Page 26 of Black Castle

She exhales through her nose, raises her knuckles, and places a tentative knock on the door.

She waits...patiently. He needs to open the door. He really has to.

A shuffle of footsteps behind the door sends a sharp jolt to her chest. Her breath hitches, anxiety weaving tight into her nerves. He is there.

He is coming.

The lock turns and the door is opened.

But it isn’t Ian.

A wave of chestnut hair moves before her, sharp gray eyes regarding her with caution, lavender and citrus scent invading her nostrils.

Vivienne’s stomach drops. A sharp brutal ache twisting through her ribs. For a moment, she can’t breathe.

“Hi,” she forces out, her voice strained.

“Hello.” The woman steps out, shutting the door behind her. She is wearing a pink silk robe.

Vivienne swallows, forcing down the lump in her throat. “Um, I’m looking for Ian Griswyk.”

The woman’s brows furrow. “And you are?”

Vivienne ignores the question. “Does he still live here?”

“Yes.”

“Can you just tell him to check his email?” The words come out tight, dry. “It’s—it’s really urgent.”

The woman hesitates. “Who are you?”

Vivienne’s jaw clenches. Why must she interrogate her? It’s just a simple message. “Just tell him to check his email, please.”

She turns sharply, barely holding herself together as she hurries down the steps, her vision blurry.

Ian has moved on.

She has spent weeks trying to fix things. He didn’t even give her a chance. He just…moved on. Like it was easy. Like his love for her was so easy he quickly moved on.

By the time she reaches the bus stop, her hands are trembling. She curls them into a fist, pressing them against her thighs, as the bus pulls up, as she sits stiffly in her seat, staring out the window at nothing.

In the entire ride home, she feels like she is suffocating.

Vivienne steps into the house, locking the door behind her, her head resting on the door.

The house is quiet, just as she left it. And she hates it. She can hear her own thoughts. And they are not happy thoughts.

Raising her head off the door, she kicks her sneakers off and walks to the kitchen, her limbs moving on their own. Her eyes burn, but she refuses to cry.

She grabs a loaf of bread and sets it on the counter. She opens the peanut butter jar and fetches a knife.

The three things are in front of her.

Knife. Bread. Peanut butter.

A rush of memory slams into her. Violent and unrelenting.

The kitchen, late at night.

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