LOVEY

⚘

WHEN I OPENED MY EYES, THE PAIN RUSHED IN.

The cold, concrete ground stung against my blistered feet, and the ropes around my wrists burned against my skin. I didn't know where I was; all I knew was that I was in an empty room, tied up and alone.

A deep sadness was still lingering around me, weighing me down and making it hard to breathe, and I couldn't remember a thing. I tried to recall the times before I'd come to Paris—the times where I was happy, and warm, and wasn't afraid—but those felt so distant I questioned if they were even real.

Giving up still hurts. I may have stopped running, but by my current situation, I knew this was far from over.

Strangers, William had called us. Whatever Hell was coming my way couldn't be as bad as how that word made me feel.

I looked at my surroundings, eyesight blurry. There were no windows, and the only light was coming from a buzzing ceiling lamp, and the walls were bare with peeling, grey paint. A bloody prison, I thought to myself. What I'd give to be back at the hotel.

I went to close my eyes again, but the sound of footsteps echoed from down the hall. I listened to them growing louder, and louder, thumping, and thumping until they came to a stop.

The door swung open, and Percy Kent walked in.

Whatever sadness I'd been hoarding twisted into absolute disgust. He seemed entirely unbothered—his hair was still slicked back as it usually was, his clothes were clean, and the expression on his face was smug, and free of worry. I felt like a fool, tied to a chair in front of him, the exact opposite of who I used to be.

He shut the door behind him, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Lovey," he said.

I refused to look at him, eyes narrowed at the damp ground. "Don't call me that."

"Don't call you by your name?"

"You don't deserve to."

It was ridiculous, but I was trying to cling to whatever power I could. I was defenseless, humiliated, and weak. The only thing I could think of was how much I hated him—hated the wasted years I'd spent adoring him, the manipulation, the deceit. I hated everything, and I hated how he dared to say my name.

But a man like him never cared what I thought. He never had. Instead, he chuckled, making me feel worse than I already did.

"I'm not here for petty arguments, [y/n]," he scoffed. "You can whine all you want, but if there's one thing you will do, it's to answer my questions."

"No."

"No?"

"I won't answer anything," I spat out.

My eyes flickered up to meet his gaze, and I saw the disdain in his eyes. He thought of me as lesser. He thought of me as stubborn. He didn't like how I refused to give him what he wanted, when I had never hesitated to in the past.

But I didn't know who he was, then. Now I do.

Uncrossing his arms, he began to cross the room, closing the distance between us with a thundering stride. I flinched back in fear—an instinct I couldn't control. He noticed it immediately.

"So you are scared of me," he sneered. I could hear the smirk in his voice. "Good."

I hate you, I wanted to yell. I wanted to spit in his face, and wrench myself out of this chair. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. I wanted to tell him I hated him more than the times I said I loved him. I wanted to make him feel guilt, or pain, or anything.

I wanted him to break as much as I did, because he's the one who deserved it.

"Tell me who he is," Percy demanded. "Tell me who he works for."

I didn't need a name to know who he was talking about. William Franklyn-Miller, the stranger. They'd crossed paths not too long ago at the restaurant, but it seems the man wasn't over losing to my bodyguard. I could still see the embarrassment behind his eyes, scratching at his brain like a parasite.

Insecure men never give up. They'll do anything to feel dignified, even if they embarrass themselves more in the process.

"Who?" I asked, feigning innocence.

"Don't play dumb with me."

"I don't know who you're talking about."

"You know exactly who I'm talking about," he sneered, "tell me his name, and who he works for. Do that, and I'll let you walk free."

I stared at him with an unreadable expression.

"Don't you want that?" He asked, dangling his words like a prize. "For me to let you go?"

I didn't budge.

"You can go back to London and put this all in the past."

It's pathetic how you think that's true. Even if I could walk free, nowhere would be safe for me. I'd spend the rest of my life feeling like I was being chased, and I'd never know peace. I still don't know it now. London wouldn't feel like home, and Paris would feel like a prison.

And, even with the sweetness in his voice, I could see through his lies. Once a woman is betrayed, she'll never trust again. I know his tricks now. I know his manipulation, and I know better than to fall for it.

"I don't know who you're talking about," I sneered back.

At that moment, he knew he wouldn't get a single word out of me.

Clenching his jaw in rage, he spun on his heels, storming towards the doorway like a child. He wrenched open the door, fuming. I wanted to laugh at him, but I couldn't find myself capable.

"Have it your way," he spat out. "Your life won't be my problem in a few hours."

He must have seen my face fall, because suddenly he seemed smug again. What was he talking about? I thought, racking my brain for answers. He answered for me.

"You didn't know?" He laughed.

Know what?

"There's an auction tonight, and you're on the market. Already have two buyers lined up. Can you guess who they are?" He was maniac, and sickening. "I'm sure the Ashes' will be hospitable to their new guest."

I wanted to throw up. "You're selling me to them?"

"Selling? No, they'd kill me if I took more of their money. I'm just offering you up as collateral."

"You're sick, Percy."

"I'm smart."

"You can't do this." I didn't care if I started pleading, I just knew I couldn't let him give me to them. The Ashes were cruel, cold-blooded killers. I wouldn't stand a chance. "Please, Percy, don't do this to me."

But Percy showed no mercy in his lifeless eyes, turning his back on me and shutting the door. I was alone in the cold, dark room, and the end was coming.

I could feel the tears start to rush to my eyes. Please don't do this. My life might not be the same, but I still want to live. I don't want to die alone. Not with them. Not here.

I don't want to die a stranger.

Because maybe that's the worst part of it all. My life had been so uneventful, and plain, and I had spent years devoted to a Duke who never really cared. I put my only friend in danger, and I never said goodbye. But—now that I knew I had only hours left—the only thing that mattered was that somewhere on the streets of Paris, I'd left a man behind.

Maybe he was the closest person I could get close to loving. Even with his stubborn personality, and terrible humor, I felt safe knowing he was around.

And when I die, whenever that may be, I hope I go to that room.

The small, damp, and dimly lit hole in the wall where I'd slept for the past few weeks. The place where the old woman played music through the walls, and where the mattress would squeak when you sat on it. The place where I let myself cry, and the place where I said I hated.

The place where I fell asleep next to him. The place where he read me our favourite book, and made me feel wanted.

I may have been a stranger to him, but he was a friend to me.

I closed my eyes, hearing his name echo in my head. If I had one last wish, I'd ask to see him again. He was the only thing that made sense to me. The only sense of stability I'd had. I wished I never ran from him, because maybe I'd have more time.

I heard footsteps running down the hall again.

Maybe this is the end.