Page 17 of The Ache That Stayed

So… he brought me home.

Changed my clothes.

Put me to bed.

And… didn’t touch me?

Who does that?

The thought unsettled me more than if he had.

I stepped back into the room, eyes scanning frantically. Everything seemed to be in order, more organised than I keep my things. My head was spinning in circles, brain already working overtime, haunted.

Maybe he stole from me.

I tore through the drawers and my bag, checking my wallet, cards, cash. Everything was exactly where I’d left it. Untouched.

Even the folded receipts and the stupid pen I forgot to throw away.

“Are you okay?” Ritu asked, concern showing on her face.

I nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just—hungover.”

She studied me, then nodded. “If you’re up for it, can we swing by the manor later? I want your opinion on some paint shades.”

“Yes,” I said immediately. Too immediately. “Sure.”

Work. Distraction. Grounding reality.

I showered long and hot, scrubbing the smell of alcohol and bad decisions from my skin and hair. But when I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, the room still smelled different.

Smoke, musk, something predominantly male. And a note underneath it that twisted low in my chest with a strange, unplaceable familiarity—thick in the air, clinging to the walls like fingerprints I couldn’t scrub away.

A flicker of memory slithered down my neck—strobe lights, tequila burn, a mouth stealing breath.

I shoved it down before it could form into a face.

My dress from last night was folded neatly over the back of a chair. My heels aligned below like soldiers. The room was tidy. Too neat.

I laughed softly to myself.

Interior designer. Creator of clean, intentional spaces. I build order for a living. And yet sometimes my own life looked like a storm had passed through it.

Control is easier when it’s aesthetic.

Sometimes… I left things messy on purpose. Not curated. Just lived in. Proof I still existed in the space. Proof I wasn’t just performing control.

Sometimes I wondered if I was two people—one who built sanctuaries for others, and one who lived inside ruins of her own making. And this didn’t feel like me.

At the manor, the day passed in fragments—stone halls, measurements, decisions made with muscle memory while my mind drifted elsewhere.

Every creak of the old wood felt like footsteps. Every draft, like breath on the back of my neck.

At first, I told myself it was nothing. But yet, I kept glancing over my shoulder, convinced someone was watching. Once, I turned fast enough I was sure I’d catch someone standing behind me. There was only the stone pillar.

Evening bled into night and the next day. Two days had passed since the night of the pub. The memory never came back clean. No matter how hard I tried, it stayed fragmented.

Just flashes.