It's a fact that you can't help who you fall in love with. And for Rosaline Davenport and him, it definitely shouldn't have been each other.
Because, sometimes, love stories have blood on them.
[warning: this is the mother of all slow-burns]
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【 38.
Thirty-eight
Faaslaa 】
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[ Faaslaa • distance/space ]
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LOOKING THROUGH THE glass of the moving cab’s window, Zachary’s eyes linger on the La Fournette’s logo engraved on the large red-and-white striped structure that hangs above the rustic bakery’s door in the distance.
His mind suddenly flashes with the image of Rose at the hotel back in Springfield, the way her face was drawn into a look of appreciation and delight as she bit into the warm croissant.
Rose likes croissants, doesn’t she?
And she didn’t get to enjoy it that day, right? Zachary remembers the flash of guilt on her face, the way she lost all enthusiasm within the blink of an eye, and the way she put the croissant back on her plate. All because she believed she wasn’t supposed to enjoy the simple pleasures of life when Micah was no longer there to enjoy it himself.
He keeps staring at the traditional French bakery, watching it grow closer and closer, until they’re almost about to drive past it, and then—
“Hey, stop the car,” Zachary finds himself saying to the driver. He straightens his posture and gestures towards the classic wooden structure on the side of the road. “I need to get something.”
Zachary has no idea what the hell is doing, but he doesn’t stop to process his actions or any suppressed emotions attached to these actions. He pushes all thoughts away for the time being, and simply goes ahead with doing what he feels like.
He arrives at the Davenport home in fifteen minutes, the croissants still warm from where he can feel the heat soothe the skin of his palm through the paper bag. After paying off the cabbie and going through the standard security of the Senator’s, Zachary finds himself entering the house for the second time in his life.
“Morning,” he greets the housekeeper who offers to take the bag from him. Zachary smiles at her and passes it on.
“Morning, Sir,” the woman with a pointy face but kind eyes and greying hair greets back. “Breakfast was just served in the dining room. Mrs Davenport is already down, and both the Master and the young lady will be joining shortly. I was asked to direct you there if you showed up for breakfast.”
“Thank you. I know where the dining is, so don’t bother with escorting me.” He nods towards the bag of croissants, realising the whole hall is now filled with the buttery aroma of the baked goodies. “Do me a favour and bring those to the table after serving them on a dish.” And then he smiles for some stupid, unknown reason. “The young lady likes them.”
