Page 36 of Silken Chains
So fucking stupid.
Broken condom, hot dangerous stranger, and the best sex ever still don’t justify this madness.
What the hell was I thinking?
Hauling the Hotel V robe back to my cramped apartment, I give it a long, hard stare. The soft fabric, emblazoned with that damn “V,” taunts me. My heart skips a beat. V for Victor.
His cologne still clings to it, a faint but distinct reminder of him threading through my senses. Damn him.
Get a grip, Laura.
After a quick, squeaky shower, I’m back in my jeans and sweater—the usual Laura. Stepping out into the brisk air, I head for the nearest pharmacy.
The bell above the pharmacy door jingles as I enter. Behind the counter, there’s Linda, with her ever-present knowing smile.
“Plan… Plan-B, please,” I request, avoiding her gaze.
Linda’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but she quickly masks it with a professional smile. “Here you go,” she says, handing over the pill.
I just nod, slapping down the cash without another word. A hot wave of shame and guilt surges in my chest.
“Have a lovely day,” I mumble, mustering every ounce of politeness before bolting out the door.
Back in my apartment, I throw the pharmacy bag on the table and glare at it. “Nice job, Laura,” I grumble to myself.
Grabbing the morning-after pill, I gulp it down with a swig of water.
It’s done.
My chest clenches, a raw, nagging ache. Three years and two days with David, and every damn time I brought up kids, he shut me down cold. Just like that.
Sometimes, I envy watching Ser and James. They’ve got it all—love, laughter, and little Lucas toddling around, tying them together in the cutest way possible. They’re like a beacon of what true love and family should be, a stark contrast to the emptiness I feel with David.
I should’ve seen it coming. That deceitful, backstabbing bastard.
Shaking off thoughts of David, I pull my phone from its charger, the screen dark and lifeless until I power it up. The moment it comes to life, it’s like opening a floodgate.
Correction. More like a hell’s gate of digital chaos.
Messages and missed calls swarm the screen.
God, what a mess.
Missed calls from UNKNOWN NUMBER at 8.15 a.m., then again at 9.37 a.m., and 9.48 a.m. Who the hell is that persistent?
My fingers hover over the delete button, but curiosity wins. I leave them be for now.
Then, Mr. Henderson’s name blinks back at me from the screen, a glaring reminder of the headache I’m about to face.
Sixteen missed calls from 6:35 a.m. to 10.55 a.m. from my landlord is not odd at all, the guy’s got the patience of a toddler, but this time, I get why he’s freaking out.
In my mind’s eye, I see his face: mid-50s, skin like leather from too many years of scowling under the sun, and eyes that don’t miss a trick. He’s the kind of guy who’d charge you for breathing if he could. No love for late rent or fresh ideas to spruce up his decaying two-story monument to the past. He must’ve caught wind of the bookstore looking like a set piece from a ghost story.
Sorry, but I just can’t handle his drama right now. I’ll deal with him later. More missed calls and messages flood my screen. I let out a dry laugh.
Laura Anne Thompson, girl, you’re more popular than a celebrity in a scandal.
I tap on Dad’s texts, my fingers trembling with dread.
