Chapter 7: After The Fall

Loud voices pierce through the fog. My back aches; something hard and cold presses into my spine. It takes a moment to realise it’s an iron bar—maybe part of a couch, maybe a stretcher. I can’t tell. Everything hurts.

My mouth is dry as dust. I could drink an ocean, but I’m not thirsty—just empty, like the world forgot to refill me. My eyelids are heavy, like sandbags soaked in regret.

God, not again. Please don’t let it be another hospital.

I try to move, but my limbs feel clamped down, locked in. A sob slices through the haze.

“Please... I’ll do anything. I’m so sorry...”

That voice—

Zoey.

The sound of her crying yanks me back. Each sob is a jagged reminder of something broken. I want to reach out to tell her I’m okay, but I can’t even lift a finger. My thoughts scatter, dragging me back to the accident—the screech of metal, the blinding white, and her face when I woke up. She’s been here before, watching me slip away.

“Zoey,” I whisper. Or maybe I think I do. No sound leaves my mouth.

I try again, pushing through the numbness. “Zoey?”

Movement beside me. A muscular arm wraps around my waist and tightens as I stir.

“She’s back,” a man says—his voice calm, too calm. 

Zoey’s touch floods in like rain after drought—her hands trembling against my face, her lips brushing my fingers. “I’m so sorry,” she breathes. “Can she... can she walk?”

“She will be,” the man replies smoothly. “But I need a moment with her.”

Zoey hesitates, torn, before slipping out. The door slams, not with anger but exhaustion.

I blink, my vision slowly clearing. The man helps me sit up with practised gentleness. His scent hits me—clean, expensive, unsettlingly familiar. My pulse jumps.

I’ve been here before. Or maybe I’ve been with him before.

He lifts me as if I weigh nothing, setting me into a round, plush chair. The room sharpens into focus—wide windows veiled with silk curtains, marble floors, fresh roses, and a single painting of Mary Magdalene gazing upward. Not a hospital. Not a home either.

Where the hell am I?

My top’s different—Zoey’s shirt. My chest tightens. Was she the one who changed me?

He catches me scanning myself. “You’re safe,” he says quietly, like the words are meant to be a command.

I try to breathe evenly. “How long have I been out?” My voice is a croak.

“You don’t have to talk,” he says, studying me. “Just nod if you can.”

“I can talk,” I insist, though it hurts.

He leans against the table, his eyes unreadable, dark as storm glass. The silence hums between us until I break it. “What happened?”

“You were being dragged into a car by unknown men,” he says finally. “You’d been drugged.” A pause. “Kidnapped, for short.”

My stomach lurches.

Oh my God. The drink.

“Wait…” My gaze sharpens on him. “The drink—was it from you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His face doesn’t move. That makes it worse.

“You drugged me,” I accuse, my heartbeat thundering. “You—”

“No.” His tone is steady, factual. “I left after paying for your drinks. You can check the footage.”

“Then who—” My voice breaks. “Zoey. Where is she? Did you drug her too?”

“She’s fine. I called her,” he says, gesturing toward my phone on the counter. “You listed her as your emergency contact. After I pulled you away from them.”

I want to doubt him. I should. But something about his tone—controlled, detached—makes it hard not to believe.

Still, I press. “The waiter. The one who brought the shot. He said it was from you.”

He frowns. “What waiter?”

“The one who served me later—he said the drink was from an admirer.”

His jaw tightens slightly. “I never sent another drink.”

The truth clicks in like a bad dream I can’t wake from. I walked right into it.

He watches me carefully. “You have no survival instincts,” he murmurs, almost amused.

Anger flares through me, burning away the fog. “I was fine on my own.”

“You weren’t. That’s why I stepped in.”

“I didn’t need help.”

“You took the shot.”

My mouth opens, then shuts. Touché.

The silence between us stretches. It feels like a confession neither of us will make.

He studies me, then softens—barely. “It’s over now. You’re safe.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“You had a reason to let go,” he says, his voice low, almost kind. “That’s why you were there.”

I laugh, but it’s hollow. “Yeah. My father tried to sell me off to clear a debt. My boyfriend slept with my stepsister. I woke up in a hospital after trying not to wake up again. Zoey’s the only reason I’m still here.”

My hands twist in my lap. “So yeah. I wanted out. Maybe still do.”

He straightens, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “I called the detectives. They’ll come tomorrow. You can give your statement.”

He places a sleek black card on the table. His name isn’t on it—just a number. “If you need protection, call me.”

I don’t even look at it. I don’t want to.

“Send her in,” he tells someone outside.

The door bursts open. Zoey rushes in, mascara streaked, voice shaking. “Lee! Oh my God—you keep scaring me!”

I catch her, arms wrapping around her like I can make up for the fear I caused. “I’m so sorry. No more clubs. I swear.”

She laughs through tears. “Pinky promise?”

“Pinky promise.”

I glance back at him—Suit Guy—standing at the doorway, one hand in his pocket, unreadable as ever. I give him a small nod. My version of thank you.

“Let’s go,” I whisper to Zoey.

Outside, the night air feels heavier, charged. The city hums like it’s holding its breath. She hails a cab, and we climb in, silent.

As the car pulls away, I stare out the window.

Lights blur. My reflection looks like someone else’s face.

For the first time, I don’t know if I’ve escaped or just been caught again.