Alicia sat on a kitchen chair, shivering.

She couldn't seem to get warm. A hot shower, blankets, tea — none of it was working. Instead, her fingers were turning white and puffy at the ends, like the Victorian gas lamps that lined the streets in London. She just wished they gave off heat, too.

She cupped her hot tea, half-closing her eyes. Stupid. It had been a stupid decision to jump into the sea and swim to shore. Not only was the North Sea freezing at this time of year, but the paparazzi probably had photos of her splashing about like an apoplectic seal. But at least they hadn't followed her to the flat. Small mercies.

With shaky hands, Alicia raised the tea to her lips, and then winced as the cup bumped her throbbing nose. Oh, god. She should crawl into bed, but she wanted to wait up for Hattie. Just in case. She had tried calling her an hour ago only to find that her phone had gone to an early, waterlogged grave.

Could this day get any worse?

A key turned in the lock.

"I told you," Hattie snarled, "I don't need to be escorted home." She threw her keys on the sideboard. "I just want to find Leese. She's—"

Hattie broke off, her eyes landing on her.

"Alicia!"

She bounded forward, throwing her arms around her. Alicia made a noise of protest, her soaked hair dripping all over Hattie's silk blouse — one of her own designs that took her hours to complete — but Hattie only clung to her tighter. Her blonde curls were trembling.

"What happened?" Hattie drew back. "Are you alright? I saw the whole thing on telly. Greg hitting Oliver, and the business with the flagpole, and then you running off the course..." She rubbed her arms briskly. "Oh, my god. You're freezing."

"I'm fine."

"And your nose!" Hattie covered her mouth. "It looks horrible."

"Thanks."

Her lips felt numb, though, and Hattie frowned.

"I'll be right back," she promised. "Stay here."

She darted out of the room. A blond man was hovering awkwardly in the door, his hands shoved in his pockets. He was sporting jeans and a Toronto Blue Jays cap, and a security officer hovered behind him like a shadow. She smiled tightly.

"Hello, Rory."

He looked surprised. "I thought you didn't know who we were."

"I did my research on The Patriots. After..."

Alicia picked at her nails. She didn't need to spell it out: after I found out who Oliver really was. A terrible silence fell, broken only by the patter of drops spilling from the ends of her hair. Rory cleared his throat.

"For what it's worth, I think he really does like you, Alicia."

"Yeah, well." She swallowed. "It's a bit late for that."

She set down her tea, drawing her knees into her chest. Rory fiddled with the zipper on his jacket, moving it up and down. "Look," he said. "I know you've already been through a lot today, but there's something you should know."

"About?"

"I just got off the phone with Theo." His mouth was a grim line. "He knows who tipped off the photographer that night."

"Who?"

"Does the name Steve ring any bells?"

Alicia closed her eyes. Of course. Steve. She should have known it from the moment that her boss posted Oliver's projected message on Instagram; he must have seen Oliver pick her up for their date and pieced it together. Business wasn't exactly doing well, either; it made sense that Steve would do anything to make a little extra money to keep things up-and-running.

Still.

What an asshole.

Alicia massaged her temples. A bone-aching weariness settled over her. Selfishly, Alicia wished it had been Mary; at least she had never liked her. But she liked Steve and his silly antics and his colorful Glaswegian cursing whenever he stubbed his toe.

Not that it mattered. She'd have to look for another job to make ends meet; that went without saying. Actually, she'd have to look for two jobs, Alicia realized glumly. There was no way that Mary would keep her on after the disaster at the Links.

"Thank-you," Alicia said. "For telling me."

Rory nodded.

"Here it is!" Hattie swept back into the room, wielding what appeared to be a very large hairdryer. "This ought to do the trick."

She plugged it into the wall. Immediately, hot air blasted out of the nozzle, and Alicia leaned eagerly into the stream, reaching out her hands. God, that felt good. She wished she could grab hold of the heat with her fingers and cling to it forever.

"I'm going to kill Brooks," Hattie said, scowling. "I just know he was behind kidnapping me, somehow."

Rory cleared his throat. "Technically, we temporarily moved you to another location. Kidnapping implies a harmful intent." Both girls scowled at him, and he held up his hands. "Sorry. I'm just saying."

"I should have been there," Hattie continued, ignoring him. "I should have been at that course to punch that smug bastard right in the face."

"It's fine," Alicia repeated. "I'm fine."

Hattie's face softened. "Do you want another cup of tea?"

Alicia considered this. Her whole body felt like it was shaking, skeleton bones rattling around in a tin can. She was losing all sense of reality. She felt like she was floating ten feet above the kitchen, kite-like, watching Hattie speak to an empty shell.

"No," she said. "I just want to go to sleep."

"Okay, then." Hattie rose to her feet. "Let's find you an extra quilt."

Alicia drifted in and out.

She wasn't sure how long she slept for. Hours? Days? Her nightmares came in quick, sporadic flashes of color: the rusted iron of Greg's hair, the onyx of the sea, the blinding crimson pain of her nose cracking. Sometimes, there were no colors at all: only a terrifying, eggshell white expanse filled with her own breathing.

And then there was the fire.

She could feel it in every part of her body; white hot flames licked up her limbs, dissolving her bones into ash. The wildfire filled her bloodstream, burning her up from the inside, choking off all of her oxygen.

The bed shifted.

"Alicia?" Hattie's voice. "I think you have a temperature, darling." Something cold pressed against her forehead, and Alicia whined, shifting away. "I'm going to give you some Paracetamol, okay?"

Something bitter was forced into her mouth. She gagged, trying to spit it out, but small fingers held on to her jaw. She swallowed the hard disc. A moment later, she could taste something cool and flavorless — water? — but then it was removed from her lips. She wished she could ask for more, but her throat wouldn't work.

The fire pulled her under again.

The next time Alicia woke, things were cooler. She blinked up at the ceiling. Moonlight streamed through the open window, illuminating a shadowed figure at the end of her bed, reading a novel by the light of her phone.

"Mum?" Alicia croaked.

"Yes." Her mother set down the novel. "I'm here, mija."

"What happened?" Alicia sat up, and then immediately regretted it when her head gave a painful throb. "How long was I asleep?"

"Two days."

"Two days?"

"You're ill." Her mother's voice wobbled. "Some sort of flu, they think."

She smoothed back Alicia's hair. She winced as pain shot through her nose, although it was nothing compared to the wildfire. The fire, Alicia realized, that had only existed in her head. She pulled her knees into her chest.

"Is Tess here, too?"

Her mother nodded. "We flew out as soon as we heard what happened." She took her hand. "I'm sorry, Alicia. I told myself that I was protecting you by staying in London, but now..." She swallowed. "I wish that I had been here. How's your nose?"

"You tell me."

Her mother passed her a phone. Alicia switched it to front-facing camera and then winced; red and purple bruising decorated her face, as if someone had pressed a pair of sunglasses into the skin. "Yikes."

"It looks better than it did."

"Well," Alicia said, passing back the phone, "I'm happy that I didn't see it earlier, then."

Alicia rested her chin on her knees. She suddenly felt very young again, an eight-year-old tucked in bed while her mother checked for monsters in the closet. Her mother had never once said that it was ridiculous to be afraid; she had merely done it every night without complaint. Alicia squeezed her hand.

"Thank you for coming. Te amo, mamá."

Her dark eyes were suspiciously bright. "I love you too, mija."

"Where's Oliver?" Alicia asked, dropping her hand. "Is he here?"

Her mother frowned. "No. He hasn't visited."

Alicia stared down at the bedsheets. Well. Ouch. She supposed that it made sense — they weren't together, after all, and Oliver didn't owe her anything — but still. It stung. If the positions were reversed, she would have refused to leave his bedside.

"You were right." Alicia's voice was soft. "He was lying to me the whole time." She traced a floral pattern on the sheets. "I should have believed you."

Her mother shifted. "But I'm happy that you didn't. Even now, after everything, you still want to believe the best of people, Alicia; it is one of the things I love most about you." She paused. "I meant what I said before. Not all bad people are liars, and not all liars are bad people. I think your Oliver is the second one."

Alicia swallowed. He wasn't her Oliver, but it seemed futile to point this out. "Still." She flexed her toes under the sheets. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright."

"And Greg?"

Alicia could hardly bring herself to say the name. Her mother picked up the book, although she didn't open it. Alicia got the sense that she was gripping it just for the sake of holding on to something.

"He's in custody, mija. The police brought him in. But they're still saying that they can't get a restraining order." She hesitated. "At least, not without your testimony."

Alicia closed her eyes. A wave of fury was building in her chest, so strong that she thought she might choke on it. "But there were hundreds of witnesses at that course. Thousands. Hell, I could call up a network and have a tape of it sent to the police." Her hands were trembling. "Is that not enough evidence?"

"I'm sorry, Alicia."

"Don't be." She blinked back tears. "It's not your fault."

It was the whole damn world's fault. She swallowed. Well. That was that, then; Greg would go free. She wasn't ready to testify in front of him, to relive their whole relationship, and she suspected that she never would be.

Alicia buried her face in her hands. She felt like everything had changed, and yet nothing had changed: Greg was still roaming around London, and she was still trapped inside a building, hiding from the world.

Alicia stood in front of the kitchen table, surveying the sea of tabloids.

Tess had diligently collected every article that she could find, cutting each one out so that Alicia could read it. All of them featured the same picture: Alicia, half-submerged in the water, her face just visible above the waves. Each headline was as sensationalist as the last: "Ollie's new girl makes a splash" or "Will Oliver's new relationship sink or swim?"

Never mind that they weren't in a relationship.

Never mind that Alicia hadn't signed up for this.

She sighed, gathering up the papers. She had made the mistake of Googling her name this morning only to be greeted by a number of horrible comments. Some of them attacked her appearance. Others compared her unfavourably to Oliver's ex-girlfriend, Ella. And the most hurtful ones commented on her Mexican roots.

In short, Alicia was never going on the Internet again.

Ever.

She looked up as Tess pattered into the kitchen. She was clutching a bomber jacket and a reusable grocery bag, her face slightly sheepish. Then again, Alicia thought wryly, Tess always looked sheepish these days; they had made their peace over the Oliver incident, but her younger sister still tiptoed around Alicia, as if she might suddenly snap and start throwing biscuits at her head.

"I'm going to the shops," Tess said, raising the bag. "Do you want anything?"

"Chocolate."

"And more ice cream?" Tess gestured to her face. "You can hold it against your nose, too. Bring down some of the swelling."

Alicia sighed. "Yes, please."

Tess shrugged on her coat. "You could come with me, you know. It'll be practically empty on a Tuesday morning."

Alicia paused, the pile hovering in her hand. She hadn't stepped foot outside the flat since the golf tournament four days ago, and she didn't plan on doing so anytime soon. Tess had hounded her mercilessly at first, saying that Alicia's fears were unfounded, but then Hattie sprinted into the flat one day, wide-eyed and breathless.

"They're all over Tesco," Hattie had panted. "Everywhere." She had thrown her empty shopping bags on the chair. "Miserable creeps."

"Who?"

"Don't be daft, Tess." Hattie had frowned. "The paparazzi, of course."

After that, Tess had been much more indulgent.

Still, Alicia could tell that her younger sister was growing frustrated with her, and she didn't blame her; her mother and Tess couldn't stay forever. Soon enough, Alicia would have to go outside and do her own grocery shopping. Life would have to continue.

Alicia put the stack of papers in the recycling. She was annoyed with the paparazzi and the Internet trolls. She was annoyed with Oliver. And most of all, she was annoyed with herself; she wished that she could be the type of person that didn't care what others thought.

But she wasn't.

Tess picked up her wallet. "This whole thing will die down, Leese. Oliver will leave for the States and the press will move on."

She froze. "He's leaving?"

"Well, yeah." Tess gave her an odd look. "The other boys left this morning. And it's not like Oliver's staying in Scotland forever." She stuck her wallet in the bag. "He's recording that new album, remember?"

Alicia sunk into a chair. She supposed that she should feel relieved. Tess was right; once Oliver was gone, everyone would move on. Alicia would have to switch towns again, now that Greg knew where she was, but she could be anonymous again. Forgotten.

She just didn't expect it to hurt so much.

Oliver paced around his hotel suite.

He was going mad. Certifiably insane. He had thought it before many times, but this time, he meant it. He picked up his phone, flicking through the messages. A message from Rory saying that they were safely on the plane. Two messages from his manager, Margaux, asking when he was flying out to Los Angeles. A missed call from a shaving cream brand he was working with. And nothing from Alicia.

What the hell was going on?

He had tried calling her fifty times over the last four days, and he had texted her twice as much. But Alicia hadn't replied.

He wished he could go see her.

That was impossible, though; Oliver couldn't risk tipping the paparazzi off as to where she lived. Hell, Oliver had almost punched Rory in the face after he strolled nonchalantly into the suite a few days ago, announcing that he'd just taken Hattie home.

"You what?"

"I dropped her off." Rory had collapsed on the sofa. "At her apartment."

"You idiot!"

"What?"

"Don't you see what you've done?" Oliver had to grip a mug just to keep his hands occupied so he wouldn't strangle Rory. "You've led the press right to her."

Thankfully, Rory had gotten away with his little oversight, but Oliver wasn't willing to risk it again. He had repeatedly suggested that Alicia come to his suite instead, or meet him outside town in a safe location, but she had ignored all of his messages.

Not that he blamed her.

Alicia likely held him responsible for everything, Oliver thought miserably. And rightfully so; if it wasn't for him, Greg would have never found her. And now here he was, hounding her the exact same way that Greg had.

No wonder she didn't want to see him.

He sighed.

Oliver couldn't imagine how she was feeling right now. Theo had explained to him that it was her boss, Steve, that had sold them out, and Oliver had been ready to burn down his shop. He resisted, obviously, although he had written several angry Yelp reviews about seeing rats in the store. Which Steve deserved. The prick.

Anyway, Oliver reflected grimly, it didn't matter how he felt; Alicia had a broken nose and was being stalked by the press. She would be feeling far worse.

Oliver stopped pacing, drawing back the curtain. St Andrews was a postcard this evening; ice cream clouds dotted the sky, and the sea was a flat mirror. He had the sudden feeling that he could have run outside and skated across that water, grabbing fistfuls of the wet blue sky in his hands.

He would be leaving soon. Not just the town, but Alicia, too. He wished that he could ask the boys for advice, but they would be equally clueless; they didn't know how insecure Oliver could be when he was in love.

There was only one person that would understand.

Oliver pulled out his phone and dialed a familiar number.

A/N: Well, well, well — who could Oliver be calling? Any guesses? ;)

Affectionately,

J.K.