Feef didn’t sleep the night before. While the manor outside Oxfordshire slumbered in cold stone silence, she memorized every creak of the floors, every shift of the wind against the windows. Her plan was desperate, reckless—but it was the only thing she had.
At dawn, she made her move.
She slipped out barefoot, coatless, into the biting chill of the moors behind the house. The fog was thick—her one advantage. She climbed over the rear garden wall, scraping her palms, and took off into the open fields, heart pounding like a drumbeat in her ears.
Hours passed.
Feef stuck to narrow paths, ducked behind hedgerows when headlights swept the lanes, and followed the riverbank until the freezing water soaked through her jeans. She made it to a roadside inn near Bampton, where she used the cash she’d hidden in her boot to buy a sandwich and dry her clothes by a fire. Her hands shook with adrenaline, not hunger.
She couldn’t risk calling anyone. Her phone had been left behind—Mustafa would’ve tracked it. And she didn’t know who she could trust anymore.
She spent the night in a disused barn, the scent of hay and oil clinging to her skin. Her breath fogged the air. She curled up in a forgotten horse blanket and dreamed of Dan’s arms around her, of warmth and safety and mornings that didn’t begin with fear.
By the third day, exhaustion clawed at her bones.
That’s when she made her mistake.
She’d stumbled into Witney with nothing but the clothes on her back and a desperate plan to buy a burner phone. Her fingers were numb from cold, her hair plastered to her face from the drizzle. Inside the small electronics shop near the edge of the market square, she pulled a box off the display, heart thudding—but when she counted the crumpled bills in her coat pocket, her chest sank.
She didn’t have enough.
The cashier, a tired young man with dark circles under his eyes and a Styrofoam cup of coffee glued to his hand, barely looked up from his phone.
Feef stepped closer. “I need to use your phone,” she said, forcing her voice not to crack. “Please. It’s an emergency.”
He blinked, finally registering her. His gaze lingered—at the bruising near her wrist, the rain-soaked cardigan, the panic she tried to keep from flooding her face.
“You alright, love?”
“I just need to make a call.” Her smile trembled. “Please.”
The man hesitated, then slowly slid the cordless phone across the counter. “Make it quick.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, already punching in the number.
Her hands trembled as she dialed a number she'd memorized a lifetime ago—Farid Uncle in London. Her father’s old friend. A man who once took her for ice cream in Hyde Park and told her, If you ever need help, no questions asked—call me.
The line rang.
Once.
Twice.
Four times.
Her stomach twisted. Please pick up.
Then—voicemail.
She swallowed her tears and began speaking in hushed, urgent Urdu: “Uncle Farid… it’s Feef. I need help. I’m in Oxfordshire, near Witney. I can’t explain now. Please call back, it’s urgent—”
She froze mid-sentence.
Across the shop’s window, a familiar shape passed—a black car idling at the curb. In the driver’s seat sat one of Mustafa’s men. He was looking right at her.
YOU ARE READING
Latte Or Mocha
ChickLit"I..I nee..d to leave," she said trembling trying really hard to hide her fear as he inched closer towards her. He cut the phone call and an unknown emotion flashed in his eyes before it was masked away. "I... I did..not... see anything, ple...ase...
