"Mm—"
"Cohen, stop it. Your sister is calling."
"Hang up."
The words on the other end of the line were laced with an intimacy that made my heart sink. Imogen’s breathless moans mixed with Cohen’s cold, commanding voice, shattering any courage I might have had to confront him.
What I didn’t realize, lost in the haze of my mind, was that an unfamiliar number had been calling me repeatedly. Dozens of missed calls I had failed to notice.
The paint coating my body was starting to make me dizzy. The chill of the near-freezing air bit at my soaked skin as I knelt on the ground, trapped in a frozen eternity. The wind cut through me like a thousand knives, but it didn’t compare to the deeper wound Cohen had left in my heart.
At last, I couldn’t hold on.
Just as I felt myself slipping, unsure if it was the cold or my mind playing tricks, I felt warmth, a real, comforting embrace.
It wasn’t the sharp, cold grip I knew from Cohen. This one was gentle, and it didn’t just steady me; it melted away the cold that had seeped deep into my bones.
[I finally found you.]
[I won’t let anyone hurt you again.]
The last few messages from that unfamiliar number, along with the phone Cohen had given me, were left on the doorstep of the Whitmore family home.
In that warm, unfamiliar embrace, I left behind the place I had called home for the past eleven years. The years spent with Cohen, believing we had understood each other, convinced we loved one another, were over.
It felt as if I was clinging to a lifeline. I turned to the person who had taken me away and whispered, "I want to leave the country as soon as possible. I need to completely leave this place behind."
He nodded solemnly, his gaze steady, and reassured me. His words were enough to quiet the storm inside me.
After all, he had walked straight into the Whitmore household and taken me with ease.
With the last remnants of my fading consciousness, I added, "Like how my father disappeared without a trace years ago, I want every part of me to vanish from this country."
7
When I awoke, the world around me had changed.
I was in an unfamiliar room, small but cozy. The air was warm, and the bedside table held a steaming cup of water, evidence that someone had been here recently.
The paint had been washed off my skin, and I found myself dressed in clean clothes, a stark contrast to the mess I had left behind.
As I took in my surroundings, my eyes widened in shock. This room was eerily familiar; it looked just like my childhood bedroom.
Not the one at the Whitmore house, but the one I had before I turned ten, when my parents were still alive, and our family had cherished me like a precious treasure.
"Meow."
A small cat wandered into the room, unbothered by my presence. Its soft, white fur brushed against my side, and it nuzzled me with its tail.
I bent down, a soft smile playing on my lips as I reached out to pet it.
"Esme, don’t bother her," came a gentle voice.
I looked up to find a man dressed in white loungewear standing in the doorway, his expression kind, but unreadable.
The kitten turned at the sound of his voice, letting out a haughty meow, only to curl up against me again as if its earlier defiance had never happened.
"Sorry, she’s always been a little... particular," the man said softly. "She just really likes you."
"It’s fine," I replied, my voice quiet but sincere. "I like her too."
A rush of memories hit me of the pure white kitten I had once owned as a child. Back then, the Whitmore family had forbidden pets, and I had been fortunate just to be accepted into their home. The thought of bringing my cat along had never crossed my mind.
Maybe it was the man’s calming presence, his gentle tone, or the kitten’s soft warmth beside me, but for the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t feel the need to ask why I was in this unfamiliar place.
I opened my mouth, ready to speak, but before I could form the words, the man handed me a coat, his movements slow, deliberate, and introduced himself.
