Whumpy side blog

He looks over his shoulder at the ballroom full of journalists, then shoots me a warning glance. "Careful."

I keep my voice a low hiss. "Careful? Oh, I'm entirely in character. We've done such hard work to establish that I'm a sexy sad traumatized girl, haven't we?"

His eyes narrow. "You're-"

"Stop." One of the guards raises an arm. "No more questions for Ms Hammond!"

"Dany", someone behind us says, firmly. Lou. 

I squeeze my eyes shut. I should've known they wouldn't let go. 

I like how vulnerable they look.

"I'm fine," I say, as I turn around. "Lou. Please."

The guard pushes herself between us, hand wandering towards her hip. "Mx. Step back."

"It's fine." I'm talking to the guard now. My heart is thrumming in my chest. "They're a friend, not a journalist."

She scoffs. "Mr Lucia-"

A glare from Jonah makes her mouth fall shut, before she can bring up Leo's name. "If Danielle wants to talk to their friend," Jonah says slowly, "Of course we'll give them privacy. Danielle, it's your call." He nods at Lou apologetically. "Sorry for their harsh tone, Mx. They're private security. After what Ms Hammond experienced, understandably everyone around her is very on edge."

My gaze catches Jonah's. He gives a tiny half shrug, almost like he's sorry. We both know what the situation demands. We both know the stakes. We both know he won't allow me another choice.

I clear my throat. "Yes," I rasp. "Yes, thank you, please, give us a moment."

In another situation, the reluctance with which the guards step away at my order would have been comical. It's not now. I fight the urge to ball my hands into fist and pummel them until they go. 

Lou has to trust me. Lou has to believe me. They have to believe this.

Jonah walks off, too, deliberately out of earshot, deliberately gesturing at the guards to leave us even more space. We're cornered, still. Of course we are. All exits are covered.

"You've done great before." Jonah's voice is a whisper in my earpiece. "You know what to do."

"Dany," Lou says again, softer, and steps in closer, extending their arms.

Tears well up in my eyes. I lift a hand between us and shake my head. "Sorry, I… I can't."

Deep worry flickers over their face. "You can't… hug me? Dany, what… what have they done to you? Was it Frankie? Lordin? Who's in on this?"

What do you think, how long will delicate little Lou last down here?

"I'm fine." I force the words out. "I know I should have talked to you guys sooner."

"Yeah." They fold their arms, carefully looking me down. "That's quite the understatement, to be honest, but yeah, you should have."

"I was with Ridley. It was safest not to let anyone know. I'm a target. I need to be careful about whom to trust."

It's the first strike. The pained irritation in Lou's face feels like a gut punch. "Me, Dany? You can always trust me."

"I had to priorize."

Their head spins back to the main floor, where Ridley is doing his rounds. "And you chose… that clown? Dany, how long have you even known him?"

The question makes it sound, like they struggle to understand. Not like they struggle to believe. 

I am the one lying to them. Why is it, that them believing my lies feels like a betrayal?

"A while," I say.

"Be precise," Jonah says over the comm. "Around a year. Dating for five months."

Fucking Jonah. I know the numbers. They've made me learn them by heart. "We've met about a year ago. Took us a while to understand what it was. We've been dating for five months now."

Lou shakes their head. "You don't date. That's what you always say. You don't do romance."

I grimace. The words feel like cutting into my own flesh. "I know I said that. But - it seems I was wrong. I just… I hadn't found the right one. I have now. Ridley is." 

"That's BS, Dany. Bullshit."

Tears threaten to well up in my eyes. I know the script. I know what I need to say. 

I look to the side and shake my head, slowly, softly. "I knew you wouldn't understand."

There it is. It's out. The line to break them. And it lands, just as intended. Lou seems to shrink into themself. "Dany, what-?"

"This world, here, the rich and famous, politics, Ridley - that's my place, Lou. I've been made for it. I've tried myself out for a while, yeah. But with all the stuff that happened lately? My Dad, and all? It just made me see more clearly that I'm done. I needed to start a new chapter."

"A new chapter?"

I nod, my throat constricted. How can I do this? How can it be so simple, to do something so unforgivable? To destroy my best friend?

The earpiece crackles. "Don't stop talking. Drive it in."

"We..." Lou is looking up at me from teary eyes. "Dany, we... we thought you were dead!"

"I know," I whisper. "I know, and I'm sorry. But there's a part of me, that had to die."

They bite their lip. "Dany, you-"

"Princess?" Ridley is strolling towards us, face flushed with success and excitement. "Come. We're leaving"

"Princess?", Lou echoes tonelessly. "That's not you, Dany. It's not."

Jonah stops Ridley's steps just out of earshot and whispers something in his ear. Both are watching us intently.

"I know this is going to be hard to hear. I'm exactly where I need to be. It is me. And on that note," I tilt my head. Tears are heavy in my eyelashes. It doesn't matter. These lies work well with tears. "It's not Dany any longer. I go by Danielle."

Ridley extends his arm. 

With measured, painful steps, I walk over to him and let him wrap his arm around me, shield me against the reporters, against Lou, against everything.

By the time we reach the limo, his crisp white shirt is stained with my tears.

He doesn't seem to mind.

On our way home, in the back of the limo, it is me who wordlessly takes initiative, who works open his pants, who pushes up my dress, who slowly settles down on his lap.

Whumper took a step back, breaking his usual pattern of intimidation. He raised a brow inquisitively, his lips twitching to form an amused grin.

“Put your fucking hands up.” Whumpee repeated forcefully.

“Riiight…”

“Do it.” His grip tightened around the handle of the gun. “I'm not afraid to shoot you.”

“Really. You’re gonna kill me, Whumpee-boy?” The tall man half-chuckled. “That’ll be the day.”

The metallic click of the revolver’s hammer echoed in response.

Point taken.

“Ugh. You’re no fun.” Reluctantly, Whumper heeded Whumpee’s warning, sighing as he removed his hands from his oversized hoodie pocket, slowly lifting them above his head. For the first time during Whumpee’s captivity, his cruel smirk faltered.

“Give a coward a gun and suddenly they think they’re invincible.” The tall man grumbled under his breath. There was no way Whumpee would actually shoot him. He didn’t have the balls.

“Just shut up.”

“Ooh, scary.” Whumper taunted. He reeled his head back and spat in Whumpee’s direction, the wet splat landing only inches from the other's bare feet. 

Whumpee’s eyes flicked up to meet Whumper’s, blazing furiously.

He inched closer to Whumper with careful, measured steps, keeping the barrel of the gun leveled steadily at the monster's chest. 

“Woah woah woah. Easy tiger.” Whumper said playfully. He maintained the intense eye contact as he slowly lowered his hands back to his sides, palms facing out in a mock display of submission. 

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” He chuckled, tucking his hands back into the oversized hoodie pocket.

“This isn’t a joke.” Whumpee warned. “Put your fucking hands up, or I’ll make you.” 

“Naw.” The tall man said, drinking in Whumpee’s increasing agitation. His sadistic eyes glinted with challenge. “Guess you’ll have to make me.”

“I’ll end you right now. I mean it. Nothing would make me happier than watching you bleed out.” Whumpee clenched his jaw. “Killing you would be the easy route, though. Death is too good for you. It's not even a fraction of what you deserve. So for the last goddamn time, fucking listen to me.”

“Fucking listen to me,” Whumper repeated sarcastically, voice dripping with contempt. “You really know how to demand respect, Whumpee. I’m confused, are you gonna shoot me, or are ya gonna torture me? 'Cuz you’ve got me absolutely shitting my pants over here.”

Whumpee felt a surge of adrenaline, the weight of the confrontation pressing down on him as he struggled to maintain his composure.

“How ‘bout this, you trigger-happy little cunt,” Whumper said wickedly. “Give me the gun now, and I won’t fuck you with it later.”

The threat made Whumpee’s blood boil. 

That’s it. Time for Whumper to die. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Whumpee took a step forward and planted the muzzle of the gun against Whumper’s temple. He squeezed the trigger. 

The hammer flicked forward, eliciting an empty click.

The gun didn’t fire.

Time froze. 

The dull sound echoed in the silence. 

Whumpee couldn’t hear anything other than his heart thundering in his chest. 

His wide eyes darted down to the revolver, disbelief written across his face. Panic flooded in.

A wide grin spread across Whumper’s chin as he removed a hand from his pocket. Six golden bullets rolled in the palm of his hand, glinting in the light. Whumper pinched one between his fingers, turning it over as he marveled at it.

“Surprised?”

With a flick of his wrist, he released the remaining five bullets from his palm. They cascaded to the concrete floor with five distinct clangs.

“If you’re gonna shoot someone, you might want to make sure the fucking gun is loaded.”

Whumpee froze in disbelief.

How could he have been so stupid?

He didn’t react when Whumper lunged at him, twisting the gun from his sweaty hands. He didn’t fight back when the cold metal smacked against his temple, heavy and sharp, sending him hurtling into the concrete, cracking his skull into the ground.

Everything went black. A trickle of blood flowed down his cheek.

Whumper towered over him, a victorious grin plastered across his face.

"I enjoyed your game, Whumpee. Let's play another."

He loaded the single bullet into the revolver, clicking the cylinder closed.

You’re hidden in a section of his more than average penthouse that’s probably financed by his savings over the course of long working years. You know he’s only purchased this for you when you spent a little too much time in his office and managed to get your hands on a couple files.

There were all of his plans, bank history and a blueprint of the place. He practically decorated the place to keep a hostage in. All doors were unopenable unless you had a key or card of some sorts which you’re sure only he has. Where you’re kept is far into the apartment, behind many many rooms that you have to go through before eventually arriving.

He’s clever— deliberate in all of the choices he makes.

Yet this is all so stupid at the same time. How is no one looking for you? Not even a soul in the city cares for where you could be?

It was almost yesterday when they started giving you empathetic looks and “get well soon” messages. Now, they’ve all dissipated into thin air just like that? It’s like everything was a set-up plan.

Curiosity is the only thing that’s very evident in your mind aside from fear. It’s honestly daunting to suddenly know the reason he’s been single all these years, especially since so many of the girls in town would’ve jumped off a cliff if he told them to.

“Good evening, [name],” Malcolm enters, placing his jacket, keys and whatever trinkets are in his pockets onto the table. “What have you been doing?” he kneels to stare into your eyes.

“Nothing,” you reply, an icy fear making its way through your veins, despite him doing barely anything yet.

“I hope it wasn’t too boring,” he says. “I brought some things for you.”

He puts some books— empty and some actual best-sellers— onto the ground beside you. He knows you would pull some stunt if he gave you an electronic device or some toy like a key that’s malleable enough for you to escape, so he’s opted for pieces of paper.

Sure, you can use it to make a key but how good would it be?

He doesn’t doubt your skills, far from it, but he can’t risk it. However, he’s not meant to restrict you completely from gadgets. Maybe he’ll allow you to use the huge TV in the living room under his supervision one of these days.

You can’t deny that his place is much less claustrophobic than you would’ve expected, large windows that reveal the woods outside, giving you the light you very much didn’t know you even needed.

“I don’t read,” you say, denying his attempt at trying to make you at home.

“Then you won’t have much else to do,” he replies. “Do you want to go out to eat?”

Surprised, your ears perk up at the question. “Like… outside as in a restaurant?”

He nods. “Yeah, where do you want to go?”

“A-anywhere,” you answer, breath hitching and hope for freedom blossoming in your heart. “I-I’m not picky with food.”

He gives you an absent, empty glare and only disappears through the door, leaving you alone temporarily and coming back with some clothes. It was a simple pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt. 

It would’ve been nice, if only you weren’t forced to literally change in front of him, but it’s not that shocking for him to be so wary about the patient he’s just kidnapped.

The restaurant he brings you to is actually a luxurious one that’s earned a couple Michelin stars throughout its career, flaunting it on the vestibule walls. It’s the ones you’d always wish to visit when you’re watching a rom-com, or some sort of romance movie. By the time you two have arrived, it’s night— the dark only makes the candles more prominent. 

Waiters and chefs alike all recognise him, probably from being a regular, but they seem intrigued by you.

The side of the town he’s brought you to is a total 180 flip from what you’re used to being in, one that you never even knew existed.

“Do you come here often?” you ask, trying to lessen the awkwardness that lies in between you two. “They seem to know you.”

He looks down, glasses tipping along, and replies with a “mhm,”

It’s well-known that he’s not socially intelligent, only being gifted by being attractive enough for women to come flocking, and actually has barely any friends. Maybe the other doctors are close enough for them to be considered as a connection.

Actually, not really. You seldom see them talking, potentially only for work reasons. 

The restaurant seems to come by pretty quickly and now you’re lying in bed with him after a movie marathon. From what you’ve observed, he has barely any trust issues since he’s let you run around with your bullshit for a while before ultimately giving you whatever you wanted.

It’s disturbing that you’ve never been close to finding out his final goal— what he’s wanted to achieve with you.

But you have enough data of the surroundings, the blueprint of the penthouse, and his sleeping behaviour. You know when he’s finally passed out dead and what time he wakes up, which is unsurprisingly very consistent down to the hour.

Slowly, you drop one foot onto the ground and another. Eyes locked onto his sleeping form, you carefully make your way to the door, not letting your gaze drift away from him in fear.

Grabbing the master key has become the next obstacle on your list, because you have no idea where he stores it every night. Even after all the study and investigations, you barely know anything about how he thinks— making it scarier than it should be.

You barely get past the threshold when a voice emerges from behind you: “Where are you going?”