Kiara （Present）
Kiara
Present
The blood.
He’s looking at me, the drops falling from his fingers, hitting the floor in front of me.
“Please don’t leave me, Kiara. I can explain everything, just don’t leave me.”
I open my eyes to a chandelier straight out of a princess’s bedroom, glittering on the high ceiling above me. I look around and shoot up quickly, my head clear, no pain and no dizziness.
I’m okay.
I feel good.
He must’ve given me some minerals or something.
Adrien. I remember his name.
I shoot out of the bed, my mind suddenly sharp and ready for whatever bullshit I got myself into. I look around and grab the big piece of glass in my hand while studying the bedroom, and without the horrible hangover, finally thinking more clearly.
I need information. I need to find Adrien.
I burst through the bedroom door and—speaking of the devil—there he is on the sofa, legs on the table, a cigarette between two fingers, holding a white controller with both hands.
Is he playing a fucking PlayStation?
I take in the beautiful, gothic-style living room, appreciating the architecture for a split second before getting into survivor mode again and scanning the place for anything useful.
“Hi, Troubles.”
He pauses his game, drags on his cigarette, and spreads his long arms along the backrest of the sofa, his combat boots on the table, lying there like he owns this place.
Well, he probably does.
He watches me curiously as he drags on his cigarette. I just frown at him, gripping the piece of glass tighter.
“Breakfast.” He gestures toward the feast on the table.
There are like twenty boxes of food from different restaurants. My mouth waters instantly.
I’m starving.
Okay. I’ll be good today. Think first, act later. I need to eat, and then I need to investigate.
I’m a journalist for God’s sake. And a good one.
Adrien doesn’t move a muscle as I walk slowly to the table. His scent reaches me first. Cedarwood, asphalt, smoke and something warm underneath, like motor oil still holding heat—something that fits him a little too well.
It shouldn’t feel this calm.
I don’t like this.
“Adrien,” I say, mostly to reassure myself I didn’t hallucinate the whole introduction.
“Troubles?” he echoes, a question lingering at the end.
This stupid nickname.
And just like that, the urge to yell and throw something comes back. I swallow and close my eyes for a second to get some control of myself.
When I open my eyes again, he’s grinning.
Fuck this curly bastard.
My eyes glisten when I see the coffee cup, so I take it. I ignore Adrien’s annoying gaze as I slowly walk around the enormous room. I need to change, I’m still in the same clothes. I don’t even want to think about how I got into it.
“Tell me you weren’t the one who changed my clothes.” I quickly turn around and ask him, surprisingly not yelling, but my voice is bold enough to let him know how angry I am.
He just lifts his eyebrows.
“God, no. He would—”
“He would kill you?” I finish for him.
“Right.” He’s sort of stunned but smiles proudly as he continues. “Well, not actually kill me. I’m his favorite person in the world, by the way.” He smiles mischievously and still doesn’t take his eyes off me.
I raise my eyebrows as he goes on.
“I mean, look at me.” He spreads his arms like he’s advertising himself.
Is he for real? I almost want to smile. Almost. But I swallow it.
He probably saw that, because he’s tilting his head and smiling wider.
I can’t help it, I just don’t feel any danger with this guy. I’m probably wrong.
“Troubles, you can smile. I don’t bite.” He pauses and studies me, “Unless you want me to, of course.”
He rests his head on one of his wrists and continues to stare at me. Is this an attempt to flirt?
Fuck this guy, really.
I turn my back to him before he sees the tornado of emotions on my face, heading toward the big cabinet.
Clothes. Jackpot.
I go through the materials, finding sports leggings and bras in what looks like twenty different colors. All in my size.
Strange, but okay.
I open another drawer and freeze for a millisecond. Lingerie. Way too much of it. All my size. That’s… unsettling.
“The walk-in closet is right there,” he says, pointing to the other side of the suite.
I go around the sofa, speeding to the closet, his eyes still following me. Did I miss this yesterday? There’s a walk-in closet filled with beautiful clothes, shoes and some accessories.
What the hell is this? I quickly scan the clothes hanging on the racks. It all seems like exactly my style, but I could never afford these brands. I quickly check one random shoe.
My size, of course, but Louboutins? Jesus.
I step out of the closet and look at Adrien. He looks so interested in every move I make, a little smile is still tugging in the corner of his mouth.
He’s enjoying this too much.
It’s making me fucking nervous.
I sip the coffee in my hand, still frowning at him, when something about the taste catches me off guard. Oat milk. And my favorite signature taste. My grip tightens around the cup as I slowly turn it in my hand, my pulse already spiking, my eyes locking onto the logo.
Joey’s coffee corner.
I march to Adrien with enough fury to start a tornado.
“What is this?” I spit out angrily and put the coffee cup in front of Adrien’s face, but he doesn’t seem bothered.
“That’s coffee, Troubles. I thought journalists were supposed to be bright,” he says, amusement written all over his face.
Can this guy get any more annoying?
“That’s from Joey’s coffee corner!” I yell and he finally freezes a little bit, realization hitting him.
“Why is there my usual order from my favorite coffee shop, Adrien?” I ask him with my teeth gritting against each other from all the irritation settling in my gut.
“C’mon, the whole city loves Joey’s coffee corner.” He says it so innocently that I almost believe his bullshit.
I let out a short, humorless breath.
“Oh yeah? You mean that six million people from the city love the smallest coffee shop on the edge of the city right under my apartment?” I snap at him, my jaw tightening.
He stays silent, his smile gone.
“How did you know?” I ask him.
I already know the answer, but I need someone to finally tell me what is happening here or I’m going to go mental.
He takes a big breath and finally admits, “He might’ve seen you ordering there once or… twice.” He waves his hand like it doesn’t mean anything.
“Once or twice?” I raise my voice. “And who’s this mysterious he we keep tiptoeing around?”
Just fucking say it.
“You know exactly who we’re talking about.” His smile is back.
Of course it was him. Of course he’s alive.
“He’s been following me, right?” I snap, nerves boiling under my skin.
Adrien starts rubbing his curly hair and takes another cigarette, lighting it as if he needs it for this conversation.
“I wouldn’t say following,” he mumbles with the cigarette between his lips and shrugs.
Someone needs to talk to me. This devious bastard is driving me crazy with his half-answers and smirks. I need to speak to an actual person. I need to know what is happening here and why the hell is this suite filled with stuff I like.
“Is the psychopath gonna visit me too or is he always sending insufferable messengers?” I snap.
My eyes start to sting from the frustration of not knowing anything. Adrien winces, as if I insulted a spouse.
“Hey, don’t talk about my man like that, he has a heart.” He pauses and frowns at me. “It might have stopped beating six years ago but, you know, it’s still there.”
He puffs out the smoke as he leans his head back against the sofa, completely at ease. He looks so unbothered and unserious. It’s irritating and calming at the same time. Like none of this matters. Like I’m not standing here, trying to understand what kind of place I woke up in.
I freeze on the spot.
What did he mean by that?
Six years ago.
Does he know about the murder six years ago? Flashbacks run through my mind but I quickly suppress them.
My gaze drops without thinking—down, to where his shirt has shifted slightly as he leans back. And then I see it.
Black metal.
Tucked behind his belt.
Right there.
Gun.
The room, the light, the sound, it all dulls, like someone turned the volume of the world down. My eyes stay locked on it, unable to look away, like if I do, it might disappear. And suddenly everything clicks into place in the worst possible way.
This isn’t a misunderstanding. This isn’t some weird coincidence. This isn’t something I can just talk my way out of.
My chest tightens, something sharp pressing against my ribs from the inside, and I realize too late that my vision is blurring as tears start spilling down my face. I didn’t even realize how many had already pooled in my eyes.
I drag my hands up to my face quickly, wiping at them like I can erase the reaction before it fully happens, before he sees it.
He turns his head toward me, still leaning back, and for the first time since I walked in, something shifts in his expression. He sits up immediately. The cigarette disappears into the ashtray, crushed out in one sharp movement, like it suddenly matters.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and there’s something off about it now. Something almost uncertain. “I’m sort of an idiot.”
He lets out a short, awkward breath, like he’s trying to pass it off as a joke, but it doesn’t land. Not even close. I can’t even look at him. My hands are still pressed to my face, my breathing uneven, my thoughts slipping through my fingers faster than I can catch them.
This is real.
This is actually happening.
He shifts his weight, glancing at me again, and whatever he sees makes him hesitate.
“I’ll go,” he mumbles after a second, quieter now.
And then he’s gone. The door closes softly behind him.
The second I’m alone, everything crashes. My knees give out before I can stop them and I hit the floor, my hands falling from my face as the tears finally break through properly. I fold into myself, pressing my palms against my eyes, like I can hold everything in if I just try hard enough.
I’m so fucking stupid. I thought I could handle this. I thought I could find him and control the situation somehow. Like this was a story I was writing, not something I got dragged into. My breath shakes as it leaves me, uneven, sharp, impossible to steady.
What the hell did I walk into? What is this place? And what is he going to do to me? I thought I could find him and—
What was I thinking? I had this coming.
?
I don’t know how long I sit there.
At some point, the tears stop. Not because I feel better. Just because there’s nothing left.
My head feels clearer now. I wipe my face with the back of my hand and inhale slowly, forcing the air deeper into my lungs than it wants to go.
Okay.
Enough.
I need to focus. I need to investigate. No more pathetic crying.
I stare at the butter knife on the table, daydreaming about it stuck in Adrien’s eye, blood spattering from the wound all around this beautiful rug.
Yes, I’m going to keep that knife.
But then I recollect how nervous he got when I started crying. He doesn’t seem like someone who would hurt me—or anyone, actually.
But the gun?
God, what was I expecting? That they’d use water guns? I mentally slap myself and sip my coffee.
Despite the walk-in closet full of my favorite fashion pieces, I chose a black sports set, leggings and top with a built-in bra and long sleeves together with some combat boots.
At least I look like I could run if I had to.
My weapon—the biggest, sharpest piece of the broken vase—is now tucked into my boot next to the butter knife.
Okay. Think. I need to figure this out. No more losing control.
He definitely kidnapped me.
He also definitely followed me outside, judging by all my favorite food and clothes being in this gothic hellhole.
How many times was he in my apartment? How many times was he or someone else really there, and how many times was it just my paranoia?
Maybe he was there just once to leave me the ripped article splashed with red wine, and the rest was my imagination. Or maybe it wasn’t even him.
Overwhelmed by my thoughts, I go for another trip around the suite. No windows I could break, no tools I could use. I notice two books taken out of the library, placed neatly on the table.
Before I can read the titles, I hear heavy footfalls heading toward my door. I put down the croissant and slowly slide out the shard from the vase. The footsteps stop in front of my door, hesitating.
This is not Adrien.
I feel it again.
The same feeling as in my apartment so many times. That same heavy thickness in the air. My heart is beating at a dangerous speed.
It’s him. He’s here.
I stand there, ready for anything. But then the person behind my door starts moving again and the footfalls disappear in the distance.
My shoulders relax.
Was it him?
My hand is shaking so I put the sharp glass back in my boot and calm myself.
Breathe in, breathe out.
If they wanted me dead, they would already do it, right? What information could I possibly have for them?
This wasn’t how I imagined finding him.
In my head, I’d stumble onto a clue—a name, a signature, a shadow of him somewhere. And then track him down. Then I’d finally explain that I never wanted to leave. That I was just scared and too young to understand anything. But now I do.
I’d never leave him again.
But I guess that’s not how this is going to play out.
What did I think? That I could track him down and just talk? That I wouldn’t end up in a cage like this?
Stupid. I’m so fucking stupid.
I got myself into this. I’m just not sure what exactly I walked into.
My eyes fall back to the books, laid neatly on the table. I step closer and my chest immediately warms.
Wuthering Heights.
It’s that book. My fingertip brushes the familiar rip on its back. It’s mine.