MEET TO PART

FIVE

HOW DID WE GET HERE?

Roswell's perspective:

Nancy's words echoed incessantly in my mind throughout the entire car ride back home. Her stint in the hospital, the whole dramatic saga—aborting Kyle's baby, plunging into a coma due to blood loss, and then abruptly cutting things off with Kyle because of her "feelings" for me—was all a whirlwind. Suddenly, the sea of unanswered calls made sense. Regret pummeled me like a relentless storm. I had missed my chance, failed to fight for her. That crucial night, I should've lingered, talked it out. I glanced at the peacefully slumbering figure beside me, contemplating my impending turmoil. One year was all I'd asked from Nancy—a year to sever my ties with Roselle. To the regular folk, a year could grease wheels like nothing else. Tossing in a hefty sum, a mansion, and an education package might just sweeten the deal. A marriage contract might appear as lucrative as a jackpot.

"Hey, wake up," I nudged her gently.

"Hmmmmm," she groaned, stretching languidly. "Your place is in the boondocks. I was on my fourth dream sequence before you interrupted me," she mumbled in protest.

I chuckled. "You're not much of a gentleman, are you?"

"???" Her confusion intrigued me.

She shot me a look. "Was I supposed to carry you in?"

"Smart boy." With a swift move, she exited the car. "You ruined the fun. Ta-ta, not feeling it now." And just like that, she opened my door, catching me completely off guard—both with her words and actions. "Hey, close that gaping mouth; it's bad for your health. Come out and... guide me to my room."

The driver emerged, bustling to unload my belongings. The other car had already disgorged her stuff from the trunk. Stepping out, I closed the door and sauntered toward the house. She followed, her eight-inch heels clacking like a percussion ensemble—Tak Tak Tak... "Slow down, I've got a question," She called out. She halted, gasping for breath before contemplating ditching her shoes.

"Stop!" I commanded, trying to maintain a serious tone. "What's the deal?"

Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I stared her down. She relinquished the idea of discarding her shoe and met my gaze. "Where are they taking my boxes?" She yawned, resembling a sleepy kitten. "Follow them, you'll find out," I gestured towards the men carting the boxes. "Need anything else? Matilda's at your service." With that, I turned and headed up the stairs. "Good night, Rose. Don't let the shoe-throwing nightmares bite!"

With each step downstairs, I was convinced I was sleepwalking into a surreal version of my own home. My dad's decree for a week off following our wedding sounded more like a honeymoon phase than a restful reprieve. As the newly anointed CEO, "rest" was a foreign concept, and my body clock seemed to relish in defying my usual 4:30 AM routine.

The click of Roselle's door drew me like a magnet, expecting the usual unadorned space. But what I found was straight out of a decorator's wildest dream—her room, once as dark and mysterious as Batman's cave, had transformed into a technicolor wonderland fit for a unicorn's disco party.

"Good morrow, Mrs. CEO," I chimed, watching Roselle's brush hit the floor like a dropped mic. She stood amidst the chaos of paint and colors, looking like a mad artist, which, in this context, wasn't too far from the truth.

"Did you even sleep?" I asked, squinting through my bewildered stupor.

"Sleep is for the weak, darling. It's practically brunch time in the land of productivity," she quipped, tossing aside her paintbrush with a flourish.