Chapter Twenty-Six
Rosalie
“You seem distracted,” Mrs. Early comments, tapping her pencil on her notepad. “Is something wrong, Rose?”
Yeah. I’m being kept on a damn leash by my bodyguards.
I look around my therapist’s private office, taking note of all the gentle ways she arranged things to make a patient comfortable—the soft, plush couch beneath me, the mundane chair she’s seated in across from me as if we’re two friends out to dinner rather than in the middle of my weekly session, and the abundance of music records and awards lining her shelf.
It’s no secret she’s big in California for her work, which she often does with celebrities.
Despite being thrust into the limelight, she’s down to earth and one of the only therapists I enjoyed speaking with when I first had to make the switch.
My only problem is that my bodyguards are seated outside in her waiting room. They’ve been quiet since we arrived, and didn’t ask questions.
I don’t know if I’m thankful for that or even more nervous than when we pulled up to the building with the obvious plaque near the front door, labeling it a therapist’s office.
I sigh. “Yeah. Something really big happened this week.” I go into detail, spilling my guts about the whole break-in and how the three men of my past showed up on my doorstep. I voice my fears and concerns, not afraid to get down to the root of it all, while Mrs. Early listens.
“That is quite a bit to unpack,” she nods. “And how are you feeling now? Are you uncomfortable with them being in your space?”
“I…” I lift a hand to my bicep, that old response to pick at my skin returning. Darkness slowly shrouds around me as I’m transported back in time. All of the torture and embarrassment are suffocating to think about, but I know I won’t be able to pull myself out of it for a while. “I don’t know…”
“You can be truthful with me, Rose.” Mrs. Early says softly. “How do they make you feel?”
My stomach twists as all of those memories play like a horrid flashback I’m forced to sit through. Going to school and being outcast and beaten, then going home for something far worse awaiting me, is a festering scar that won’t go away. No matter how much I heal, it’s always there.
I finally look up at my therapist, my mouth filling with saliva as I swallow back the rising bile in my throat. “They make me sick.”
The trip back home is quiet, and I don’t try to break the tense silence that blankets the SUV. I can’t escape my own head, and I just want to get away from them.
I need to shower.
As we stop in front of my house, I don’t wait for them as I throw the back door open and walk numbly up to my front door.
“Rosalie,” Roman calls, but his voice is muffled and distant to my ears as I fight to type in the security code.
I blink past the building pressure in the bridge of my nose as my fingers shake. I can’t even remember the code.
Another hand covers mine gently, and I snatch it away as if the contact burned me.
My gut roils and churns as Maddox stares down at me with concern, and I avoid his eyes.
He types in the code, and I mumble a barely audible ‘thank you’ before pushing past the threshold and walking up the stairs to my room.
If they shout after me, I have no idea because I feel like I’m losing grip on reality. Everything is becoming too much—the walls surrounding me and the therapy session is still playing over again and again in my head. It’s a vicious cycle I can never escape, and I need…something.
Without thinking, I close myself in the bathroom. The shaky breath skates past my lips, sounding loud and ragged as I attempt to turn on the water of my shower. My hands can’t stop trembling, and I don’t even shed my clothes before stepping under the ice-cold stream.
It shocks my system, causing me to suck in a long, steady breath as goosebumps prick my arms and I shiver. I lift my hands to my face, smoothing my hair back as my tears fall unbidden. Everything crashes down around me, and I feel like that helpless girl who tried so hard to fight free of her past.
I’m vulnerable and scared.
My own father is trying to ruin my life, and the three people I despise the most are waiting downstairs like vultures circling a corpse. Things couldn’t be any worse, and the thought causes me to hiccup as my face twists. My clothes become heavy with the water as I sob quietly.
I give myself a minute to let it all out—the frustration and the anger. It sloshes off of me with the rivulets of water, and I imagine all of my worries washing right down the drain. I undress, my hands working my clothes off of me before they slap onto the shower floor.
I grab my shampoo and conditioner, and I scrub.
I massage my scalp until it hurts and wash my body until it feels raw and my skin is tight.
No amount of soap can wash away the scars or healed bruises that still rest just under my skin like a constant reminder.
No amount of cold water can shock away the visceral pain I get anytime I think about what I went through.
I’m stuck picking myself back up in the end, struggling to piece together worn and tattered puzzle pieces that no longer fit perfectly. They’re chipped with tiny bits long lost along the way, and I don’t know how to fix it.
Therapy and the medications are one thing, but it’s only a balm for the hurt inside of me. It’s like taking Tylenol, only getting rid of the symptoms, but it’s all still there.
When my tears dry and I’m all out of waterworks, I cut the shower before drying myself off. Even the plush towel wrapped around me isn’t enough to pull me out of my funk as I walk into my room.
I grab my medication, popping two pills into my mouth before grabbing a water from my mini fridge and guzzling it until I nearly give myself a brain freeze.
I plop down onto the edge of my bed, my shoulders curling forward with exhaustion as I pull a glucose pen from my nightstand.
I check my levels with my monitor before sucking in a breath and injecting the pen into my thigh.
I rub the area after I’m done, letting the medicine work its way through my system.
“Snap out of it, Rose.” I swipe a hand across my eyes, feeling weak and exposed. “It’s just therapy. You need it. You have to do it.”
There’s no other choice for me. Not after the incident…
They can never find out about what happened to me right after I left Mystic. I would rather die than see the satisfaction in them that they almost drove me to my end.
I think about calling it a night and just rotting away in my bed while watching a show I need to catch up on until the smell of something burning touches my nose and I shoot up.
One of the smoke detectors goes off downstairs, and I throw my robe on before flying out of my bedroom.
My heels smack against the staircase quickly as my panic rises.
Is it Dad?
Did he set my house on fire?
Am I in danger?
I follow the sharp, acrid scent, coughing as it leads me to my kitchen. I wave a hand in front of my face, fanning the smoke as I walk into something I’m not expecting.
Roman slaps Kairo over the back of his head. “I told you, you were going to fucking burn it!” He yanks the pan away from the blonde before thrusting it under a stream of water.
“The heat was too high,” Maddox says as he stirs something over the stove and uses a dish towel to clear the smoke.
“How was I supposed to know that?” Kairo snaps as he grabs a chair from the dining room and steps up onto it. He clicks a button on the smoke detector, silencing it. “I’ve never made butter chicken before.”
Roman’s head swivels to him. “Let me handle the chicken. You’ve fucked it up enough.”
Kairo throws his hands out. “Fine! I’ll make the fucking bread.”
“It’s called naan.” Maddox corrects.
I blink at the scene. As if just noticing my presence, they all turn to me.
“Hey, Thorn,” Kairo says, but his voice doesn’t have its usual playful edge. He sounds cautious and almost gentle. “How are you feeling?”
I look around at the orange sauce bubbling on the stove and the fresh chicken that Roman is beginning to dice on one of my cutting boards. “Umm, okay, I guess? What are you doing?”
Maddox turns to me, a small, coy smile on his face. “We’re cooking for you. You like Indian food, right? I think I heard that during one of your interviews that Kairo can’t stop watching—”
The blonde grips the back of Maddox’s neck quickly, his lips pulling over his teeth. “Shut up. Stop talking.”
I glance between all three of them, my brow raising. “I do…”
“Good,” Roman says. “Why don’t you go sit at the table, and it’ll be ready soon.”
I’m reeling as I walk over to a chair and ease onto it.
I stare unseeing at the table as the bright lights overhead cut into my eyes.
As dishes clank and spoons stir, there’s chaos unfolding inside my head.
They’re completely unaware of how fucking catatonic I am.
This little act of kindness doesn’t mean anything.
I lose track of time as everything melts together. When a plate of steaming hot food is pushed right under my nose, it all comes rushing back to me.
The three men taking their seats at the table converse casually, as if this is some fucking peace meeting and I’m just going to have a lovely pity dinner with them. My eye twitches as Kairo’s hearty laughter fills the dining room and the tether snaps.
My chair scrapes harshly against the ground as I stand and swipe the plate of food onto the floor. The ceramic shatters, sending butter chicken and jasmine rice splattering across the clean marble, and it feels so good. The sounds die down as my ragged breathing fills the dining room.
“Rosalie…” Roman trails, and my eyes snap to him.