CHAPTER 5
Roxanne
Iwoke to a pounding in my skull and at the door.My tongue felt too big for my mouth. My body felt… misaligned. Like I’d been put back together slightly wrong.Thump.Thump.Thump.Each knock reverberated through my bones like a hammer striking metal.
I sat up too fast and immediately regretted it. The room lurched sideways, stomach rolling as if gravity had decided to work differently today. My mouth tasted of bad decisions and citrus and a sharper taste underneath, something close to smoke.
Not mine.
If regret had a flavour, this would be it.
I groaned and dropped back onto the pillow, squeezing my eyes shut. Whoever was there could leave or freeze to death. I wasn’t moving today.
Survival rule: if you don’t move, nothing can demand anything from you.
“Roxy, are you there?” A familiar voice yelled.
“Open up, bitch—it’s freezing out here.”
I pulled myself upright, sitting on the bed for a moment, elbows braced on my knees, waiting for the world to settle back into something resembling stability.
When it didn’t, I stumbled to the door anyway.
I dragged my feet across the floor, every step heavy, every muscle protesting, head thick with alcohol and regret.
My thighs ached faintly with the dull pull of overused muscles. I ignored it, shuffling to the door and yanking it open.
Ritu—of course, standing there, bright-eyed, irritatingly alive with cheeks flushed from the cold, hair pulled back too neatly for someone who’d been bar-hopping the night before. It felt like an insult, proof that the night hadn’t touched her the way it had me.
“Why are you here so early?” I croaked.
My voice was sandpaper.
“And why do you look so chirpy?”
“Firstly, it’s two in the afternoon, and secondly, I digest alcohol like water,” she said breezily, shoving a cup into my hand.
“Now drink up.”
Great. I’d slept half the day and it still wasn’t enough.
The liquid inside was green and ominous. I sniffed it and gagged.
“Why does it look like swamp water and smell like death?”
“Drink,” she said, already moving toward my couch. “It’ll bring you back to reality.”
I took a cautious sip and gagged. “This tastes like shit.”
“I honestly don’t want to know how you know the taste of shit,” she said, settling on the couch. “Trust the process.”
I forced myself to finish it, grimacing the entire time. The bitterness hit first, then a sharper taste, almost electric, spreading through my bloodstream like it meant business.
As the minutes passed, the fog in my head didn’t clear so much as… thin. Sounds sharpened first. Then light. Then the shape of my own living room.
Something felt… off. Too neat.
Not curated neat. Maintained neat.
Like someone had already been here, rearranging it while I slept.
Ritu pretended to pick dust off the neatly arranged cushions.
Did I arrange them?
It felt wrong.
My stomach dipped, the sensation sharp and familiar—like missing a step on stairs.
“So,” she said. “Where did you disappear to last night? And with whom?”
I frowned. “What are you talking about? One of you probably dropped me home.”
Her expression shifted subtly, concern threading through the humour.
“No,” she said slowly. “We did shots. Then Callum saw you arguing with someone. And then… you were just gone.”
My insides churned. I couldn’t tell if it was because of the ominous green goop or the flashes that surfaced uninvited, jagged shards slicing through the fog.
The fox mask.
My skin tightened at the thought.
I remembered Callum. The stranger whispering to him.
Callum walking away.
I remembered the heat.
His mouth on mine, stealing tequila.
A cold shiver ran down my spine.
I remembered cold leather beneath my thighs, a seatbelt clicking in place. Streetlights streaking past the window. Warmth after cold. A voice, low and close. Calm. Almost like panic wasn’t allowed in its presence.
My pulse spiked. I swallowed hard. The bitterness of the green goop still lingering in my mouth.
“Earth to Roxy.” Ritu said, snapping me back to the present.
“I… don’t remember getting home.”
Her brows pulled together. “Rox.”
My heart began to race.
Did he bring me here?
No. Someone would have told me. Someone would have stopped him.
…Right?
I glanced down at myself. I was wearing an oversized T-shirt and cotton shorts, and nothing underneath. On any other given day this was my go-to bedwear, but today, it felt like a violation. A sick coil twisted low in my stomach.
“Wait,” I said. “How did I get into these clothes?”
Ritu’s face drained of colour. “You don’t remember changing?”
“No.”
Ice slid down my spine.
Did he undress me? See me naked? Touch me?
I turned and rushed into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me, heart hammering loud in my ears.
I flicked on the light and stared at my reflection—bloodshot eyes, pale skin, lips still faintly stained red.
Fake blood from the costume was gone. He’d even wiped that away.
My reflection looked scrubbed, altered, like someone else had decided what version of me should wake up.
I checked my arms. My thighs. My neck.
No bruises. Nothing. I tried to steady myself and checked lower—I slid a finger inside myself, breath held, searching for soreness, for tenderness, for proof of consent violation.
No soreness. No burn. Nothing.
Relief hit so fast I could barely stand upright, but it didn’t wash the unease away. It only left me shivering in its undertow, knuckles white against the counter, breath dragging shallow and uneven.
What the fuck happened?
So… he brought me home.
Changed my clothes.
Put me to bed.
And… didn’t touch me?
Who does that?
The thought unsettled me more than if he had.
I stepped back into the room, eyes scanning frantically. Everything seemed to be in order, more organised than I keep my things. My head was spinning in circles, brain already working overtime, haunted.
Maybe he stole from me.
I tore through the drawers and my bag, checking my wallet, cards, cash. Everything was exactly where I’d left it. Untouched.Even the folded receipts and the stupid pen I forgot to throw away.
“Are you okay?” Ritu asked, concern showing on her face.
I nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just—hungover.”
She studied me, then nodded. “If you’re up for it, can we swing by the manor later? I want your opinion on some paint shades.”
“Yes,” I said immediately. Too immediately. “Sure.”
Work. Distraction. Grounding reality.
I showered long and hot, scrubbing the smell of alcohol and bad decisions from my skin and hair. But when I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, the room still smelled different.
Smoke, musk, something predominantly male. And a note underneath it that twisted low in my chest with a strange, unplaceable familiarity—thick in the air, clinging to the walls like fingerprints I couldn’t scrub away.
A flicker of memory slithered down my neck—strobe lights, tequila burn, a mouth stealing breath.
I shoved it down before it could form into a face.
My dress from last night was folded neatly over the back of a chair. My heels aligned below like soldiers. The room was tidy. Too neat.
I laughed softly to myself.
Interior designer. Creator of clean, intentional spaces. I build order for a living. And yet sometimes my own life looked like a storm had passed through it.
Control is easier when it’s aesthetic.
Sometimes… I left things messy on purpose. Not curated. Just lived in. Proof I still existed in the space. Proof I wasn’t just performing control.
Sometimes I wondered if I was two people—one who built sanctuaries for others, and one who lived inside ruins of her own making. And this didn’t feel like me.
At the manor, the day passed in fragments—stone halls, measurements, decisions made with muscle memory while my mind drifted elsewhere.
Every creak of the old wood felt like footsteps. Every draft, like breath on the back of my neck.
At first, I told myself it was nothing. But yet, I kept glancing over my shoulder, convinced someone was watching. Once, I turned fast enough I was sure I’d catch someone standing behind me. There was only the stone pillar.
Evening bled into night and the next day. Two days had passed since the night of the pub. The memory never came back clean. No matter how hard I tried, it stayed fragmented.
Just flashes.
Mask. Mouth. Smoke.
Seatbelt click.
Warmth.
Sleep. My body felt like it had lived through an ordeal my brain hadn’t been invited to remember.
The next two days were almost normal, blurring into routine. Work at the manor. Decisions made on muscle memory while my mind drifted elsewhere. Calls with my team in Mumbai. A quick call with Sahil for emails, deadlines. The steady rhythm of a life that looked controlled from the outside.
But underneath, unease lingered. Like a note slightly out of tune.
One night, when I walked back into the cottage, I paused just inside the door. The air smelled different.
Not strong enough to hit immediately. Just lingering beneath the cold air drifting through the open windows.
Smoke. Musk.
Like someone had left traces of themselves behind and thought opening a few windows would be enough to hide it.
The feeling settled low beneath my ribs before my mind could explain it away. I told myself it was nothing. Old wood. Draft. Weather.
I didn’t check the locks again. I didn’t look for anything out of place. I didn’t want to know.
My calls with Marcello stayed the same—warm, steady, familiar. He told me about the kids. About Romano refusing to sleep unless he held one of my scarves. About Kyra correcting everyone’s pronunciation of “charcuterie” like she’d invented the word herself.
His voice grounded me in things that made sense. I let it.
I told him I missed him. More than usual. The words slipped out before I could edit them. He said he’d visit over the weekend. Not the kids. Just him.
Relief and guilt tangled low in my stomach. Hearing Romano in the background almost broke me. I swallowed it down and told him to kiss them both for me.
After we hung up, the cottage felt bigger. Quieter. Like something was waiting for me to notice it.
I slept maybe an hour or two before a sound pulled me from the dark. My eyes snapped open. At first, I lay still, listening, my brain thick with sleep. A clink. A soft scrape. Movement from the kitchen down the hall. My pulse kicked into my throat.
I slid out of bed slowly, heart thudding, feet silent in socks against cold wood. Every step measured—old survival muscle memory waking up before thought.
My oversized tee brushed my thighs. My shorts rode slightly higher with each careful step, but my eyes remained sharp despite sleep.
The air smelled different again. Smoke. Musk. And sweat mixed with something thick and male that made my pulse spike in warning.
I moved down the hallway. The kitchen light was on.And there—
A man stood at the counter, his back to me.
Broad. Muscles shifting beneath a black tee stretched tight as he moved, controlled, unhurried. Ink crept from the collar of his shirt up his neck, disappearing into shadow. Black jeans slung low on his narrow hips. His hair was messy—like he’d run his hands through it too many times.
Boots and jacket lay on the floor forgotten. Like he planned to stay.
My breath went shallow.
I reached for the knife block slowly, silently, and pulled one free. The blade felt solid in my hand, grip tightening around the handle until my fingers ached.
I stepped closer. Closer. Reducing the distance between us one silent step at a time. I pressed the tip of the blade to the side of his neck. Close enough to feel heat. Close enough to feel pulse.
“Don’t move,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
He was wrapping his knuckles, slow and methodical.He didn’t startle. Didn’t flinch. He just stilled for a moment.
Then slowly, he lifted his gaze to the window in front of him. I saw his eyes in the reflection first. My breath left me in a rush, the room narrowing to those steel-grey eyes—sharp, watchful, predatory enough to make my knees nearly buckle.
It couldn’t be.
He turned slowly.
When his face came into full view—everything inside me locked.
“You.”