Chapter 3 - The Calm Before The Storm.

The smell of coffee was the first thing that hit me. The second was Becky's obnoxious humming from the kitchen, which only meant one thing—she got laid and had the audacity to be chipper about it.

I walked out of the bathroom freshly showered, hair still damp and skin tingling. I felt... exposed. Not because I was wearing a hoodie two sizes too big, but because my entire life had become one long episode of How Did We Get Here?

I turned to find Mom watching me, her expression unreadable.

Great. Here comes the ambush.

"Sit," she said, patting the empty spot beside her.

I hesitated for half a second, then gave in. The couch creaked slightly under the weight of emotions and motherly expectations.

"You look well," she said, studying me like I was a science experiment she half-regretted creating.

"Do I?" I leaned back, folding my arms. "Because I feel like a half-melted popsicle."

She smiled faintly, then got to the point. "I bought a place."

I blinked. "A what?"

"A house. In Gramercy Park. Quiet. Upscale. Safe. We move in next week."

I blinked again. That was Upper East Side money. Not "let's crash at Bianca's apartment" money.

Leni piped up from the floor where she was painting her nails black. "It's a mansion. It has a pool, B."

"A heated pool," Linda added helpfully. "And a wine cellar. Mom's going full Real Housewife."

"I am not," Mom snapped. Then, to me, "But it's big enough. I want you to come live with us. Your sisters will be off to university in a few months. I'd like some time with my eldest before they leave."

There it was. Guilt gift-wrapped in concern.

I glanced around the room—Becky humming again in the kitchen, my sisters bickering over Spotify playlists, my mom watching me with those damn eyes that could cut through all my bravado.

It would be easy to say yes.

But I didn't run away from London, from my father, from a merger-masquerading-as-marriage, just to walk into another gilded cage.

I exhaled. "I appreciate it, Mom. Really. But... I think I need to figure out who I am. On my own."

Her face flickered—just for a second. A mix of pride and pain. She reached out, brushing my damp hair behind my ear like I was still ten and afraid of thunderstorms.

"You always were the brave one," she said quietly.

"No," I corrected her. "Just the stubborn one."

We both laughed. Softly. Honestly.

Then I stood, because if I stayed, I'd cave. "I'm gonna go... avoid eye contact with Becky for a week."

As I walked away, I heard Linda mutter, "I still can't believe she turned down a mansion."

Leni snorted. "She's clearly not the smart twin."

And somehow... it felt good to laugh. Even if the storm was far from over.

Sunday: Eliza's House.

The house had quieted. Becky had gone out for croissants—still annoyingly chipper—and the twins had retreated upstairs to FaceTime their London friends and flex their "Gramercy mansion" life.

I sat at the kitchen table, clutching a mug I hadn't touched. Steam spiraled from the tea like a secret trying to escape.

Mom sat across from me, arms crossed—not in anger, but in that way she always did when she was waiting to be strong. She looked tired. Not old, but older. Like someone who'd held too much for too long.

"You didn't say a word last night," she said finally.

"I didn't expect a welcoming committee," I muttered, swirling the tea absently. "Especially not one that flew across the Atlantic."

Her gaze didn't waver. "You snuck in at dawn smelling like vodka and Chanel No. 5. And pain."

I flinched.

Silence swelled between us, but it wasn't cold. Just heavy. Like the truth was pushing its elbows onto the table, waiting for me to spill.

I took a breath.

"There's something I need to tell you," I said, voice low. "But you can't interrupt. You can't... look at me the way you did when I told Dad I wouldn't marry James."

Her eyes sharpened at the name, but she nodded.

I told her everything.

The club. The drink I didn't finish. The man—God, I didn't even remember his face clearly—who wouldn't stop staring at me, the weird way he touched my glass when I wasn't looking. And then Ian. How he noticed. How he stepped in.

How he took me away before things got worse.

"How did you know?" she asked softly.

"I didn't... not at first. But my head was spinning, my skin felt electric, and it wasn't just the alcohol. I've been tipsy before. This was different." I paused. "He knew something was wrong too. He was careful. Gentle. He tried to get me water, take me outside. But I... I kissed him."

She inhaled sharply.

"It wasn't even like I had a choice. I was burning up inside. It was like... my body wasn't mine. I kissed him, and I pulled him with me. To the car. To his place. And then he started showing signs too."

She blinked. "You think you drugged him?"

"I don't think. I know." My voice shook. "The guy who did it... just drugged me, Ian got drugged from kissing me."

I stared at the tea again. Still untouched. Still too hot.

"And the two of you...?"

I nodded. "We slept together. It was messy and desperate and so damn intense. But also... soft. And strange. And then I woke up, and I left before he could say anything. I didn't even know his last name."

Silence again.

When I finally looked up, my mother's face wasn't filled with rage or shame or disappointment.

It was sadness.

Deep, aching sadness.

"You could've told me sooner," she said, barely above a whisper.

I swallowed. "How? After everything? After Dad tried to barter me off like property? After you two fell apart? I didn't want another lecture about responsibility or image or—"

"I wouldn't have given you a lecture," she said. Her voice cracked. "I would've held you."

That broke something in me.

Tears welled before I could stop them. "I didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't even know what I was doing. And now... everything's so complicated."

She stood, walked around the table, and knelt beside me like I was a child again with a scraped knee and too much pride to cry.

"I may not always know the right thing to say," she whispered, "but I will never think less of you for surviving. You did what you had to do. You're still standing. That matters."

I leaned into her shoulder, let myself sob just a little—quietly, the way girls do when they're taught not to fall apart in front of people.

She held me.

Ian's POV

The city blurred past the windshield like smoke—buildings smeared in neon, traffic lights bleeding into each other, sirens wailing somewhere behind him. He barely noticed. His hands gripped the steering wheel too tight, knuckles pale against the leather.

He hadn't slept. He hadn't eaten. He hadn't even changed clothes.

All he could think about was her.

Bianca.

That name burned into his brain. When he'd woken up alone in bed, he was so pissed, and Steve had burst into the apartment bragging about some "badass chick" named Becky.

Bianca. Becky.

That meant…

His chest tightened.

He hadn't just slept with a stranger.

He'd slept with her. Steve's girl's friend. The one who'd been drugged. The one who had kissed him like her world was ending. The one who had let him touch her like she didn't know what touch even meant yet. Sweet. Shaky. Desperate.

And then she left. No note. No number. Just perfume on the sheets and her taste still haunting his mouth.

He pulled into the driveway of the penthouse in Chelsea—more like a magazine spread than a home—and killed the engine. As soon as he stepped through the door, the scent of roses hit him.

Vivian's favorite.

She was in the living room, robe cinched tight, arms crossed, perfectly manicured toes tapping against the marble floor. A glass of wine in her hand—because of course it wasn't morning for her until she'd insulted someone and drained a cabernet.

"You didn't come home," she said, no warmth, no real surprise. Just accusation dressed up as concern. "Again."

Ian exhaled slowly. "I texted."

"A text? That's all I get? You've been gone all night. So who was it this time?"

"I'm not doing this with you, Vivian."

"Doing what, Ian?" she snapped, walking toward him, fire behind her cold eyes. "Asking why my husband disappears and comes back smelling like someone else's perfume? Forgive me if I think communication is part of marriage."

He rubbed his jaw. "Marriage?" he repeated bitterly. "Is that what this is now?"

She went quiet. For a moment.

Then: "I'm not stupid. You've been checked out for months. I'm just waiting for you to admit it."

He stared at her.

The truth sat at the back of his throat like a pill too big to swallow.

He'd always been faithful. Miserable, yes. Disconnected, sure. But faithful.

Until her.

Until that one night.

But he couldn't tell Vivian that. Not now. Not ever.

So he just said, "I'm tired, Vivian," and walked past her.

She didn't follow.

Upstairs, he collapsed onto the edge of the bed they didn't even sleep in together anymore. Ran a hand through his hair. Flashes of last night played behind his eyes like a reel of guilt on loop.

Her hands in his hair. Her whispered breath against his neck. Her thighs tightening around his hips. Her eyes—so wide, scared, and somehow brave.

He hadn't meant for it to happen.

He just couldn't stop.

The doorbell rang.

Steve.

Of course.

Ian trudged down, opened the door, and let him in without a word.

Steve whistled. "Damn, you look like shit. Vivian chew you up again?"

Ian gave him a deadpan stare. "Worse."

Steve flopped on the couch, grinning. "You need to get laid more often."

"I did."

Steve blinked. "Wait. Are you saying—?"

Ian nodded slowly. "Last night."

"No. Way. You finally broke the dry spell?" Steve shot up. "And let me guess—it was that gorgeous girl who vanished after I took Becky home, right?"

His voice dropped. "Tell me it wasn't Becky's friend."

Ian didn't answer.

Steve gaped. "Bro. You dog."

"It wasn't like that." Ian leaned against the wall, head tilted back. "She was drugged. I didn't know until I got her out of there. I tried to help her. She kissed me. I didn't stop her. I drank something. It hit me too."

Steve's eyes widened.

"We were both high on something neither of us wanted," Ian muttered. "But it felt… real. God, it felt right."

Steve actually stopped joking. That never happened.

"Man…" he said slowly. "You okay?"

"No." Ian's voice cracked. "I can't stop thinking about her. Her skin, her voice, the way she looked at me like I was safe."

Steve nodded quietly.

Ian looked up, fire in his chest. "I'd give anything to see her again."