CHAPTER 4 It was slow… achingly slow.

I ran.

I don’t remember how I got out of that house. My feet barely touched the ground; my sobs caught in my throat like glass shards. I just remember the sky—it was starting to rain. Of course it was. The kind of soft drizzle that soaked through my hair and dress, cold and mocking, as if the universe wanted to add insult to injury.

No one even followed me.

The grand Verene mansion, with all its chandeliers and polished floors, faded behind me like a dream I was never meant to be part of.

I didn’t even have my phone. My bag had been dropped somewhere, maybe back in inside my car, on. It didn’t matter. None of it did.

I hailed a taxi like a madwoman, barefoot and soaked, tears dripping down my cheeks. The driver looked at me once in the mirror, eyebrows raised in concern. But he didn’t ask.

“Just take me to a bar,” I said hoarsely. “Any bar.”

He drove in silence.

Ten minutes later, I stumbled into a dingy lounge tucked between a pawn shop and a karaoke bar. The neon sign outside flickered the word Angel’s like some cruel joke. There were no angels in here. Only devils.

I made my way to the counter, slamming what cash I had on the bar.

“Something strong,” I whispered. “Keep it coming.”

The bartender poured. Vodka. Tequila. Whiskey. I didn’t care what it was, as long as it numbed me. As long as it silenced the image of Victor’s mouth on Naomi’s neck.

The glasses emptied one after another until my vision blurred, my limbs grew heavy, and the aching buzz in my skull was almost a relief. I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to forget. I want to think that whatever happened today was a dream, a nightmare.

I just wanted to forget.

A man approached me after my fifth or sixth drink. I saw him out of the corner of my eye—tall, lean muscle beneath a fitted black shirt, hair tousled like he hadn’t slept, eyes shadowed and unreadable. I didn’t look directly at him. I couldn’t.

“You’re drunk,” he said, voice low and rough.

“Maybe I am,” I whispered, not knowing why I answered.

He didn’t ask permission. He just took the seat beside me, ordered something dark, and drank in silence. There was something comforting about that—his presence, not his words. He didn’t pity me. He didn’t try to fix me and didn’t question me.

He just stayed.

The hours slipped by, the air thick with cigarette smoke and pulsing bass. I lost count of the shots then all of a sudden, my head lolled to the side at some point, and I leaned against him—against the stranger.

I felt his arm curl around me. Warm, firm but not possessive. Steady.

I know I should’ve pulled away but I didn’t.

Somewhere in my fogged-up mind, I knew I was making a mistake. But I couldn’t stop. The pain in my chest screamed louder than my conscience so when he helped me up, I let him.

When he guided me out of the bar and into a car, I leaned against his chest and closed my eyes, crying. He smelled like sandalwood and something darker, like danger.

Everything spun.

Then, a hotel room.

Dim light. Cool air.

He laid me down on soft sheets, but I didn’t let go of him. My hand curled around his bicep—hard, warm, safe. He paused. I could feel the tension in him, feel his restraint like a taut wire.

“Don’t leave,” I murmured, barely conscious. “Please... just... don’t leave me alone tonight.”

A deep exhale. The mattress dipped as he sat beside me.

I touched his chest—broad, solid, grounding. His hand brushed my hair back. I couldn’t see his face clearly anymore. I didn’t know who he was.

But he didn’t feel like a stranger in that moment.

And I wasn’t Alisa Ravencroft anymore.

I was just a broken woman trying to feel whole again—even if only for one night.

I was floating.

Somewhere between a dream and the cruel edges of reality. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the dull throb behind my eyes. My body felt heavy, my limbs tangled in the sheets, and my skin tingled like it remembered something my mind couldn’t yet piece together.

Then I felt it.

A touch.

Fingers brushing my jaw—slow, tentative, like I was made of something fragile.

My eyes fluttered open just as warm lips descended onto mine.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy.

It was slow… achingly slow. A gentle press, a breath shared. His lips moved with intention, coaxing me to respond before I even understood why my heart had started racing.

Then I felt the warm slide of his tongue, tasting me, deepening the kiss—not rough, not demanding, but sure. Confident. Like he already knew I needed this even if I hadn’t said a word. His hand slid into my hair as his mouth lingered on mine, lips parting and meeting again and again, each second stretching like honey.

I gasped into him, not from fear—but from how utterly lost I was in the feeling.

He tasted like whiskey and something clean. A contradiction. Like warmth wrapped in danger. I couldn’t even breathe properly, but I didn’t stop him. I didn’t want to.

My fingers curled instinctively around his shirt, pulling him closer without thinking, needing something—anything—to hold onto. His tongue stroked against mine again, slow and sinfully precise, and I made a soft sound in the back of my throat, shame forgotten, pain numbed.

I didn’t even know his name.

I didn’t know who he was.

But in that kiss, I wasn’t the betrayed wife. I wasn’t the forgotten daughter.

I was just me. Wanted. Touched like I mattered.

The kiss finally broke, and I was breathless—panting softly, lips tingling, heart pounding against my ribs like it didn’t know whether to fall apart or wake up. My eyes met his—still shadowed in the dim light—but there was a flicker of something unfamiliar there. Something unreadable.

He studied me for a beat, then ran his thumb across my lower lip, eyes dropping to my mouth like he was memorizing the taste of me.

“You’re not ready,” he murmured, voice gravel and heat. “But when you are... you’ll remember this. A kiss, for now.”

And just like that, he stood up, retreating from the bed like he hadn’t just pulled the air out of my lungs.

I lay there in stunned silence, chest rising and falling, mouth parted, fingers still gripping the sheets like they could hold onto whatever that was.

I didn’t even know his name.

But that kiss...

It left something behind.