Rosa

Chapter 22

Mournful seconds stretched into grief-stricken minutes.

She lost track of time. The world turned into a chilling black void. Her mind grew disoriented. Her lungs struggled to draw breath.

For years, it had been possible to not feel, to not think, to evade her past as Rosa Lenoir.

Today, Mesrine's appearance had made it impossible to pretend that Inès Nadir never existed.

Life had never felt bleaker.

Perhaps, she should've shown herself to Mesrine in the hotel room today.

To let him put her out of her misery.

So she could be reunited with Nijah.

Rosa started to shiver even though there was hardly a draft in the room.

A second later, she felt someone drape a blanket around her shoulders, wrapping her naked, trembling body in a snug cocoon of softness. Then, a wall of body heat and masculine arms closed around her once more, chasing away the cold and steadying her quivers. This small gesture of kindness soothed her senses. Rosa leaned into the warmth. She could feel his strong, steady heartbeat pounding against her chest. The rhythm was calming. As a result, her frenzied thoughts and emotions calmed as well.

Her storm wasn't over, but the worst of it was beginning to pass. At this point, she felt all cried out. Dried and drained to the bone. A sobering stillness crept over her.

Rosa winced as her eyes, sore and swollen from tears, flicked open at last.

Mr. Massera sat before her. His black eyes darted towards hers. His mouth set in a grim line. Relief and worry appeared to crowd his handsome features.

He asked in a tentative manner, "Feeling better?"

Sniffling, she countered hoarsely, "What do you think?"

"It is not my place to say," Mr. Massera replied as he tried to draw a straight answer from her, "I want to hear it from you."

Rosa felt vulnerable under his penetrating gaze.

She mumbled, "You must think I am une femme folle."

A madwoman.

A madwoman who burst into unrestrained sobs at the mention of another woman's name.

"Life fucks with everyone's sanity," he offered, "every now and then."

"How diplomatique of you."

Again, diplomatically, Mr. Massera supplied, "What matters is how we pick up the pieces afterwards."

In a small, sad voice, Rosa sighed, "But some pieces remain broken. No matter how much we wish to fix them. The dead cannot come back to life."

His ears seemed to perk up. "The dead?"

Did he know about Nijah?

Rosa assessed his reaction, he didn't give anything away, so she shrugged it off by saying, "Do not overthink what I said. It was an analogy."

His dark brow rose. "An analogy?"

"Oui."

"Well, broken things do not always need to be fixed," he murmured, "sometimes, surviving a fall is enough. Getting back up again is the best way to fuck with whatever and whoever broke us in the first place."

The man spoke with such conviction.

Rosa wondered if he had been speaking from firsthand experience.