𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 |𝟏𝟖+

36 || Runaway

SZA - Seek & Destroy

𝔚𝔚𝔚
Celina

If you'd have told me I'd be spending my last few days as a single woman on my death bed, I wouldn't be surprised.

The surprise would come from the fact that I hadn't put myself here voluntarily.

And now as I adjust my tired eyes to warm crystal lights, high ceilings and classical music, I regret ever throwing my beliefs about marriage - fake or not, away for a man.

Because for a split second, I didn't hate the thought of marrying Adrik Kozlov.

And that thought is single handedly the most embarrassing thing I could ever delude myself into. Especially when Adrik Kozlov and I weren't in this together. He had no loyalty to me, nor I him.

My sore limbs strain as I sit up in a bed that isn't mine, glance around a room that's far too soft of a pink to be mine while my heart squeezes in a way that doesn't feel mine.

My mind seems so fried, I wonder if I'm seeing things when I look to the corner of the room and watch a little figure curled up on the pink bean bag type away on an iPad that looks far too big for his little hands while a juice box sits in his lap.

I look to the kid with the music taste of an eighty year old and when that doesn't get his attention, I chuck one of the sparkly throw pillows within reach at him. "Turn that shit off."

Big brown eyes hidden behind even bigger framed glasses snap towards me, and all the little shit does is jump down from his seat, set his juice down neatly and run out of the room like his pants are on fire.

I slump back into the bed and exhale a long breath. My body aches, my head feels like it's about to explode and my heart for once feels something other than indifference, but as I sit up and stretch out my arms, I feel... fine.

Not dead, permanently injured or burned like I'd imagined.

I'm fine.

That is until Four Eyes appears again, only this time his hand is clutching a pocket that doesn't belong to him, but an overly stressed Italian who looks like he's been through hell.

"Grazie a Dio, you're okay." He reaches for me but I manage to dodge his touch, my mood suddenly dampened by the sight of him. (Italian | thank God.)

"Where the fuck am I?"

The softest of sighs escapes the man's lips and I hate that even on my death bed, I can read him like a sixth sense.

Silvio Adeamro is tired. Drained. Exhausted.

I can see it in his eyes, feel it in the way he glances down at me and I hate that I know so much about a let down.

"Home." He whispers, smoothing the hair out of my face.

"Ah yes, your home." I once again, pull myself away from his touch and glance around the room, to the large glass doors that lead to a balcony, where the street beyond is the sight of a perfectly pristine neighbourhood. One that tells me growing up here was not only peaceful, but stable and safe. "The one you hid from me for twenty three years."