Running for my life

The Day We Met

Chapter Two

I walked slowly, letting my hand run along the wall as I found my way back to my room. Tears still streamed down my face. On my dressing table sat a picture of me and my dad. I was smiling up at him, my long wavy hair framing my face, my big hazel eyes full of joy. My hair is red now, dyed from its natural brown, and I’ve grown taller than he ever was. I miss him. He would know what I should do. But he died two weeks after that photograph was taken. A car accident.

I sat on the stool and looked at my reflection in the mirror. It told me what I already knew that a bruise would soon bloom on my left cheek. I ran my hand over the red handprint there. I couldn’t stop thinking about how one small moment could change everything. What would have happened if I hadn’t gone to his office today? None of this would have happened. I never thought he could do something like that to anyone.

But that wasn’t meant to be. Sitting there, staring at my reflection, my thoughts drifted back to the day I first met Uncle Rex.

That was the day I thought we would finally be happy. Mom was so glad to meet her older brother after all those years. Uncle Rex was kind and seemed genuinely interested in talking to me about everything and anything. We were sitting together, having tea. After everything that had happened with Dad the week before, it felt like maybe things were going to be okay. You see, my dad had been in an accident and was still in the hospital. We were all so worried about him, but meeting Uncle Rex made it feel like something good could come from all the pain. After he left, Mom asked me to help her with something.

I jumped when a hand touched my shoulder. It was Jonathan. He looked tense.

"Hello, my love. What happened to your face?" he asked, his eyes narrowing as he looked closely at the bruise on my cheek.

I couldn't tell him. I remembered he had been with my uncle today. A tear slipped down my face. My whole world was upside down. Even the love of my life is not how I thought he was.

"Just a misunderstanding," I say.

He leans down and kisses my cheek. "I'm sorry you've had such a bad day. Let's go out later for dinner that will cheer you up. I'll go change and we can go." He walks to the other room.

I remember the day I met Jonathan.

The hum of hair dryers and the scent of shampoo filled the salon, a familiar rhythm that marked every other Saturday with my mother. It was an ordinary day—routine, predictable. Mom chatted with her stylist about meeting a friend for coffee afterward, her voice bright with excitement. I barely listened, flipping through a magazine, lost in the comfort of the mundane.

Then he walked in.

He was the kind of man who made the air shift when he entered a room. Tall—at least six feet—with golden hair that caught the light and eyes so blue they seemed almost unreal. When his gaze met mine, it felt as though he could see straight through me. My breath caught. Every inch of him radiated confidence, from the way his tailored suit hugged his frame to the faint, knowing smile that curved his lips.

He walked straight toward us.

Mom looked up, surprised but smiling. “Hello, I thought we were meeting you at the coffee shop?”

“I thought I’d come get a good look before you’re all dressed up,” he said, his voice smooth and warm.

That voice melted through me. I barely registered their words, too focused on the sound of him. When he turned his attention to me, the rest of the salon seemed to fade away.

“Hello,” he said, smiling fully now. “My name is Jonathan. You must be Rochelle. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

I managed a quiet “Hello,” though it didn’t sound like my voice at all. His smile deepened, as if he knew exactly what effect he had on me.

“She really is stunning,” he said, glancing at my mother.

Mom’s face lit up, pride shining in her eyes. She began listing my achievements—school, work, plans for the future—while Jonathan listened intently. I sat there, dazed, wondering how they knew each other.

After the salon, we all went for coffee. Mom had to leave earlier than expected, leaving Jonathan and me alone. We talked for over an hour, conversation flowing easily. When he offered to drive me home, I didn’t hesitate. From that day on, we were inseparable.

But as time passed, a quiet unease began to grow.

Why had my mother talked so much about me that day? Why had she been so eager for me to meet him? The memory of her excitement, her knowing smile, began to feel different—calculated.

Had she planned it all?

The thought hit like a cold wave. The man who had seemed like a dream now felt like a trap, and the woman I trusted most might have led me straight into it.

Now, as I sit here wondering how to escape the mess my life has become, one question haunts me more than any other:

If I ask my mother for help, will she save me—or was she the one who handed me over in the first place?