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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【 51.
Fifty-one
Mehboob 】
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[ Mehboob • lover ]
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BEIGE CEILING TILES are the first to greet Rose when she opens her eyes. She blinks once, and then a few more times in an attempt to rid the sleep from her vision. Eventually, the glow of the recessed downlights become less blurry and the drop ceiling above her clicks into focus.
Wait.
What?
The skin around her temples tighten as her eyebrows scrunch tightly together. Where on earth is she?
Feeling a panic bubble in her gut, Rose starts to move around—and only then registers the feeling of soft sheets and fluffy pillows.
Her heart in her throat, Rose bolts upright and frantically looks down around her, eyes widening at the sight of her form stretched out on an unfamiliar bed. Her mind races like an express train with no brakes, whizzing past every single minute that transpired since she woke up that morning.
And then she remembers entering Zach’s personal office, remembers being too disheartened to check out its interior and decor—she remembers nestling into one of the large chairs placed around a coffee table in his office and curling in on herself there.
Did she doze off? She must’ve dozed off.
Oh goodness, she cannot believe she dozed off in his office of all places.
But still—how did she end up here? This isn’t her apartment. What is this place?
Still uncertain and restless, Rose looks around for her phone and finds it right next to her on the bedside table. Reaching for the device, she only then notices a folded note beside the phone, held down by a paperweight.
Frowning to herself in curiosity, she picks up the slip of paper and unfolds it;
Don’t freak out. You’re safe. Call me once you’re up.
The breath of relief that follows is only natural. Because this is Zach’s handwriting. She recognises it.
Once her body relaxes upon reading the words, she rolls back her shoulders and glances around the place. There’s another door in the room, other than the main one to enter and exit it—Rose figures it’s probably the washroom.
With another sigh, Rose pushes away the sheets from her body and lets her feet touch the carpeted floor running underneath the bed. Wait. She can feel her toes sink into the carpet. Is she barefoot? Where are her—? Looking around, her eyes don’t take long to fall on the wine-red ankle boots she paired with her sweater this morning. They’re placed right next to the foot of the bed.
