05: Déjà Vu

ROXANNE POV

Three days.

It had been three long days since I let Angelina and her father into my cramped apartment, three days of trying to hold everything together, to pretend like life hadn’t just flipped itself upside down.

I stood at the stove, flipping a pancake, the scent of warm batter filling the small kitchen.

My gaze flicked over my shoulder, catching Angelina watching me with quiet curiosity.

Her little fingers tapped against the counter in a rhythm only she seemed to understand, her bright eyes tracking my every move.

Despite everything, she’d adjusted surprisingly well. Too well.

There were moments when I caught her humming to herself, swinging her legs as if we weren’t holed up in a tiny apartment.

And Raphaël…he still hadn’t woken up fully.

He’d stirred a few times, muttering words I couldn’t quite make out before slipping under again. The fever had broken last night and that was the only reason I’d let myself breathe.

The private doctor I managed to find reassured me that he’d be fine—bruised ribs, some blood loss, but nothing life-threatening.

What he didn’t see, what I had to deal with before he even got here, was the bullet wound in Raphaël’s arm. I had pulled it out myself, a process I never wanted to repeat.

I hadn’t processed how bad it really was until after the adrenaline wore off. And worse—what I found on him left me unsettled.

Two pistols. Hidden in the folds of his jacket.

I’d tucked them away before the doctor arrived, but the questions haunted me.

Who was he, really?

Searching the web was a dead end—no missing person photos, no profiles. He was a ghost. Like me.

Angelina spoke about him with nothing but love and admiration and that was the part I couldn’t reconcile.

No child looked at a criminal the way she looked at her father.

I flipped the pancake onto a plate, setting it in front of Angelina with a small smile.

"Here you go." I murmured, drizzling a little honey over the top.

She giggled, her laughter cutting through the weight in my chest.

"I’m going to check on your dad." I told her, setting the honey aside.

She nodded, already focused on cutting into her pancake.

I lingered for a second longer, before stepping toward the fridge. Grabbing a bottle of water, I took a deep breath and headed for the bedroom.

My hand hesitated on the doorknob.

He should still be unconscious.

I swallowed, pushing the door open carefully before stepping inside and shutting it softly behind me.

The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn just enough to let a faint glow filter in.

Raphaël lay still on the bed, his broad chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths.

At least, that’s what I thought.

Before I could take another step, something tightened around my neck—an arm, strong and unrelenting, yanking me backward into a chokehold.

My pulse spiked. My breath hitched as a cold steel pressed against my temple.

A gun.

I froze.

For a brief, sickening moment, I wasn’t in my bedroom anymore—I was back at the diner, hands trembling, staring down the barrel of another gun.

Déjà vu.

"You’re reckless." A deep, gravelly voice growled close to my ear, thick with menace. "Bringing a stranger into your home without knowing who they are."

Raphaël.

He was awake.

"Please don’t hurt me," I managed to whisper, my voice tight with fear.

I lifted the bottle of water I’d brought him, a shaky gesture of peace. His piercing gaze didn’t waver and neither did the gun in his hand.

"Where’s my little girl?" He demanded, his tone slightly softer but still edged with suspicion.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry as my eyes darted down to the fresh bandages on his chest, a reminder of the state he was in.

His arm loosened just enough for me to suck in a breath and I seized the moment. I lunged for the door, hoping to slip away, but he moved faster.

His hand slammed against the door, pinning it shut.