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I do just that, and after a while I flash a glance over my shoulder. To my delight, I see Cole sitting alone. I’m about to take my next order, but stop, feeling a presence looming behind. I don’t need to turn; I know who it is.
Lucian takes a deep inhale before speaking. “Seeing as you will be working here, I have had my PA cancel all of my morning appointments for the foreseeable.”
I turn around and our gazes meet. He’s so close, too close, and yet I can’t bring myself to step away.
“I will be seeing you, Chelsea Janssen,” he says, before strolling out of the café.
Lucian Calloway is everywhere I turn. At home, at my work. Is there no escaping him?
After a disaster of a first day at work—thanks to Lucian Calloway—I’m happy to be home. I pull up in my usual parking bay at the rear of the building, but know something is wrong the second I step out of the car. The heavy bass of dance music fills the air, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s coming from my flat.
My heels click against the cobblestone path as I hurry to see what is going on. The door leading upstairs is wide open, and I’m shoved out of the way by the conveyor belt of people making their way up and down the narrow flight. Faces pass in a flash, faces I have never seen before in my life, and I’m pretty sure Tyler hasn’t either. The heady bass of the music intensifies, and I can feel its beat vibrate right down to my core as I hurry up the stairs.
I step into the hallway and glance around. The lights are off and all of the curtains have been drawn, cloaking the place in darkness. The open-plan lounge and kitchen are alive with strobe lighting that bounces off the walls. Bodies, there are so many bodies—people dancing, making out and gyrating in time to the music.
Instinct tells me to turn around and go back, but what am I thinking? I can’t leave without first making sure Tyler is all right. This is a break-in, it has to be because I know my roomie would never allow a party to take place here. This is Tyler, who bought a five-thousand-pound sofa and projector set for our movie nights. The kitchen cupboards are filled with his grandma’s fine china, and he’s still paying a monthly finance bill for our television. He wouldn’t let this crowd of people pile in and ruin all of our stuff. I know he’s going to America, but he’s coming back.
Isn’t he?
I try to push away the doubt clawing at my mind. I know Tyler, I know him. I tell myself that over and over as I push through the crowd in search of my roomie.
My eyes sting from the thick smoke cloud that hangs in the air. I look at people as I pass but the strobe lighting makes it hard to distinguish between faces.
“Tyler!” I yell. But I can’t see him anywhere.
Once in the kitchen I twist the cord on the blinds and open the window. The light from outside filters in and gives me time to survey the damage. My eyes are wide when I see our week’s worth of food either eaten or discarded on the floor. The fine china is smashed and lies in a mountain of pieces in the sink.
With bodies crashing into me from every angle I walk around the room’s perimeter to get to the lounge. I pull back the heavy curtains and light pours in. Grumbling dancers cover their eyes. The music is turned down and people begin to leave. I figure they’ve taken the hint.
“That’s right, the door is over there!” I yell and watch in delight as the room begins to clear. Though my small victory is short-lived and the smug smile on my face falls when I see the puddles of beer staining our cream sofa and the tipped-up bottle of red wine bleeding into the Persian rug my sister bought me.
“Where are you all going? The party isn’t over!” Tyler hollers. My jaw drops as he appears in front of me. This is a guy who usually lives on a strict alcohol- and gluten-free diet, but is now gorging on pizza and guzzling down beer.
“Tyler.” My voice is drowned out by the music as it’s once again turned up. The group of people who were making their way out pile back in and the room is soon filled to its full capacity again.
“Leave me, woman, I’m getting my funk on.”
“Tyler, stop,” I plead, running after him and tugging on the sleeve of his neon shirt. He turns to face me but can barely stand still. His eyes roll as he sways from side to side.
I yank on his arm. “Oh, my God, Tyler. Are you high?”
“I’m high on life, darlin’,” is Tyler’s reply. “To you, Daddy dear.” He lifts the bottle he’s holding into the air before chugging back the contents. Pulling his arm free, he moves in time to the music and disappears into the crowd.
I stand, completely floored. It would appear my roomie is throwing a ‘fuck you’ party, in honour of his father. But Tyler is not the only person who lives here, and if he won’t put a stop to this madness, then I will. I pull my phone from my pocket and glance down at the screen. Of course the battery is dead.
That’s fine, nothing ten minutes on charge can’t fix. I fight my way to my bedroom, and once inside I flick on the light. I gasp, my phone falling to the floor as I take in everything around me. A young couple are making out on the bed.Mybed. And if I’m not mistaken, the woman is wearing my favourite dress.
My body is shaking in anger and adrenaline. “Get out!” I holler and, crossing my arms, I wait while they stagger to their feet. It takes all of my self-control not to help them out of the room with a complimentary shove. I don’t of course, and instead wait for them to leave and slam the door behind them.
With my arms wrapped around my waist, I pad around the room. My clothes and personal items have been discarded across the floor. Cigarette butts are everywhere. Most are out, others hold their amber glow as they slowly smoulder.
My heart hammers and my breath quakes as I make my way to my free-standing wardrobe. I pull open the door to find bare hangers lining the rail. My shoes that were neatly stacked in boxes are in a heaped mess, and our holiday jar is gone. Granted, it was mostly Tyler’s money inside, but it was money we were saving for our dream trip to Paris.
I side-eye my dressing table and the place my jewellery box once sat. It’s gone. I sink down and perch on the end of the bed. The state of our kitchen and lounge was bad enough, but it hurts me more to know strangers were in my room and going through my things. This is my personal space.
Panic courses through me, and I stumble over to the small ottoman beside my dresser. I prise open the lid, and my heart instantly breaks at what I see. The bag full to the brim of bespoke garments for my baby nephew has been torn open. The clothes that were folded neatly inside are screwed up into balls.
Through blurry vision I flick through the outfits one at a time. Apart from being creased, they appear to be okay—all but one, which incidentally is the outfit that took me the longest to make. The little outfit I had envisioned my nephew wearing on his first birthday. The navy suit jacket I made has been torn and the sewn-in shirt is without its buttons. I fist the material between my fingers.
