Chapter 163
I wake to the soft gray light spilling in through the curtains. For a moment, panic flares in my chest until I realize the bed beside me is empty… Zane isn’t here.
I don’t know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or feel disappointment.
My body tightens anyway, a weird mixture of relief and residual tension from last night. The memory of the grip on my throat and rthe way he pinned me, still lingers in the back of my mind.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and press my feet to the cold floor, shivering slightly as the chill bites through the thin fabric of my pajama pants.
I drag myself toward the bathroom, pulling my hair back with my fingers, feeling every knot and tangle.
Steam from the hot water fogs the mirror as I step into the shower, letting the water cascade over me. The heat seeps into my muscles, loosening the tension in my shoulders and trickling down my spine.
I close my eyes and let my fingers trace over my skin under the water, a small comfort, trying to wash off yesterday’s anger and exhaustion, though I know it’s not that simple.
The sound of water pounding against tile echoes around me. I inhale, counting slowly to ten, then again, telling myself this is just another day.
Another day I can try to get a grip on everything that’s spinning out of control. I press my forehead against the wall for a moment, letting the heat bleed into my bones as my mind wanders.
I finish quickly, stepping out and wrapping myself in a towel. My skin pricks from the contrast of the hot water and the cooler bathroom air.
Before leaving the bathroom, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My hair clings damply to my shoulders, my eyes still heavy with the remains of restless sleep. I stare at myself, silent, searching for strength I’m not sure I have yet.
My jaw tightens. I breathe out slowly and whisper a prayer to whichever God is listening
“Please,” I murmur, “make today easy and make it uneventful. Let me just… get through today without everything falling apart.” My hands curl into fists at my sides as I make the plea.
I step out of the bathroom, letting the towel drop to the floor and sliding into my shoes.
Even as I walk down the hallway, I tell myself to take it one step at a time. Not thinking about Zane, not thinking about what happened yesterday, not thinking about everything that could go wrong. I just move, step by step.
My heartbeat is steadying, my breath slowing as I focus on the sounds around me the distant hum of the house, the faint clatter of Margaret preparing breakfast, the soft shuffle of footsteps echoing in the halls.
I drag myself down the stairs, my hair still damp from the shower, the scent of shampoo lingering faintly in the air.
Margaret is in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with deliberate precision. The rhythmic thwack of her knife against the board is oddly calming, a steady anchor in my otherwise spinning mind. She looks up as I enter and immediately notices the slump of my shoulders nd the dull haze in my eyes.
“Rough night?” she asks, her voice soft, almost motherly, yet laced with concern.
I force a small shrug, trying to appear nonchalant, but it’s hopeless. My lips quiver slightly, betraying the tension I’m trying to mask.
Margaret wipes her hands on a towel and gestures toward the counter. “Why don’t you help me with this? It’ll keep your mind off things for a bit p>
I nod, grateful for the distraction. My hands move almost automatically as I reach for a cutting board, stacking vegetables in neat little piles beside her.
We fall into an easy rhythm, the kind that comes with a few months of familiarity. She chops, I slice. She hums a quiet tune, and I find myself matching her, our voices soft and blending with the ambient hum of the refrigerator.
We talk as we work, not about anything and nothing in particular. I listen to her Stories from childhood, ridiculous kitchen disasters, small triumphs and minor embarrassments.
I laugh at her recounting the time she set her oven mitts on fire while trying to impress a date.
The smell of basil and garlic mingles with the faint aroma of baked bread. It’s grounding. I focus on the textures the crisp snap of the vegetables as I slice them, the smoothness of the knife handle in my hand. For a moment, I can almost forget the tension coiled tight in my chest.
When we finish, Margaret begins setting the table. She moves with the grace of someone who’s done this a hundred times, arranging plates, folding napkins, and sliding utensils into place with care.
“Go ahead, sit,” she says, her voice gentle but firm. “Eat a bit. You need something in your stomach p>
I lower myself into the chair, the wood cool against my thighs, and start eating slowly, deliberately. I chew carefully, tasting the sweetness of the roasted vegetables, the subtle tang of the dressing, letting the flavors anchor me.
Halfway through my first bite, a chime cuts through the kitchen… thee doorbell.
Margaret glances at me, raising an eyebrow knowingly.
“You stay here. Eat, and I’ll get the door door my dear.” she instructs, her tone light but commanding, a lifeline amidst my fluttering panic.
I watch her move toward the front door, her footsteps soft against the polished floor. The sunlight catching the strands of her hair as she parts the door, and I hear her voice, smooth and warm, greeting whoever is there.
Curiosity holds around me like a fist. I push back from the table, though I don’t move from my chair, my eyes fixed on the doorway.
And that’s when I see her p>
Claire.
What the fuck is Claire doing at my house so early in the morning p>