Page 87 of The Ache That Stayed

“I liked your original hair colour better.”

Then he was gone.

Fuck you.

The command came too late. Heat flooded my chest, rage surged, sharp and blinding. I wanted to scream. Wanted to lunge. To claw at his face, his eyes, to drive my nails into his skin, to make him bleed like the canvas in front of me. To drive something—anything into him until he stopped breathing.

My nails dug half-moons into my palm.

My muscles tensed—

And still—I didn’t move. The betrayal of my body hit harder than his words. Fury without movement. Rage trapped inside paralysis.

I hated that I just stood there. Hated that some part of me still needed permission to fight back. And that helplessness burned worse than his smile. Hated that after everything—he could still reduce me to this. And walk away just like that.

The gallery felt different after he left. Airless. Too still.

Like every surface was closing in on me at once.

I forced myself to take a few deep breaths and compose myself.

Ritu walked in as my uncle left.

“You look like you saw a ghost. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I replied, giving her a curt smile.

“Okay.” She squeezed my arm. “So we’ve just selected one. And I want that. Since I have to rush, could you handle the purchase?” Ritu asked, handing me her card.

“I’ll ask them to ship it directly to the manor,” I replied.

I gave her a quick hug and turned towards the gallerist. I needed air. I couldn’t let anyone see how much he had affected me.

A crack of thunder split the sky open. The sound jolted me, sharp enough to make my chest seize. The loud noise left me raw, unsettled. The windows rattled, the gallery flashing white before collapsing back into grey.

Rain followed. Hard. Relentless. It hit the glass in sharp bursts, like it was trying to break its way in.

The storm outside echoed the one inside me—violent, uncontained, pressing against walls that suddenly felt too close. My chest felt too tight for my lungs, pulse striking hard enough to hurt. But I kept my face composed, as if nothing had happened.

I stepped outside and immediately pulled out my phone.

No cabs. Not one.

Great.

The app kept searching—refreshing—failing. The rain came down harder, soaking through in seconds, wind whipping cold against my skin.

“Miss?”

I turned. The gallery owner stood by the door, keys in hand.

“Storm’s getting worse,” she said. “You won’t find a ride in this,” she said, looking at the sky.

“There’s a small motel down the road. You can wait it out there. I’ll drop you off.”

For a second, I hesitated. Going back to the cottage didn’t feel like an option. Not right now. Not like this. Not when this uncertainty bubbled inside me.

“Okay,” I said quietly.