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I didn’t tell her she could leave, and disappearing sure as hell isn’t the answer.

“Where are you off to now?” Roman shouts as I enter the elevator but I don’t bother to respond.

I look at my phone again, her movements are jerky as she closes the zipper around the suitcase.

“I should’ve brought the skincare from his house.” She chuckles and I can’t help but grind my teeth.

She thinks this is funny?

She thinks leaving me is funny?

FOURTEEN

Elara

To think I’d get to start a new life in a new place. What a fucking joke.

If God wanted good things for me, he would’ve saved me a long time ago. So, pardon my insolence if I have a hard time believing in the almighty.

I could change cities, names, places, entire lives and still feel hollow.

Sergei was right. I want to escape my own thoughts and I loved it when he just grabbed a suitcase and ordered me to go with him.

The I’m An Independent Woman Committee revoked my membership on the spot.

When I first realised I wasn’t normal—that there was something fundamentally wrong with me—I turned to the internet.

I listened to podcasts. Read every self-help book I could get my hands on. Sat through motivational speeches from people who swore healing was a choice.

It was all fucking useless. I was too damaged for therapy or some girl with a microphone to fix me.

Where kids my age were playing around, I was screaming on top of my voice to be heard until I lost all hope in humanity. I was the crazy bitch, the slut, the problem child, the attention seeking whore when I was just thirteen and helpless.

I’m still helpless.

I’ve spent years trying to kill the little girl in pink. But she’s persistent.

She appears at the most random moments, carrying flickering lights and a lullaby that’s taken root somewhere deep inside my mind.

The thought of being vulnerable my entire life makes me want to bang my head so it would just stop thinking, so it would just fucking…stop.

And it stopped when he held me, when he kissed me.

It also made me realise how much power he holds over me.

I love the quiet but I hate the uncertainty of it—of him.

I’d rather deal with the known over the unknown any day, even if the known slowly kills me.

The suitcase creaks across the white marble as I drag it behind me, the wheels squealing loud enough to drill into my skull. This much fucking weight for two changes of clothes.

For a fleeting second, I consider tossing it out the window, figuring it will reach the ground faster and with far less effort than I am wasting on it.

I’m just about to reach the door when I hear—

“Elara.” The unmistakable, highly accented voice of the tall, brooding man—one I cannot stop thinking about— makes me pause.

“Step away malyshka.” He calls through the door. “I’m going to break it.”