By the time I arrived at the bakery, Rocky was already seated at a table near the corner, waving at me with a grin that could only be described as self-satisfied. I took a steadying breath before stepping inside.
“Hi… again,” he greeted, standing up and guiding me toward the chair across from him.
“Hello,” I replied, sitting down as he immediately dove into the menu, glancing up to ask if I had anypreferences.
“Anything light,” I said.
“Light it is.” Rocky nodded.
After an exhausting day of signing books, fielding endless questions, and posing for selfies, I was barely holding on to the last shred of my energy.
“So… how's your chef?” he winked, pouring water into the glass.
“You mean Manav?”
“Yes, him… the one and only Manav Oberoi.”
I returned a faint smile. “I think you two are friends.”
Rocky chuckled, leaning forward. “Friends? Let’s just say we’ve crossed paths. Manav Oberoi is… complicated,” he said cryptically, swirling his coffee cup.
I ignored it and focused on my glass of water.
Grateful for a brief moment of solitude, I excused myself and stepped toward the washroom. The day had been unrelenting, and this was my first chance to catch my breath since the book signing.
As I walked back out, raised voices drew my attention to the café's front.
What the hell?
Rocky had Lina’s wrist in a vice-like grip, with an unsettling smile. Her face was pale, and her voice was trembling as she tried to pull free. “This is my café—get out!” Lina hissed, her voice shaking.
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” he sneered. “I could shut this whole place down if I wanted to.”
“What the hell are you doing? Let her go!” I shouted as I stepped towards the counter.
Rocky turned toward me, his sneer twisting into something far more menacing. “Oh, Ms. Randhawa, no need to worry. Lina here just doesn’t understand how to process a request.” His laugh was low and unsettling, a sound thatmade the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
“I told you we’re closed, and I don’t have staff available to bake another lot of brownies,” Lina protested, her voice cracking as she struggled against his iron grip.
“Let her go, Mr. Mehra,” I said firmly, my voice trembling just enough to betray the rising panic within me. “Or I’m calling the police.”
Before I could react, he lunged, snatching my phone out of my hand with startling speed. “Oh, so now you’re making threats?” he said mockingly, his grip tightening on my wrist as pain shot through my arm.
I gasped, unable to hold back a cry of pain. My head swirled as panic rose in my chest.
He drawled, “What are you going to do? Call your pretty chef to save you?”
Lina’s voice trembled as she tried to interject, “Please, stop this! Leave her alone!”
My heart pounded in my chest as I struggled to pull free. “Rocky, this is your last chance. Let go of me.”
Rocky’s grip tightened around my wrist as he pulled my left arm behind my back, forcing me closer to him.
Something about his grip—the angle, the pressure—was familiar in the worst way. With his other hand, he grabbed a fork from the table. Slowly, he dragged the cold metal along the curve of my right shoulder, tracing the outline of my tattoo with eerie precision. He pressed the fork against my forearm.
Memories I had buried deep clawed their way to the surface, sharp and raw.
The chaos. The shouting. The blood.
