You call this fate?

Chapter 33

The next morning, my face was stiff. The slightest moment hurt. For a deluded instant I couldn't understand why I felt so. The pain was gone, right? Why was it back now?

When I sat up, groggy, and looked around at the sunlight-filled room—with the white carpeted floor and the expensive furniture—I remembered. I had to smile at my own forgetfulness. Of course it wasn't gone. It never would be.

After hasty ablutions laboriously performed, I looked in the bathroom mirror and smiled some more. The sun was shining through the window. The sky was a clear azure. I could have bet there were birds chirping in the trees somewhere miles below. It was just the perfect day.

Time to hide from it.

I was very thankful today that Tasha was a right bossy bitch. She had made me go on a shopping spree once and wasted mountain loads of my money to buy makeup—metaphorically, of course; if I had that much money, I would already have buried myself under it and died.

Pulling out the concealer that hadn't been touched since the store employee shoved it into a bag—thankfully it was still safely stowed in my duffle—I used two fingers to slather the paste over my cheeks and under my chin. With the cuts bandaged, I could almost imagine I hadn't been mauled hours ago.

Once sure I had done as good a job as I could ever be expected to do, I combed my hair too, then put everything away and stepped into the corridor.

I hobbled towards the girls' room, only to find it empty. The armchair was vacant too. Granny must have taken them to school. Hopefully, someone had gone with them. Hannah's doll lay on the sofa like a dead body; a good thing too, for if Granny had let her take that to school, I would have ripped her head off—Granny's, not the doll's.

Stepping into the kitchen, I got myself some bread and jam to make a sandwich. I was famished, of course, but didn't want to wait anymore to make something elaborate. Time for that would come after I had something in my stomach. As it was, at the moment it seemed very likely my belly was busy digesting itself.

Food done, I was just about to take a bite—my mouth watering in anticipation of the taste about to burst on my tongue—when Mr. Rodwell walked out of his room.

He was shirt-less.

I dropped the sandwich—thankfully, it fell back on the plate. But at that second-long moment I won't have noticed if it had fallen on the floor. Or even if the whole apartment had spontaneously burst into flames.

Mr. Rodwell was a work of art—or I was just biased. As he walked across the room, his gaze on the tablet in his hands, oblivious to my presence, the muscles of his tanned abdomen rippled. And not the disgusting tan either. This was a perfect tan, one that isn't acquired by sitting in the sun but rather by working in it. I wondered what work he did, even though I could have made safe guesses if my mind hadn't been so distracted. His biceps, as finely defined as if sketched with a pencil, stood prominent yet not grotesquely bulged. His feet were bare, an old pair of jeans clinging to his hips as if delivering a very special kiss.

Only after I had taken all of him in, and a bit more for good measure, did my body allow me to screech. "What are you doing? Why the hell are you naked?" I threw a hand over my eyes.

There was a very long silence. I imagined he was taking in the sight of me too. "Miss Mahal? I expected you to be asleep yet. Nice day, isn't it?"

"Nice day? Nice day? That's what you say when you walk in naked as the day you were born?"

Pause. "Naked? I don't know what you're talking about. I am appropriately dressed."

"Appropriate?" I sputtered. "You think you're dressed appropriately? Is this how you would go to work too?" I turned my back on him, grabbing the counter for support.