CHAPTER 18

Luci's words circled Jace's mind long after the door banged. He didn't know what she meant, but he gulped hard at the very possibility of what she had in mind.

Luci’s heels clicked down the hallway, the sound tempting his fear. Jace's fists clenched, but he wasn’t angry. He was afraid.

“When it all gets out…”

What the hell does that mean?

Jace slowly sat down at the edge of the bed. He rested his head on his hands as it felt too heavy with thoughts. Every word Luci had said played on repeat, her teasing tone, her confident smirks, and more importantly, her accusations.

Lusting after her. Stripping her. Sleeping with her. Multiple times. He closed his eyes, hoping that something—anything—from the night before would come back to him. But nothing did.

He remembered adjusting his tie in the mirror, getting ready to pick up Clara, heart pounding with nerves and hope. The next thing? Waking up next to Luci in his bed, completely naked.

The middle remained a fog. He dragged his fingers through his hair roughly. Something was off, terribly off.

“Where’s my phone?” he muttered, suddenly remembering it.

He scanned the room. He searched the bedside table, but found nothing. Then he checked the wardrobe shelf, but it wasn't there. The charger was plugged in, but the phone wasn’t attached.

He stood up, throwing open his drawers. He rummaged through his suits, his trousers, even pulling back the sheets in case it slipped under the covers, but still nothing.

Then his eyes suddenly fell on his jacket by the bedside. He leaned forward to where it lay on the floor. He snatched it up and searched the inner pocket. There it was—his phone, slightly warm from being tucked away for too long.

He pressed the power button.

As soon as the screen lit up, his stomach dropped. Seventeen missed calls.

All from Clara. Ten messages. Two voicemails. The last call had come in at 11.36 PM.

He didn’t even open the messages yet. He couldn’t. His hands were trembling too hard.

Back at Clara’s apartment.

Clara sat still; she faced a serious task. She had to do it, tho, except she wanted to cry herself to sleep again.

She got up, limping to her room as quickly as she could. She appeared shortly afterwards with her phone in hand. She scrolled through dozens of recipes on her phone, and somehow every single one felt like a science experiment designed to make her feel incompetent.

Stuffed chicken breasts? No toothpicks.

Beef stir-fry? Didn’t even own a wok.

Spaghetti carbonara? Raw egg? No, thank you.

With a groan, she tossed her phone on the table.

“This shouldn’t be so hard,” she muttered to herself. She got up, heading to the kitchen to see what she could cook up.

She stepped into the kitchen slowly, looking around like she was in another world. She leaned back against the kitchen counter, staring at the spice rack as if it might magically suggest something edible.

Then her mind caught a memory. A faint one of her mother in the family's kitchen, she peeled onions and reached for a bag of cheese.

Chicken casserole.

Clara’s eyes widened. That was the one time she’d tried to help. She remembered watching her mother mix creamy sauce, layer chicken, vegetables, and noodles or rice—she wasn’t sure which—before sliding it into the oven.

She bolted to the fridge. Chicken? Frozen, but available. Cheese? It could be stale but not moldy. Onions, garlic, cream, butter, carrots, milk… Yes!

She dumped everything onto the counter with clumsy excitement, then paused.

“…how the hell do I make a casserole?”

She turned to YouTube, fingers tapping frantically. The video host smiled too brightly. “Let’s make an easy chicken casserole, perfect for beginners!”

Clara frowned. “Liar.”

Still, she followed the steps. She started by chopping onions, but she apparently wasn't ready for it. Her eyes immediately burned as if she had dipped her eyes in acid.

Tears poured down her cheeks. "Fuck!!!!" She cursed loudly, running to the sink. She turned the tap on and rinsed her eyes multiple times, but it just got worse.

"Arghhh!!!!" She screamed, running to the open window for some air. The sting cooled off after a while, then, hesitantly, she returned and chopped the rest of the onions from a distance.

The slices came out too thick and uneven, but she couldn't care less. She moved on to garlic. She accidentally minced it with the side of the blade backward, then realized too late that she had forgotten to boil the chicken first.

"Fuck," she cursed agaun. She threw the chicken into the pot with salt and guessed how long it needed. “Fifteen minutes? Twenty?” she mumbled.

While it cooked, she tried to make the sauce. The recipe said to “make a roux” with butter and flour. Roux?

What the hell was a roux?

She added the flour too fast, forming a weird paste that stuck to the bottom of the pan. Smoke sprang up quickly, and she yelped, lowering the heat and throwing in the milk to save it.

The sauce became lumpy, but still, she mixed it with the cheese. It didn't look right to her, so she added more cheese and some garlic powder for good measure then it looked like a sauce. Sort of.

She added frozen peas, some corn, and then awkwardly shredded the half-cooked chicken using a spoon and fork. The pieces were too large, and one even flew off the counter.

Finally, she layered everything into a glass tray, poured the sauce over it, and shoved it into the oven, all in one quick breath.

She collapsed on the counter. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, probably from tiredness but partly from frustration. She was covered in flour from head to toe, looking like she was playing in sand. She even had cheese smeared on different spots on her dress.

The smell wasn’t… bad. But it wasn’t exactly comforting either. Thirty minutes later, she pulled the tray out. She paused, staring at what should be a casserole in her hand. Suddenly, she burst out laughing, gripping her tummy. What she had in her hand couldn't be explained.