BOUND BY ONE NIGHT

Chapter 17

Lavender’s POV

The city outside my window blurs into passing lights as the bus rattles along the uneven asphalt. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, hoping the sensation will calm the churning in my stomach. It doesn’t. My insides twist again, a sharp turn that has me swallowing hard, gripping the back of the seat in front of me.

Stress, that has to be it. I have been pushing myself too hard. Moving apartments. Scrambling between job interviews. Pretending I’m fine while every part of me feels like it’s cracking apart. Still, I breathe through it, forcing my mind away from the memory gnawing at the edges of my thoughts.

Alex, his name alone makes my chest tighten painfully. It has been, what, two months? Two months since I left Robinson Industries with a shaky signature, and a cowardly goodbye. Two months since that night I still can’t erase.

And I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried. But the sensation of his fingers on my skin, the feel of his breath mingling with mine, all of it comes crashing back when I least expect it. Like now. When I’m surrounded by strangers who have no idea that a single stupid night has uprooted everything I built.

Another wave of dizziness rolls through me and I squeeze my eyes shut, definitely stress. If I say it enough times, maybe it becomes true. The bus jerks to a stop, the brakes screeching. I stumble off and into the cold air. The wind bites at my cheeks, but it’s a relief, something sharp and real. My legs feel unsteady, like they’re struggling to remember how to hold me up.

I walk the last few streets to the temporary room I’m renting, a cramped studio with peeling paint and a ceiling that moans whenever the weather changes. It isn’t home, but it’s quiet. And no one here looks at me like a disappointment.

I close the door gently behind me and sag against it, dropping my bag to the floor. The silence is loud, too loud. My phone buzzes in my pocket.

A text message.

Unknown number.

‘Stay away from Alex Robinson if you know what’s good for you.’

Cold sweat prickles down my spine, the second message follows.

‘You don’t belong in his world. You’re just a mistake he’ll regret forever.’

I grip the phone so tightly my nails dig into my palm.

Who would.... No, I know exactly who. Cassandra Morgan hasn’t spoken to me directly. She never would. Women like her don’t dirty their hands. But assistants… friends… acquaintances with too much time and too much loyalty? Easy enough. I block the number without replying. My hands still tremble.

Why now? Why target me now, when I’ve already removed myself from his life entirely? My stomach flips again, another sharp stab of nausea. I drop my phone and rush toward the tiny bathroom. The retching comes hard and sudden, leaving me gasping over the sink, knuckles white against the ceramic. I rinse my mouth and stare at my reflection. I look awful. Pale. Hollow-eyed. A ghost of myself.

“You’re just exhausted,” I whisper to the woman in the mirror. “You’re overwhelmed. It’s nothing.”

The alternative, the impossible alternative, tries to form a thought, a whisper, a possibility I cannot afford to believe. I crush it down immediately. I’m late, more than late, but that happens with stress. I barely sleep, I barely eat. Calories come cheaper as coffee than an actual meal.

“It’s just stress,” I repeat, slower this time, as if convincing a frightened child. My chest rises and falls unevenly. I slide down the wall, knees pulled to my chest, head resting in the space between them. Hot tears slip out before I realize I’m crying.

It’s not the physical sickness that scares me. It’s the emotional one, because every time my mind wanders, it wanders back to him. To Alex’s hands holding my face as if I mattered.

To the sound of his breath deepening when he whispered my name like a secret.

To the way he looked at me when dawn crept in and regret swallowed the room.

I gather myself, crawling to sit on the edge of my bed, more mattress than bed, and clutch the blanket around me. My phone lies on the floor, still dark. No new messages. Not that I should want any. But the absence still hurts.

I close my eyes, in the space behind my eyelids, I see him again. Alex standing too close.

His scent pulling me in, his body aligning with mine like we were made for that moment and no other. I shouldn’t miss him, Why would I? He made no promises. I asked for none.

We both wanted escape from different prisons, his built of power, imine of fear. The irony is almost laughable I ran from him to protect myself… and now my body is falling apart anyway. Another cramp tightens low in my abdomen. I wince.

Maybe I should go to a clinic. Or call someone. But who?

My parents have slammed the door on me, friends have their own lives, and how do you explain something like this?

“Hi, I think I’m falling apart because I let myself feel something once and the universe punished me for it.”

No thanks.

My phone vibrates suddenly. My heart leaps, stupid hope, but it’s just a spam notification. I drop the phone on my pillow, ashamed of myself. I don’t get to hope. I gave that up the moment I crossed the line I vowed to never cross.

Alex is engaged,a future billionaire bride, a perfect, polished life.

And me?

A secretary who forgot her place, another tear falls, then another. I bury my face in the blanket, letting the shaking take over.

Eventually, I whisper, “You’ll survive this.” It sounds like a lie, but it’s the only lifeline I have left. Hours later, when darkness settles deeper and the streets quiet down, I finally lie back, curling instinctively on my side. My hand presses to my stomach, not consciously, not knowingly, just a small protective gesture I tell myself is about comfort.

My eyes drift closed, stress. Just stress.

Tomorrow will be better, it has to be.

Because the alternative is too terrifying to