Page 3

"I also stocked the fridge with all your favourites, and there are bath salts in the bathroom. I even got those gross jellybeans you used to obsess over as a kid."

I laugh again, a choked little sound that surprises both of us. "You mean the vomit-flavoured ones?" I groan, half-laughing, half-crying.

"Truly, you were a disgusting child." He grins, and for a second, the past feels like a place I can still visit. "Come on. Let's get you settled in. Your room is made up, and I even fluffed the pillows."

"Did you spray them with lavender mist like you used to?"

"Of course I did."

I let him guide me down the short hallway to the primary bedroom, where a queen-sized bed, warm lighting, and an absurd number of pillows wait for me. He sets the tea on the nightstand and dims the lights.

"Go run a bath, I'll drink my tea while I wait. And if you want to cry, scream, or throw something fragile, we have excellent insurance on this place." He says it with a wink, but there's tenderness beneath the joke .

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I pad into the bathroom across the hall minutes later, and my reflection startles me. I look haunted; the clothes hanging off my thinning body, and my eyes are ringed with shadows. I barely recognize myself.

But maybe that's the point. Maybe the girl who left New York died somewhere in that studio, and the one who arrived in Marlow is all that's left. And if that's true… I have no idea who she is yet.

The bath is hot enough to sting when I sink in, a sharp bite that used to come from something far more destructive.

I don’t burn myself with lighters anymore, but sometimes I still chase the ache.

The smell of the eucalyptus bath salts fills the air while I let the water scald the day off my skin, watching the surface ripple with each trembling breath.

My legs float to the top, golden-brown and tense, the muscles wiry from running on fumes.

On the edge of the tub, beside the untouched bottles of shampoo and body wash that Lando must've set out for me, sits a razor, still wrapped and clean. My gaze catches on it and won't let go.

I used to cut after my dad died. It was the only way I could feel anything that made sense, and the pain was mine, at least. It was predictable and something that I could control, but I stopped when I joined The Big Apple Ballet, when dancing gave me something else to ache for again.

But now, after the last few weeks that I've had, the urge is back.

The idea of feeling that kind of pain, of choosing it on my own terms, terrifies me.

But what terrifies me more is how much I want to.

Just to make it stop, to get a breath in without my lungs catching fire, to remind myself I'm still here. That he didn't take everything .

After the bath, I must've laid my head on the pillow and drifted off, because I jolt awake an hour later—screaming.

It tears out of me, violent and guttural, like my lungs are rejecting the memory before my brain can even process it.

My body jerks upright, drenched in sweat, sheets twisted around my legs like restraints.

My throat burns from the sound clawing its way out, part sob, part scream.

The door slams open seconds later, and I flinch violently, scrambling backward until my spine hits the headboard.

Lando stumbles in, wide-eyed and barefoot, wielding the TV remote like a weapon.

His sweater twists off one shoulder, hair sticking up like he passed out on the couch. He looks half-crazed with panic.

"Angelique!" he shouts, eyes sweeping the room. "What the hell happened? Are you okay?"

His eyes dart around like someone might step out from behind the curtains, but when he sees that we're alone and it's just me, sobbing into the duvet and shaking uncontrollably, he drops the remote with a thud and rushes over, instinctively reaching for me.

"Hey, hey. It's okay, you're safe. It was just?—"

"No!" I shriek, my voice thick from the tears.

I curl in on myself, arms shooting out in a defensive push before I even register what I'm doing. He stumbles back and freezes, mid-step, hands raised like I've pulled a knife on him.

"I'm not going to touch you, love." he says gently, lowering his voice. "You're safe with me. I promise."

The silence that follows is thick and ragged as my breath wheezes in and out of me like my lungs forgot how to work. I pull the duvet higher, burying my face, trying to force my mind back into the present, to remember that I'm in a bedroom miles away from Alec and that it's over; I survived.

"I'm sorry," I whisper after a long, shaking pause. "God, Lando, I'm so sorry."

Lando lowers himself into a crouch beside the bed, slow and careful as his eyes search mine, soft with worry.

"Don't apologize for having a nightmare," he says.

I wipe my face with the sleeve of my robe, the cotton soft against my skin, but I can still feel the ghost of Alec’s hands, even though they're long gone.

Lando takes a deep breath, then sits down on the edge of the bed with his hands clasped together, elbows on his knees.

He draws in a breath, heavy with exhaustion.

"Alright," he says. "I wanted to put this off until you felt ready, but we need to talk. I need to know exactly what I'm dealing with."

I hesitate, but something about the way he says it, free from judgement and with genuine concern, makes it feel possible. So, I tell him everything.

He listens, his jaw tightening as I speak, and his hands curling into fists, but he never interrupts. When I reach the part about my mom, he looks like he might throw up on my behalf.

"Your mother," he mutters, voice trembling with fury. "I always knew she was cold-hearted, but this…" He shakes his head, eyes wild. "She knows and all she did was tell you to come here like it’s some fucking holiday? "

I nod. "She wants to protect the company, I guess. And the money his family donates."

“She should want to protect you,” he snarls.

Lando shoots to his feet, the mattress lurching from the shift in weight, and begins to pace in tight circles. His fingers tangle in his curls like he wants to rip the rage out of his scalp.

"I'm flying to New York," he says, firmly. "I'm going to strangle that bastard, and your mother, too."

A little unhinged, Lando, but it’s warranted , I think to myself.

A sudden buzz cuts through the air, startling him. He groans as he fishes his phone out of his pocket and looks at the glowing screen.

"Shit, I forgot about the party."

He answers, tone clipped. "Yeah? What? No, I'm not dressed yet, because—" his eyes flicker back to mine, softening a little. "Look, I might skip. Just tell them to go easy on the champagne and not to break anything."

He hangs up with a sigh and sits back down beside me, the fight draining from his posture, guilt tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I planned a thing," he admits. "A house party. Before I knew you were coming. I completely forgot to cancel it."

"Is anyone I know going to be there?"

"Max, Willow, and Alfie." He pauses. "You remember them, right?"

I groan softly, burying my face in the duvet again. "Tell them I'm dead."

"Consider it done," he says dramatically. "Or grievously maimed. Or mysteriously vanished into the Thames River."

Now there's an idea .

"You don't have to stay," I say after a beat. "I mean it. Go. Have your party. I just want to sleep. That's all I've wanted for weeks."

Lando hesitates. "You sure?"

I nod. "Don’t worry about me. I’ll lock the door and I'll be fine."

He stands, leans over, and presses a soft kiss to the top of my head. It's the gentlest thing I've felt in years.

"I'll be back in the morning then," he says, voice warm with care. "With croissants, and possibly the blood of my enemies, depending on how drunk Alfie gets me."

"Croissants first," I whisper. "Blood second."

He grins, one of his genuine, Lando-smiles that lights up his whole damn face. "Deal."

And then he's gone, the front door clicking shut behind him.

I lay there in the dark, the echo of my nightmare still humming under my skin, but it doesn't feel quite so suffocating now that my best friend knows.

For the first time since it happened, I feel a thread of safety wrapping around me—thin and tentative, but real. It's not much, but it's something.