Page 10 of The Ache That Stayed

The black dress clung like a second skin, hem grazing my thighs, neckline dipping low enough to remind me I was still a woman before I was a mother. I’d pinned my hair up with a black satin bow, letting the rest fall in loose waves to my back.

The gossamer lace sleeves slid over my arms like smoke, fragile, whispering around my fingers, delicate as breath.

“What’s taking you so long—” Ritu stood stunned in the doorway.

“Fuck Roxy, I’d hit that ass in a dress like that.”

Heat warmed my cheeks. I had Marcello to thank for that. His relentless “training sessions”—equal parts defence and desire—had toned my body in ways no gym ever could. I was soft where I wanted to be, still curvy, but stronger now. Firmer.

Ritu had dressed as a vampire’s bride, her makeup done with fake blood dripping from her fake fangs. She quickly did my makeup to look like my throat was slit and blood spilled over to the mounds of my breasts peeking through the neckline.

“That’s for you.” She handed me a black laced masquerade mask. “The last club we head to is throwing a masquerade party.”

I took it and tucked it in my purse, applied my strawberry lip gloss over the bright red lipstick Ritu had plastered on my lips. I sent out a quick text to Marcello.

I was grinning ear to ear. Heat curled low in my stomach.

I slipped the phone into my purse and followed Ritu out into the Irish night.

The wind had sharpened.

Somewhere in the city, music pulsed.

And for reasons I couldn’t explain, a strange anticipation settled beneath my skin. A restless feeling I hadn’t experienced in a very long time. Like some forgotten part of me had just opened its eyes.

CHAPTER 4

Roxanne

The night didn’t descend all at once.

It seeped into me slowly—through music, through alcohol, through the parts of me that was tired of remembering. Tired of holding everything together. Of anticipating danger before it arrived.

Eight bars. Eight drinks. Each one different—whiskey that burned, cider that dulled the sting, gin that lifted me just enough that the weight I carried loosened its grip.

Different drinks. Different stories. Different versions of myself slipping loose between sips—the mother, the designer, the survivor—until all that remained was pulse, skin, breath, and noise.

Ritu kept laughing, kept refilling glasses, kept tugging me forward whenever I hesitated. And I let her.

For once, I didn’t want to be careful.

Marcello had kept his word. No hawks. No shadows glued to my back. But he was still Marcello. A message popped up on my phone when we reached the first bar. Nothing urgent. Nothing demanding. Just a quiet check-in reminding me someone, somewhere, was aware I’d arrived.

At the second bar, the bartender already knew my name. By the third, a familiar car idled across the street—not waiting for me, just… there.

Not protection or control. Just infrastructure.

A net stretched somewhere far below me.

The men who handled things like this never hovered. Never approached. Never let themselves become part of my night. They lived in edges. In reflections. In the space between noticing and imagining. And tonight, I didn’t look for them.

By the time we reached the club, the world had dulled around the edges. My cheeks were warm and my laugh came easier than it had in weeks. Ritu’s friends were already there—a small constellation of chaos waited just outside the club—laughing, glittering, already half-drunk, loud enough to feel like safety.

“Rox,” Ritu said, tugging me forward, “this is Amelia, Callum’s better half. And that disaster is Jonah.”

Jonah lifted a hand in solemn greeting. “I object to that label.”

“And you know him,” Ritu added, gesturing beside Amelia.