Heart of The Night (The Night, #2)

7 | A token from a past

7 | a token from a past

WILLIAM

Last night, the bed felt impossibly large and cold without Cara beside me. The hours dragged, punctuated by restless turns and the hollow sound of my own thoughts. I wanted to bring her back, to fill the emptiness with her presence, but I knew how exhausted she was. She needed rest, a reprieve from my insatiable needs. Yet, the stark quiet of her absence gnawed at me, a dull ache that followed me through the morning as I got ready for lunch with Chloe. The ticking of the clock in my living room, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant murmur of the city – all these sounds seemed to amplify the silence Cara had left behind.

As I was sitting across from Chloe at our favourite haunt, each second still seemed a reminder of my own solitude, as if I were suspended in a limbo until I could see Cara again. It was remarkable how time could deceive the mind, dragging on in moments of longing and slipping away when we wished it would linger. We often regard it as a constant, a silent companion dwelling on the periphery of our consciousness, barely noticed as it marches on. Yet, now and then, it forces its way into our awareness, into the sharp, unforgiving focus of the now. And it often requires only the slightest of triggers, the most mundane of cues – a glance, a word, a familiar setting – to bring about this jarring awareness, reminding us of the weight of each passing second.

Today, Chloe’s face was another such trigger. I found myself studying it, really seeing it, as if for the first time. There was a delicate pallor to her complexion, a canvas of fatigue etched under the warmth of her brown eyes. The insidious tracery of fine lines had begun to weave their way across her skin – playing faintly along her forehead, dancing discreetly at the corners of her eyes, and drawing a vague parenthesis from her nose down to the corners of her mouth.

And there, in those gentle creases and in the weight of her gaze, I saw the passing years. The memories we’d made, the moments we’d shared, they all seemed to surface onto her features. She was not the same woman I’d met all those years ago. But then, was any of us the same as when we started? Time, the silent sculptor, had done its work, shaping, moulding, creating. She was older now, as was I, as were we all. But her trouble with Andy seemed to be ageing her faster.

‘How is he?’ she asked, her gaze veering away as she cradled her cup of tea. Her tone held a cautious embarrassment, possibly for fear I might misconstrue her intentions – that I’d think she was only here to glean news about Andy. But I knew better; I knew she was primarily here for me. Information about Andy was but a bonus, one I willingly provided. Andy was well aware of this – I had made sure of it. He had yet to ask me to stop. Did he trust my discretion or was it sheer indifference? I couldn’t say.

‘He’s as lost as you,’ I replied, meeting her look as I raised my cup of English Breakfast tea. The server’s slight disappointment at my conservative choice had been palpable, given the vast range of exotic blends on offer. She should have realised that some people’s loyalties were tenacious once a particular fondness had taken root.

Chloe exhaled, setting her cup onto its saucer with a sound barely perceptible. My gaze moved to the untouched delicacies that lay carefully arranged on the tiered cake stand between us, an undercurrent of concern stirring within me.

‘Are you going to eat?’ I asked, not bothering to mince my words, for gracefulness was wasted between us. ‘You’ve lost weight since I last saw you.’

Her lips folded into a brief frown, her eyes averted, a silent refusal to the charge. I reached for a cucumber sandwich, biting into its soft freshness, the act serving as a patient fill in the silence. As I swallowed, my fingers gestured toward the smoked salmon sandwiches. ‘These were always your favourite.’

The succession of afternoon teas that Chloe and I had taken in the antiquated grandeur of this hotel’s drawing room had become countless. A shared affinity for the comfort of tradition was an undertow in our friendship, an anchor that held us tethered amidst the tumult of change. Andy and Alex often turned this affection of ours into a source of amusement, but their jests were no deterrent; Chloe and I would merely shrug and smile.

‘I…’ She hesitated. ‘I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.’

‘He’s not seeing anybody else, Chloe, nor is he interested in it,’ I said, hoping to reassure her. ‘He’s in limbo, figuring out what he wants. That’s it.’

‘I’ve been doing the same.’

Her tone gave me pause.

‘I thought you knew what you wanted,’ I said, the surprise in my voice barely masked. She had always yearned for a family with Andy – that was the crux of their discord.

She sighed. ‘It’s become a question of what I want most – Andy, or children.’

I leaned back, a silent prompt for her to continue.

‘And I’ve realised that,’ she went on, ‘if I am to spend the rest of my life without Andy, no child could ever fill the void he’d leave.’ Her gaze met mine, a watery sheen coating her eyes. ‘I dread the thought of never being a mother, but it’s a reality I can accept. Losing Andy, on the other hand… It’s a prospect I cannot bear.’

I stared at her, my eyes wide as I processed her admission. The sheer enormity of her willingness to forfeit the dream of motherhood, a dream she had cherished for as long as I had known her, for Andy’s sake, was astounding. Indeed, the depth of her love for him was exposed in the raw sacrifice she was prepared to make.

I couldn’t help but think him unworthy of it. For all my affection for Andy, I was not blind to his shortcomings. I recalled the pattern of their relationship, where Chloe’s love had been the nourishing stream Andy drew from, seldom replenishing. His proclivity to gravitate toward his own needs, frequently neglecting to acknowledge Chloe’s contributions, her compromises, was no secret, even to someone fond of him like me.

The consideration of parenthood, however, painted a murkier picture. If Andy was averse to the idea of fatherhood, imposing it upon him would be morally unjust both to him and to his prospective children, born unwanted. Their dilemma thus posed itself as a canyon of potentially irreconcilable differences.

It dawned on me then, accompanied by a fresh wave of irritation, that it was Chloe, once more, who was stepping toward the divide, seeking to bridge the distance. It was always her yielding, bending like a willow in the wind, striving to mend the fractures that would appear.

‘Are you absolutely sure?’ I challenged her. ‘It’s a tremendous decision, one that’s likely to be irreversible in a few years’ time. Have you pondered the possibility of growing resentful, of blaming him for denying you motherhood?’

She blinked back a renegade tear, casting a nervous glance around the room, as if fearing our conversation was a spectacle. ‘It’s all I’ve grappled with these past few months,’ she said. ‘I’m certain I won’t blame him.’

My gaze unfocused, shifting to the indistinct distance as I tried to comprehend her perspective. If the woman I loved – if Cara – didn’t want children, how would I react? I was thrown off balance by my lack of certainty. If asked this question half a year ago, the answer would have been straightforward: I would have parted ways with her, citing incompatibility in our desired futures. But, since experiencing life with Cara, I was no longer sure. Could I envision a life, a love beyond her? I found the thought unsettlingly vacant. She had become my beacon, my measure of true affection, and it seemed impossible to imagine another taking her place. So then, would I, like Chloe, have renounced my dream of a family for love?

‘Do you think he’ll take me back?’ Chloe asked then. I nearly laughed at the sheer absurdity of her question.

‘Without hesitation,’ I said, the brim of my teacup meeting my lips. ‘But if you can manage to wait a bit longer, I believe he might come round. He’s been warming to the idea lately, from my understanding.’

She winced, a silent reproach that laid bare my careless remark – it had only served to worsen her inner turmoil.

‘But do tell him,’ I quickly added. ‘I could be wrong; he might never change his mind.’

A nod was her only reply, accompanied by a deep sigh, as she finally reached for a smoked-salmon sandwich from the tiered stand. The sight tugged a faint smile onto my lips, some of my worry ebbing away.

‘And how’s it going with Cara?’ she casually asked, her words muffled by her bite. ‘Made any headway?’

My smile widened, stretching across my face like the Cheshire Cat’s. Our conversations hadn’t veered toward Cara in a while. The last time I had confided in Chloe, my lamentations painted a picture of an aloof Cara and my ongoing struggle to resist making advances at work. But now, we’d shared an unforgettable evening, and the mere thought of any distance between us stirred an unfamiliar ache in my chest.

‘Cara and I went on a date last Friday,’ I announced proudly.

Chloe’s eyes ballooned, her hand covering her mouth. ‘What?’

I nodded. ‘It was lovely – she’s lovely. I can’t remember ever being this happy.’ I found myself confessing to this newfound, almost startling elation that gripped me. This insatiable zest for life, this constant euphoria, was unfamiliar territory for me. I felt an unyielding confidence, an unprecedented invincibility, as though the world was ripe for my taking.

‘William, wow,’ Chloe breathed out, her eyes sparkling with a joy that was wholly for me. ‘I’m so glad. Finally your patience is being rewarded.’

‘Thank you. I feel amazing – all the time. It’s made me realise that… Well, I don’t quite think I’ve ever truly been in love before.’

There was an almost smug twitch to Chloe’s smile, as though my revelation came as no surprise to her – as if, even during my time with my ex, Kate, she had sensed a lack of the depth I now claimed to feel.

‘You don’t say.’

Her reply drew a soft chuckle from me.

‘Have you confessed it, then?’ she continued, tucking some stray strands of her blonde hair behind her ear. ‘Told her you’re in love with her?’

‘In just about every way apart from those three magic words. Even told her in French.’

Chloe’s eyes crinkled with amusement. ‘So why not in those three words?’

My smile faltered as I sighed, my chest filling with a simmering apprehension. How could I explain to her that, despite Cara’s evident enthusiasm, something whispered to me that she wasn’t yet in love with me? That she wasn’t ready to confront an outright declaration of love? It felt too soon, potentially even reckless.

Yet, I couldn’t deny the profound love I held for her. Each passing day offered a new insight into her character, a new reason to hold her closer to my heart. Each revelation, every shared moment, simply cemented my conviction that she was my match, as if tailor-made for me, like we were destined to orbit each other in this vast universe. And therein lay the beautiful torment – the certainty of my love for her, coupled with the patience it demanded.

‘I’m worried it might be too soon,’ I said, my gaze shifting to my hands in my lap, fingers rubbing together. The room, filled with the lingering scent of tea and soft murmurs, felt strangely heavy. Chloe granted a pause, a moment’s silence as she considered my reply.

‘For her, or for you?’ she asked carefully.

A grimace distorted my features. ‘For her.’

‘I see.’ She gave a small nod. ‘Well, I hope she’ll get there eventually.’

I merely nodded, knowing neither of us could predict with certainty which turn Cara’s heart would take. But I hoped more than anything that it wouldn’t lead her away from me.

§ § §

As I walked home after lunch with Chloe, the boutiques I passed reminded me all too sharply of Francesca’s dress, still hanging in my wardrobe. Cara’s discovery of it had engulfed me in regret, like a storm cloud breaking all at once. It was a stark mirror to my own fears of finding something of Aaron’s stashed away in her flat – a token from a past I’d rather she forget.

As I threaded my path through the throng of people that flocked Regent Street, I drew my phone from my pocket. The last conversation I’d had with Francesca had been in my office when she begged me for a second chance, and I’d delivered what I hoped was the final blow to our ties. Yet, her dress remained – a silent, unresolved note. To rectify that, reaching out seemed like the best course of action. The question, then, was whether to ring or text her. It seemed plausible that she might dismiss both forms of contact, yet on the slim chance she might engage, a call felt too direct, too brusque. Texting, however, seemed the softer, more considerate route, offering her the buffer of time to recover from the surprise. And if she didn’t respond, her dress was destined for donation to a charity.

But what to write? Should I lead with a casual greeting or get right down to business?

A sense of self-irritation started to curl up at the edges of my mind as I realised I was falling into that age-old trap of mine: overthinking. It was a trait Andy found endlessly amusing, always ripe for his relentless teasing. Alex, on the other hand, was a kindred spirit in this regard, sharing the same compulsive need to examine every angle before committing.

‘Just write what you want to say,’ Andy’s voice seemed to echo in my head, an imagined reminder of his knack for staying laid-back in situations where others might fret. ‘Then deal with the rest from there.’

Shaking off my hesitation, I decided to heed what I reckoned would be his advice. I quickly thumbed out a message to Francesca: You in town? Still got that orange dress of yours.

Some minutes later, just as I was opening the door to my flat, my phone buzzed against my thigh. A strange clenching in my chest caught me off guard, until I realised it was the guilt flaring at the thought of facing Francesca again – the guilt over the heartbreak I’d left in my wake. I shuddered at the possibility of once again seeing her pretty hazel eyes, glossed with the sheen of unshed tears, her features etched with the hurt I’d inflicted. I hoped she had made peace with my decision, moved on, and wouldn’t see this as a chance to rekindle something that was definitely over. The mere thought of causing her more pain was dreadful. It was a situation I desperately wanted to avoid.

But as I pulled out my phone, it was Jian’s name flashing on the screen.

I answered straight away. ‘Hello, Jian.’

‘Hi, Will. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.’

‘Not at all. Just got home. Timing couldn’t have been better.’

‘Great.’

‘So, tell me. What’s this about a conglomerate breathing down Fusion’s neck?’ I asked, simultaneously kicking off my shoes and making a beeline for the staircase to reach my study; I knew this conversation would require pen and paper.

‘Well,’ Jian began, a touch of hesitation creeping into his mellow voice. ‘The conglomerate in question goes by the name of Gastronomy Group. You might have heard of it. It’s been about six months since they first showed interest in acquiring Fusion. We turned them down, naturally. Since then, things have happened that, added together, don’t seem right. I can’t say for certain if they’re behind our issues of late, though – it’s just a hunch. For example, we’re suddenly having trouble with our suppliers.’

‘Suppliers?’ I echoed as I entered my study, my attention divided between the ongoing conversation and the familiar layout of my desk. I quickly located my favoured notepad and picked up a pen, scribbling down supplier issues , followed by a question mark.

‘Yes,’ Jian replied, the strain in his voice growing more distinct. ‘A number of key ones have either hiked up their prices substantially or, even worse, ceased delivery outright. It’s started to hurt our menu – the quality is being com promised. It’s hard to maintain our standards without the proper ingredients, as you can imagine.’

‘Which suppliers, specifically?’ I asked, my pen poised to write down his response.

‘Mainly the ones dealing with specialised ingredients – stuff we can’t find elsewhere easily.’

‘That’s unusual, but not completely unheard of,’ I murmured, more to myself than to Jian. ‘I’ll need a list of these suppliers, Jian. Please send it to my email.’ I rattled off my address before nudging the conversation forward. ‘What else has been a cause for concern?’

‘Well, our rent. Our landlord is suddenly hinting at a significant increase. We’ve had a great relationship for years. It doesn’t add up.’ Jian’s voice held a note of exasperation.

‘That’s odd, especially if you’ve been on good terms.’ I jotted down rising rent .

Jian sighed heavily. ‘Then there’s the matter of our staff.’

‘Your staff?’ I asked, wondering whether he was about to mention some unusual turnover.

‘Yes. A few of our top chefs have recently been approached by competitors – all restaurants owned by Gastronomy Group. They haven’t taken up the offers, but the poaching attempts are beginning to affect morale.’

‘I see.’ My pen scratched across the page: possible staff poaching .

I leaned back in my chair, rolling the pen between my fingers. The bits of information remained sketchy, but they were beginning to coalesce into a troubling narrative. It was by no means definitive, and I was wary of falling into confirmation bias, but these could indeed be the early signs of an indirect takeover attempt.

‘All right, Jian,’ I said, nodding. ‘This is a start. I’m going to dig into these leads. We might be dealing with some underhanded tactics, but let’s not jump to conclusions. We’ll need more proof, which I plan to get. I’ll email you a list of things I’ll need from you. You should have it by tonight. Additionally, to ensure a clear understanding of our professional relationship, I’ll attach an engagement letter for signing. Please note that I am offering my services pro bono. However, including the engagement letter will serve to emphasise my commitment to maintaining strict confidentiality and safeguarding Fusion’s interests. The letter will outline my obligations regarding the protection of sensitive information shared during our collaboration. If you have any questions or concerns, please let me know.’

‘Absolutely, Will. Thank you.’

‘And keep me updated on any further developments, yeah?’

‘Of course,’ he said, a thread of relief woven into his voice. ‘Once again, I can’t thank you enough, Will.’

‘It’s no trouble at all, Jian. I’m sorry you’re facing these pressures.’ My gaze strayed over the scrawled notes – the skeletal structure of what promised to be a complex puzzle.

‘Me too.’ Jian sighed. ‘Anyway, I’ll get started on the supplier list right away. You should have it within the hour.’

‘That would be great. And remember, I’m here if you recall anything else that might be relevant. I would also like to know the exact percentage your landlord plans on hiking the rent by, if he’s already disclosed that.’

‘He hasn’t, but I’ll try to find out.’

‘Good.’

Jian paused, then spoke again, his voice heavy with suspicion. ‘There’s one more thing that’s been gnawing at me. When you last came to Fusion, did you notice the new establishment next door? The Orient Express, another Chinese restaurant.’

A mental picture flickered to life in the back of my mind – a fresh, gleaming storefront adjacent to Fusion. ‘Yes, I remember seeing it.’

‘Well, I’ll save you the digging for this one – it falls under Gastronomy Group’s umbrella.’

I shook my head, penning it down. On the face of it, this did indeed bear the distinct marks of a clandestine takeover attempt. ‘I see. Thanks for letting me know.’

‘Other than that, I can’t think of anything else right now.’

‘Then I’ll delve into what we’ve got so far.’ As my thumb hovered over the end call button, a forgotten detail drifted to the surface. ‘Hang on, Jian?’

‘Yes?’

‘Completely unrelated, but regarding my last visit to Fusion—’

‘That was a beautiful woman you were with, Will.’

An unbidden smile bloomed on my face at the unexpected remark. ‘Yes, she certainly is quite something. Here’s the thing, though…’ I shifted in my seat. ‘As you may recall, she works at Day she didn’t propose any feasible solutions. But I had grown weary of having her dress around. It was an unwanted reminder, a lingering connection to her that I was eager to sever.

I quickly typed back, my impatience seeping into my words: Where are you staying? A hotel? That was her usual choice of accommodation whenever she was in London. I can drop it off at the reception later today. Or just give me an address. Can post it to you. The sooner it was out of my possession, the better.

As I slid my phone aside, the knot of irritation lingered, further tightened by her delayed response.

Come to Crystal Palace Hotel in Paddington. 8 p.m. Room number 441.

I read her text several times, its implications sinking in. The expectation of a face-to-face handover was all but spelled out, an expectation I had no plans to fulfil. Why did she want to meet me in person when it could easily be avoided? It kindled a suspicion in me that she might be seeing this as an opportunity to shift the status quo between us. But my mind was made up. The dress would be left with the receptionist, a move that might come across as cold, but given the nature of her reply, I considered it necessary. A clear boundary, a message that I had no intention of changing my stance about us.

Thanks, I’ll leave it with reception. Safe travels.

The finality of my response was deliberate. This chapter needed to be closed, once and for all.

§ § §

The Crystal Palace Hotel loomed grandiosely in Paddington’s evening glow. I walked through the revolving door, stepping into the lobby’s opulence. The murmur of muted conversations punctuated the soft strains of piano music floating in the air.

A young man presided over the reception desk, his polished charm evident in the easy grace with which he managed the comings and goings of the hotel’s guests. As I approached, he offered me a well-rehearsed smile, the picture of professional amiability.

‘Good evening, sir,’ he greeted, his voice smooth and welcoming. ‘How may I assist you?’

I eased the paper bag – the one that held Francesca’s silk dress – onto the desk. ‘Good evening. I’d like you to store this for a guest,’ I said. ‘Miss Francesca Strafford, room 441.’

‘I see. One moment, sir.’ His eyes darted to the computer screen before him, his fingers deftly dancing across the keyboard before he met my gaze again. ‘May I have your name, please, sir?’

‘William Night – that’s without a K.’ An error people typically made.

‘Thank you.’ His eyes flickered back to his screen, a ripple of recognition passing over his features. ‘Mr Night, normally I’d be more than happy to fulfil your request. However, Miss Strafford contacted the reception earlier. She specifically asked that you personally deliver this item to her room.’

Her audacious move took me aback, jolting me out of my calm demeanour. Anger ignited in my veins, a potent cocktail of incredulity and annoyance. My immediate impulse was to lash out, to threaten the disposal of the dress if my initial request wasn’t met. I chafed at the blatant disregard for my clearly expressed wishes, viewing her tactic as both disrespectful and immature.

However, the receptionist was an innocent party in this play. It would be unseemly to thrust him into the middle of a private matter. Moreover, I was a grown man, fully capable of handling her, even if the notion of tossing her dress into the nearest bin – a symbolic retort to her manoeuvre – held a certain spiteful appeal. So I would face her, meet this provocation with steady resolve. Should she dare to cross the line, my rejection would be unequivocal and unflinching.

I summoned my good graces, forcing my expression into a mask of neutrality. ‘I see. Could you point me to the lifts?’ I asked, struggling to keep the sharp edge of my irritation from colouring my words.

‘Of course. If you’d follow me, please.’

With his lead, we wove our way around a corner and soon stood before the metallic gates of the two lifts. A brief press of a button and the doors parted, revealing a pristine cage bathed in soothing light. He swiped his security card against a panel, the fourth-floor button lighting up. We began our ascent, the silent glide of the lift drifting through the air until a soft chime announced our arrival.

He gestured me forward. ‘Miss Strafford’s room is at the very end of the corridor,’ he said, his tone maintaining its affable inflexion.

As the lift doors whispered shut behind me, I found myself alone in the hushed solitude of the hotel’s upper levels. I began to walk, my footfalls muted by the thick pile of the russet carpet. Uniform white doors lined the corridor on either side, each with a gilded bell that mirrored the last.

Pausing before room 441, I stared at the doorbell. I could, in theory, leave the bag right there on the patterned carpet, sound the bell, and be gone. Such a simple act of petulant rebellion sparked a moment’s satisfaction in my mind. But there was a part of me – perhaps the lawyer in me, perhaps the man – that yearned for closure, for the concrete finality of a confrontation. This part urged me to face her, to make it abundantly clear we were done.

So, quelling the small voice that craved evasion, I rang the bell. Its chime filled the silent corridor, seeming to linger in the air long after the noise had ceased. As the door unlocked, the familiar drumming of anxiety in my chest echoed through my body.

Francesca appeared in the doorway, draped in a black satin robe that cascaded down to her knees. I forced my gaze upward, refusing to let it be ensnared by the suggestive outline the garment sketched beneath its silky surface. I resented the idea that she might have planned this outfit, calculated to tantalise. A suggestion of sensuality through subtlety, a weapon she used with reckless abandon.

The irritation I felt was laced with a bitter sense of irony. To greet me in such a way further entrenched my suspicion of her intentions and reinforced my resolve to reject her.

‘Quite the adolescent stunt, Francesca,’ I couldn’t help myself from saying. My voice carried an edge, a blade forged from frustration and a lingering feeling of disappointment. ‘What are you? Fifteen?’

Caught off guard by my acerbic tone, she stepped back a pace. Her eyes, those arresting hazel eyes, now seemed devoid of understanding. She tucked a stray lock of her caramel curls behind an ear, her lips – full and recently glossed – pressing together.

I took a moment to marvel at the absurdity of it all – the glossy lips, the satin robe. It was a descent into desperation that plumbed new depths.

‘Your dress,’ I said, terseness creeping into my tone. I thrust the paper bag toward her.

Her reply was a soft, ‘Thank you,’ the words trembling in the wake of my hostility. Her hand, the nails manicured to perfection, shook slightly as it closed around the bag. ‘Would you like to come in?’

I couldn’t hold back a scoff, the words tumbling out with more venom than intended: ‘Absolutely not. It’s time you respected my wishes, Francesca.’

‘I didn’t arrange this for that reason,’ she said, the waver in her voice betraying her vulnerability. ‘There’s something I need to tell you, something that should be said face-to-face.’

A shadow of unease crossed her features, one that demanded my attention, and I felt a knot of panic tighten in my stomach. My mind buzzed, swarming with conjecture – was it something to do with Kate? Had some misfortune befallen her?

‘What is it, then?’ The question escaped me before I could rein it in, a morbid curiosity winning over my dread.

Francesca inhaled sharply, the swell of her chest noticeably rising and falling. Her gaze drifted away from mine, lost in some private turmoil. A silence hung between us – thick, palpable. Fraught with anticipation.

‘For heaven’s sake, spit it out,’ I snapped, my patience thinning.

‘I…’ Her voice trailed off before she drew herself up to full height, her eyes resolute as they found mine. ‘I’m pregnant. And there’s a strong chance… it’s yours.’

The world seemed to tilt on its axis, her words echoing like a thunderclap in my mind. I felt a strange, guttural gasp tear itself from my throat, the single word ‘How?’ filling the silence between us. My mind whirled back to our encounters; I had always used protection. Could it have failed us? The statistics, once so reassuringly on our side, now felt like a betrayal.

‘How do you think, Will?’ Her rhetorical question hung in the air like a weight, a bitter reminder of our past.

A deafening quiet stretched between us, time distorting as I grappled with this life-altering revelation.

‘I intend to keep it,’ she murmured, breaking the silence. Her gaze flitted to the empty corridor behind me before she gestured into her room. ‘Please, come in. We should talk.’

I felt anchored to the spot, a waxen statue unable to move or react. But then, as if propelled by an unseen force, I found myself crossing the threshold into her room, my mind swimming in a surreal haze, a puppet severed from its strings. What the hell was I supposed to do now ?