𝟑𝟕 | 𝐂𝐎𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐂 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄

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𝐈 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 piece of my clothing and place it in my suitcase

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𝐈 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 piece of my clothing and place it in my suitcase. I close the plastic and sit on the lid, holding it down to zip it up. It takes an incredulous amount of effort, but by the time I finish sealing it shut, the sigh that hits my lungs is less from strain and more born out of indignation.

I take a moment to glance around the room I'd claimed.

A twinge of sadness flutters through my heart, infiltrating my carefully curated walls as I peer at the black walls, black sheets, and overall dark interior—as I think about the emptiness that might inhabit the place in Beau's Estate that I had once felt wholly safe in.

Aeris is already gone—the private jet owned by my father having left the lot an hour ago, refusing to take me along with it for fear that my return to Russia might instigate a breach in the contract he'd used me to create with Beau. While I have no problem fending for myself and arriving at an airport like an average human, I can't lie and say that I'm not terrified.

Part of me knows this journey will be enlightening—to be free, without shackles.

But most of me wants to stay—that shackles cannot be shackles if they're desired.

I place my hands on my knees and rise to my feet, lifting my suitcases to their wheels. I brush fragments of my hair from my cheeks and toss my backpack over my shoulders. I don't give myself more time to reminisce or to potentially change my mind before I'm grabbing the handles and rolling my luggage out of the room, shutting it for the final time.

Darkness drapes the hallways.

The silver moon bleeds across the red carpet.

I try to avoid it, this contemplation—I try to ignore it, this pitter-patter in my chest that yearns for stoppage with each step I take. It takes a considerable amount of effort, more than I want to admit, more than I should be feeling, before I make it downstairs to the double-doors that hold the passage of my escape. I lift my hand to the knob, and it hits me then.

I can't understand it.

I don't understand it.

—but my fingers tremble over the brass knob, and I'm not sure if it's my pride that begs me to close the remaining distance and leave, or my ego that knows I can because Beau will always chase me. My swallows are thick in my throat, my thoughts are hollow in my head, and my breaths have been reduced to that of an asthmatic.

I frown.

Because ...

Because I'm standing here, ready to go ...

And yet ...

There's this stinging feeling inside of me that feels wrong.

Like a powerful punch to my larynx, like a slap to the jaw that entirely eradicates any sense of logic and purpose—that utterly changes the tide of my rip current and urges me to turn around, to not lace my fingers, to stay.

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