translucent against the sheets, but stable. For now. And yet the relief refused to settle in me because I knew what the price of that stability was: me, tethered tighter to Arrow’s leash.I almost didn’t hear Andrew’s voice until he was too close.“Palmer?”I froze. My name in his mouth sounded like home, like a world I’d buried under guilt and chains.I turned and there he was—Andrew. His face softer than Arrow’s hard edges, his gaze carrying none of the cruelty, only confusion. He wore the same look when we were at Paint gallery...... “You look… pa

Palmer POV I woke before Arrow the next morning. The room was dim, the curtains pulled tight, but I could still make out the shape of him beside me — broad shoulders, even breathing, the picture of peace.He looked almost harmless when he slept. Almost.I lay there, listening to the rhythm of his breath, and thought about how easy it would be to slide out of bed, slip on my shoes, and keep walking until my legs gave out. 🚶‍♀️💔But running was a fantasy. Fantasies didn’t keep my father alive. Fantasies didn’t erase contracts written in ink and blood. Fantasies only made the fall back into reality hurt worse.So instead, I lay still until Arrow stirred, stretching like a predator waking from a nap. His arm draped over me as if by instinct. Not a hug. A tether.“Morning,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. “Stay in bed today. You look pale.”Stay.The word curled around me like rope.“I need to visit my father,” I said softly.Arrow opened his eyes, fixing me with that calm, unreada

Palmer’s POVThere are prisons you walk into with your eyes open. The door closes behind you, and you tell yourself you’re still free because no one shouted “stop.”Arrow didn’t have to raise his voice. He built his walls out of gestures, schedules, and small requests that sounded like kindness but felt like chains. 🪤The morning after the dinner, the house was quiet. Sunlight cut across the polished floors like a blade. I moved through the kitchen barefoot, pouring coffee into a cup I no longer tasted. My body still ached from the tension of the night before, my mind running loops of Arrow’s words:That was your test, and you failed.I wanted to believe he was bluffing. I wanted to believe I could still maneuver inside the cracks of his control. But then I noticed the first change.The phone on the kitchen wall was gone. Just… gone. No explanation.In its place, a small black device blinked a red light. A router? A signal booster? It sat there humming, alien in the domestic quiet.A

Palmer’s POVHospitals used to smell like hope to me. Antiseptic and bleach, yes, but beneath it—something fragile, like clean sheets and second chances.Now, with Arrow’s hand warm on the small of my back as we walked through the double doors, the scent turned acrid. Hope became a taunt. 🥀The nurses greeted him with polished smiles, their gazes flicking to me only briefly. They knew who he was. Everyone did. Arrow Dawson, benefactor, savior of departments with underfunded equipment. The man who signed checks that kept lights humming.He leaned into that power effortlessly, his palm pressing firmer against me as if to remind me whose shadow I stood in.“Relax,” he murmured, lips close enough that only I could hear. “We’re here as family.”Family. The word was a blade hidden in velvet.---My father’s room was on the third floor, familiar yet foreign every time I entered it. Machines breathed around him, a steady chorus of beeps and soft hisses. His face lit up when he saw me, even u

Palmer POV Arrow was waiting when I returned.Not pacing. Not glaring. Not slamming doors the way my nerves expected. Instead, he sat on the edge of the velvet sofa like a king in repose, his jacket tossed carelessly over the armrest, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms. A glass of something amber glowed in his hand, the light catching against crystal. He looked like a portrait — controlled, casual, composed.It should have calmed me. But instead, the silence felt worse. It meant he had already decided something."Well," he said finally, voice smooth, almost gentle. "Did you deliver my message?"My throat was sandpaper. I could still feel the weight of my father’s tired eyes, the way his frail fingers had clutched mine, searching for reassurance. The words had torn out of me like barbed wire — Arrow’s words, not mine. Words that made me feel like a traitor in my father’s hospital room."Yes," I whispered.Arrow leaned back, lips curving in a slow smile. Not cruel. Not triumphant. Ju