ROSES AND RUIN

Chapter Six:

~And when you're caught in the flames with only yourself to blame, do you burn with regret, or do you accept your fate?~

Present.

~Willow~

I was in his house: the unsettling discovery was logical enough that I couldn't even bring myself to question it. Cold fear slithered down my spine, leaving a trail of numbness in its wake.

As I surveyed the room, this time through a new lens, it became clear to me just how much the atmosphere screamed of male simplicity.

For one, the expensive decor of the kitchen was a study in profound minimalism. Stainless steel appliances gleamed under the overhead lights. The countertops were bare except for a single, compact knife block and a set of meticulously arranged spice jars, each label perfectly aligned.

Shock mingled with confusion, embedding itself in my bones like a noose tightening around a traitor's neck during an execution.

Even the color scheme was cold and masculine, dominated by dark hues, leaving little room for warmth. The cabinets were a deep charcoal gray, with no hint of personal touches in sight, no family photos or quirky decor, just an array of utilitarian tools hanging neatly from hooks. Everything was designed for efficiency and the starkness of the space felt almost clinical, as if it were more of a workspace than a home.

I felt heat rise to my cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and overwhelming clarity crashing over me like a tidal wave, knocking the breath clean from my lungs. This wasn't Julie's house. It had never been.

Shit.

What had I gotten myself into?

In the handsome lunatic’s eyes; I'm not even sure I could label him that anymore, seeing as his anger was justified; I had barged into his home, spun tales about some woman who, as far as he was concerned, didn't even exist, and defended myself against him who had every right to be irritated.

But that was far from my only offense.

I shut my eyes tightly as if that would somehow erase the way I had mouthed off, and even instructed him not to touch anything… in his own house.

Somebody kill me now.

I had considered the slight possibility that this place could be his for a brief second before, though accepting it was a different ball game entirely; but now that he'd confirmed it, my stomach twisted into painful knots.

I was beyond screwed.

The reason behind his hostility and refusal to believe anything I said suddenly made sense. To him, I alone was the lunatic here; he'd previously asked if I'd lost my marbles, so there's no question about what he thought about me in that regard, and I couldn't exactly blame him for it. My own actions made me cringe. Badly.

My stomach churned with nausea and I fought the urge to throw up. I figured he wouldn’t take kindly to that, given how spotless everything was. He probably had a thing for cleanliness too, and besides, I had already made enough nuisance of myself. I didn’t want to add messing up his pristine floor to that list when my being here was a mistake.

One I didn't know how to get out of.

Honestly, it would be better if I could just sink into the floor or have it open up and swallow me entirely.

If the situation were reversed and I had come out of the shower to find a stranger rummaging around in my apartment and claiming it to be someone else's, as I'd done, I’d be halfway through dialing the police by now. Well... after first screaming the entire building down and attempting to hurl every home appliance within touching distance at him, or whoever else the intruder might be.