For several agonizing beats, time stood still.

Because he had said her name aloud.

Inés.

After going without it for so long, hearing it now, her old name, her real name, the name her mother and father had given her, the name Mesrine had used to control her, torment her, abuse her, being uttered in front of her new self felt surreal.

She was Inés Nadir.

She was also Rosa Lenoir.

It felt like an out of body experience.

Then, time began to flow again, shock gave way to reality, and Rosa's mood plummeted with dismay, mortification, and the strained acknowledgment that he knew, he knew, he knew—how much? something? everything?—about her past.

Did Mr. Massera think less of her now?

Probably.

Rosa stole a pained glance at him. He was watching her very closely, but his expression wasn't easy to read. As usual.

"Miss Lenoir?"

Rosa didn't reply. She looked away and shut her eyes to block him out.

Come to think of it, he had probably viewed her as a whore from their very first meeting. She had certainly played and dressed the part that night in Marseille.

God.

Rosa felt even more unsettled. She could feel herself unraveling like a wayward thread on a spinning spool.

Most men loved to fuck whores, but they didn't see them as living, breathing, thinking, feeling human beings. To many of her clients, Rosa knew she had simply been—a fun time, a sexy romp, a means to forget about their woes for a few short hours. To them, she had been nothing more than three tight holes attached to a nice body and a pretty face.

Mr. Massera was simply better at hiding his bias than other men.

Another sad, embarrassing realization emerged in Rosa: Mr. Massera's awareness of her tainted body was probably why he kept rejecting her, why he didn't want to fuck her.

She kept her eyes closed, still unable to look at him.

It was suddenly clear to Rosa. This bastard was no unicorn. Her cunt had simply been too overused, too unclean, to tempt his pristine cock. Her heart ached even while shame coiled inside her chest.

Well, then.

She knew better now. She wouldn't throw herself at him ever again.

Little by little, the harshness of these understandings snatched Rosa back to her once suffocating mindset as Inès, and, through this return to her old self, an unbelievably wretched chord strummed through her. Complex, unresolved emotions burst forth. Uncontrollable tears pricked her eyes. Rosa struggled to hold them at bay. She didn't want to break down in front of Mr. Massera. She failed miserably. Soon, wetness streamed down her face.

Rosa felt Mr. Massera's thumb brush across her cheek, wiping away her tears, as though he wished to comfort her.

His touch made her flinch.

Her eyes shot open. His dark gaze was still upon her. Rosa hated the pity she saw on his face. She glared at him. With a look of alarm, Mr. Massera quickly removed his hand from her face. Then, she turned her head away from him once more.

Fuck him.

Fuck him for knowing everything about her.

Fuck her for knowing next to nothing about him.

Yet, even though her privacy had been violated, Rosa remained sitting on his lap, wrapped up in his arms as though they were lovers.

What a lie.

What a joke.

She didn't possess the strength to push him away. Her muscles fell limp. Her limbs became too heavy to move. All at once, an onslaught of everything from her harrowing day rammed through Rosa's once impenetrable façade of cheek and charm, disassembling her carefully assembled walls of protection, ripping apart her barriers of detachment. Her restraint finally shattered.

Mesrine slithered into her thoughts.

Her baby's cries echoed through her mind.

Instantly, her tears fell harder.

Right away, Mr. Massera's arms tightened around her, holding her closer.

He rested his cheek against hers and whispered soft, sweet nothings in her ear, "Sei al sicuro, sei al sicuro, mia ragazza perfetta, sono qui... ti terrò al sicuro."

Rosa barely heard him.

She was drowning in pain. Her heart felt crushed as though caught in a perpetual vice. A messy blur of visions and memories and emotions clouded her senses: Those innocent amber eyes. Eyes colored like her mama. The first time she lifted her head. The first time she smiled and cooed. The nights they spent sleeping together. She always slept best in her mama's arms.

More than anything, Rosa had wanted to give her baby a new life, a new start, in Morocco. Foolishly, she had wanted to take her home. Back to her family. Back to her father's silly jokes. Back to her mother's funny stories. Back to her grandmother's mouthwatering cooking.

An impossible dream, really.

Rosa's shoulders began to shake. Snot ran down her nose. Feeling raw, ugly, and helpless, Rosa wept for the life that had been stolen from her. She wept for the child who had been stolen from her, too.

Her little Nijah.

With all the longing and love Rosa held for her homeland, she had named her baby after the precious roses of Morocco. The name, Nijah, meant "beautiful rose" in Arabic.

Oh, Nijah, Nijah, Nijah...

The ability to think, to reason, to rationalize, left her being. Mindlessly, wildly, she burrowed her face into Mr. Massera's chest. He was the only solid thing within reach as her sanity spun away. He became her anchor amidst the storm. Sobs wracked through her body. He held her through it all. Every shuddering whimper. Every pained gasp. Every heartbroken wail.

Memories continued to flow alongside her tears.

Nijah had been born too perfect for this cruel world. Too beautiful. Too precious. At only four months old, she had gotten sick. Very sick.

Mesrine had refused to let Rosa take her to the hospital.

To punish her.

For, supposedly, fucking another man.

No matter how desperately Rosa had begged him, he refused to get a paternity test.

He said it wasn't necessary.

Because, already, he claimed to see nothing of himself in Nijah, save for her lighter complexion.

Nijah had passed away in Rosa's arms a few days later. For the entire night, Rosa had refused to let anyone take her baby from her.

Nijah had always slept best in her mama's arms, after all.

❧

Wahhhh! </3

Poor Rosa. More of the truth about Mesrine and Njiah has come out now. </3

What do you think Mr. Massera is thinking during this whole time? </3

I don't know about you, but this has been the only chapter out of all my stories that brought tears to my eyes as I wrote it. Nijah owns my whole damn heart. I also felt like the song included in this chapter really captured Rosa's grief over losing Nijah.

Don't listen to it unless you want to feel even sadder! T_T

I promise there will be light at the end of Rosa's dark journey, but we're going to have to wade through some hard, heavy shizzles before getting there.

And we haven't even gotten to Mr. Massera's sob story! Good grief.

Anywho, thank you so much for ALL THE LUB you've shown Rosa and Mr. Massera, especially in the last chappie. You guys make this writing thing so much fun and so very rewarding. For now, I'll keep going with updates until I finish this emotional arc for Rosa and her mon beau.

Lastly, in case you didn't know already, I lub you all so, so much! You guys are amazingggg!!! <3

❧

Sei al sicuro, sei al sicuro, mia ragazza perfetta, sono qui... ti terrò al sicuro.

You are safe, you are safe, my perfect girl, I am here... I will keep you safe.