Taming the Bitch (COMPLETED)

Chapter XII - NAKED

Gabrielle yawned softly as she stretched across the generous width of the bed, limbs slipping languidly through the warmth she'd burrowed into during the night. She could feel sunlight grazing her face, a pale, insistent glow pressing through her eyelids, yet the breeze drifting over her bare skin was cold enough to make her shiver. With a sluggish groan, she tugged the blanket up to her chin, cocooning herself against the world.

Her eyes remained firmly shut. She had no intention of opening them—not yet, perhaps not ever.
If she were given a choice, she would simply drift back into sleep and stay there, suspended, untouched by memory or thought. Because the moment she opened her eyes, she knew the pain—sharp, familiar, merciless—would return in full.

She was far too drained to feel it again. Too bruised in spirit to fight another round with her own life.

Life had already taken more than her share.

So for now, she simply wanted quiet. To sleep, and foolishly, hopelessly pray that when she woke, the world might have rearranged itself into something kinder.

But naturally, life had no intention of obliging.

The sudden shrill whistle of a kettle somewhere in the room shattered the silence.

She jolted upright.
"Argh..." She collapsed back into the pillows, dragging the blanket over her head like a defeated soldier diving for cover.

Her skull throbbed—an unforgiving, rhythmic pounding that warned her of the hangover gathering its forces. She sifted through the fragments of last night and found nothing but blurred lights, blurred streets, blurred feelings—just herself, drinking alone in the pub near Central Park, trying to drown ghosts that refused to stay dead.

With a groan, she peeled back the comforter, squinting at the unfamiliar window staring back at her.

The room was entirely foreign to her: painted in deep navy and smoke-grey, with clean, modern lines and a quiet, understated elegance. A sweep of metallic silver curtains had been drawn back, allowing sunlight to spill mercilessly across her face. She winced, shielding her eyes with a hand.

Where on earth was she?

She pushed herself upright, rubbing at her temples—then froze as the blanket slipped from her shoulders.

She gasped.

Her skin prickled with cold as she realised she wore nothing beneath the comforter.

Wide-eyed now—very much awake—she dragged the blanket back to her chest, her breath catching in a mixture of confusion and dawning horror. She ran a frantic hand across the sheets, the duvet, the pillows—none of it familiar.

This wasn't her room.
This wasn't Ade's room either. God, Ade—she hadn't seen him since she returned to what she bitterly called her father's prison. He'd been busy surviving, caring for his family, for his ill mother. Their worlds had drifted apart long before last night.

"Good morning, Bella."

The rich baritone behind her struck like a physical blow.

She spun, clutching the comforter to her chest.

"Y–You...!" she stammered, breath quick and uneven.

Vincent Walton stood there—bare-chested, wearing nothing but dark boxers—carrying a tray as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Her gaze flicked—mortifyingly—towards the one part of him still covered, then she slapped a hand over her eyes, cursing herself for the reflex.

Vincent frowned at her reaction, exhaling sharply.
If she hadn't been so wildly drunk, and if he didn't know she held a medical licence, he would have suspected this was the first half-naked man she'd ever seen.