My eyes sting with unshed tears, thinking about how I didn’t get a chance to truly take in our Christmas Eve together. After I woke up late Christmas day, I was in my bed, alone, and he was gone. He’d left me to pick up the pieces of everything he'd shattered. After getting myself together, having a shower and slipping in some Christmas pajamas to spend the holiday alone, my dad turned up announced, demanding answers about where I had been. He was fucking furious.
After some time, I managed to spin a story that I was left stranded and he made me take him to my car, which luckily was still there. He asked about Blaise, and I told him that I didn’t want to see him anymore. He tried to convince me otherwise, as always. Said he was a good man and all that bullshit, but I saw different. Blaise is a grade A cunt, and I don’t want to seehim ever again. Especially after smacking him over the head with a frying pan.
Eventually, my dad agreed, luckily. But even though I feel some ease right now—like he’s off my back and I’m not being forced to be with Blaise—Rook still looms in the back of my mind, like a dark cloud. His touch still burns hot on my skin, his claim too deep for me to scrub away. He’s all I fucking think and dream about, more than ever, and nothing I do can change it. I know this will take time. So much time. Losing someone you love, whether it’s through death or just... being gone, is a process.
But this past week, I’ve done something I never thought I would—I’ve been trying to find ways to be with Rook, freely, even though I know deep down it’s impossible. Every path my heart tries to take is blocked by a fucking tombstone—my dad.
So tonight, if I’m brave enough, I’ll finally tell him the truth about how I feel about Rook. I haven’t really said it before, not even once, because even just mentioning his name has been shaky ground since he caught us. I know his reaction will be explosive, and that scares the shit out of me. But I can’t keep holding on, can’t keep pretending. I can’t keep living like this.
I’m hoping that, if he hears it from my lips—his daughter, his only child—maybe, just maybe, he’ll see that Rook is who I want.
Unless, of course, I’ve already lost Rook. Which, there’s always that big possibility.
I sigh and get to my feet, forcing my body to walk toward my wardrobe. I pick out a black, elegant dress and a matching pair of heels, tossing them onto the bed. My dad will expect me to be glammed up to the nines to parade me around no doubt.
When I’m ready, I face the mirror. My makeup is flawless, my long black hair curled perfectly, but none of it matches how dead I feel inside tonight. My fists tighten at my sides, rage simmering beneath the surface, and before I can stop myself, I grab a packet of makeup wipes from the desk. I tear a few free and scrub at my face, wiping away the layers until there’s nothing left—no foundation, no lipstick, no mask. Just skin.
Igrab my hairbrush, dragging it through the curls until they fall into messy waves. My heels hit the floor with a sharp kick, and I don’t hesitate as I rip the tight dress off my body, throwing it aside. My steps are quick and purposeful as I storm toward the wardrobe, pulling out a simple oversized black T-shirt, a cropped leather jacket, and a pair of black tights. I grab my boots and sit on the edge of the bed to put everything on.
Once I’m dressed, I stand and turn back to the mirror, staring at the reflection looking back at me.
No fancy dress. No heels. No perfect hair. No layers of makeup and false eyelashes.
This is me.
The real fucking me that I keep burying, hiding away just to keep everyone else happy.
Except one person.Rook.
His deep words echo in my mind:“You don’t always have to be flawless, Bunny. You don’t have to always be perfect—to be perfectto me.”
My eyes well up again, tears threatening to fall, but I force them back with a deep, steady inhale. A new wave of willpower washes over me as I square my shoulders, turning toward the door.
When I step out of the cab in front of my dad’s mansion, the place is alive with energy. Snow still clings to the edges of the driveway, melting under the glow of lights and the rumble of engines. I stare ahead, watching people pour through the doors, the base of music vibrating in the air even from here as luxurious motorbikes line the street. I take a shaky breath, readying myself, and move forward.
Inside, the chaos swallows me whole. People are drinking, laughing, and grinding to the music, the air thick with sweat and the smell of liquor. Bikers party hard—I’ve known this my whole life—but all I care about is making it to the kitchen to pour myself a strong drink.
I weave through the crowd, dodging elbows and sidestepping spilled drinks until, finally, I reach the kitchen. It’s surprisingly empty compared to the rest of the house, a small pocket of calm amidst the madness. A few people nod as I pass, but I barely acknowledge them. My focus is on the counter.
I grab a cup and a bottle of whiskey, my hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. Pouring a shot, I throw itback in one swift motion. The burn hits instantly, scorching my throat and making me cough, but it’s exactly what I need.
“Ebony?” my deep dad’s voice cuts through the noise behind me, loud and unexpected. “Why aren’t you dressed? You’re…”
I spin around to face him, my pulse quickening, but the words die in my throat as my world shrinks, my gaze locking onto one figure in the haze of people behind him—Blaise.
A flash of anger rushes through me, but I snap out of it as soon as my dad steps forward, gesturing at my outfit with his hand. His expression changes: he's disappointed, but I glance down at myself as the room around me blurs.
“I like it,” I say flatly, almost robotic, my voice void of emotion.
He stops in his tracks, his jaw tightening as he studies me. The tension between us is already brewing, thickening the air, I can feel it creeping around my spine, tightening, but I push through it, lifting my chin and moving my eyes back to Blaise. He’s standing there, glass of whiskey in hand, his tattooed fingers wrapped around it like a taunt, staring at me.
“What’s he doing here?” I demand, shooting a pointed look at my dad.
My dad side-eyes Blaise for a moment, but his gaze quickly returns to mine. “Listen, Ebony—”
“No, Dad,” I snap, my voice cracking like a whip as I cut him off.
Then, my eyes squeezing shut, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. When I open them again, his expression is stunned, like I’ve just smacked him.
