NINE
THIS IS IT.
My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs as I step out of the taxi.The apartment building looms before me.My reflection in the glass doors stares back: hair disheveled, features tired, still in the same tracksuit I’ve been wearing since last night.
I enter the lobby.The scent of lilies and stale perfume, thick and cloying, slams into me.Its sweetness clashes with the metallic tang of fear on my tongue.I clutch the ring in my fist, its sharp edges digging into my palm, a physical reminder of the battle ahead.
My footsteps are unnervingly quiet in the oppressive silence of the empty hallway.The apartment door stands at the end, a silent sentinel guarding the secrets within.I steel myself, take a deep breath, and rap my knuckles against the wood.
Silence.
I knock again, louder this time.
The door swings inward.James appears.
For a heartbeat, I just stare, taking in the unexpected sight.His usually rigid posture is relaxed, and a soft smile plays on his lips.His eyes, usually calculating, sparkle with a tenderness that makes my breath hitch.
“I brought your ring back,” I say steadily, forcing the words past the tremor in my hands.
I hold out my hand, the ring displayed on my open palm.He doesn’t reach for it.Instead, he simply stands, watching me.The apartment behind him is bathed in a soft, golden light.The aroma of roasted chicken mingles with the scent of roses, creating a heady fragrance that both soothes and unsettles me.
“Amy,” he breathes in a husky whisper, “I’m so glad you came back.”He pulls me into a close embrace.
I stiffen in his arms, my body instinctively recoiling.He holds me tighter, burying his face in my hair, his touch suffocating.
What is he doing?
Is this some kind of twisted game?
I stand frozen, my mind reeling.
Where is the anger?The rage?The accusations?
This James is a stranger.A phantom.
“James…” His name sticks in my throat.
He pulls back, holding me at arm’s length, his eyes searching mine.“I want to make things right.”
Do you really?I wonder, my heart hardening.Or is this just another performance?
My gaze snaps to the table set for two, then back to him.Confusion wars with suspicion.The soft music drifting from the living room clashes with the frantic rhythm of my heartbeat.
“You shouldn’t have…” I can barely speak.
“Anything for you, my love,” he murmurs, smooth as silk.
My stomach clenches.A bitter taste rises in my throat, and I have to force my lips into a smile, a mask I can barely hold in place.I try to pull away, but his grip tightens, his fingers digging into my arms.I flinch, shrinking away from the pain.
“I need to change,” I say in a strained whisper, every nerve ending screaming in protest.
Get away from me.
“Later,” he murmurs, a low growl that raises goosebumps on my arms.His gaze drops to my lips, lingering there with a predatory hunger.
Don’t you dare kiss me.My throat tightens with disgust.
“I need to freshen up and get out of these clothes,” I plead.
