Entangled with the Hot Stranger

Break in

Fressia’s POV

The rain had stopped. Or maybe it hadn't. I couldn't feel anything except the weight of the card in my hand.

Jordan, who was still trembling slightly from dropping the bronze sculpture, stepped closer. He looked at the card in my hand, then at the empty street outside, taking a shaky breath. Clearly trying to mask his panic with his usual dramatic flair, Jordan snatched the card right out of my hand.

He held it up to the light, squinting at the thick cardstock.

"Okay, look," Jordan said, his voice cracking a little. "I don't know exactly what just happened, but based on the designer shirt, the jawline, and the fact that he literally bleeds money... this man either has six criminal records or moisturizes professionally. Possibly both."

Despite the adrenaline still buzzing in my veins, a short, breathless laugh escaped my lips.

Jordan offered a weak smile, handing the card back. "Lock the doors, Fress. I'm going to clean up this paint before I pass out."

I pocketed the card, the adrenaline crashing from my veins.

As I turned to lock the deadbolt on the glass door, my eyes caught the gold-embossed wedding invitation still sitting on the front counter.

The crushing weight of the humiliation came rushing back, crashing onto my chest like a physical blow.

"I'm going upstairs, Jordie," I whispered, my voice throat completely dry.

I didn't wait for his reply. I climbed the wooden staircase at the back of the gallery, my legs feeling like lead.

The apartment above the gallery was supposed to be my safe haven, but right now, it felt like a graveyard of memories. Every single corner of the space was haunted by Derek.

I walked into the kitchen and immediately saw the spot by the stove where he used to cook us Sunday morning pancakes, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind. I looked at the couch and saw the indent where we used to binge-watch terrible reality shows. Hanging on the coat rack by the door was his faded grey college hoodie—the one he had "forgotten" to take when he moved out three weeks ago.

The one Nora had probably worn.

My chest tightened so painfully I couldn't breathe. I sank to the hardwood floor, pulling my paint-stained apron over my face, and broke down.

I cried for the wasted years. I cried for the betrayal. I cried because I felt pathetically replaceable.

I sat there for only heaven knows how long, drowning in my own misery.

Then, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out with trembling, paint-smudged fingers. The screen lit up the dark hallway.

It was a message from Derek.

‘Hey. I saw the tracking notification for the invitation. I know this is hard for you. But Nora is really stressed about her big day. Please don't embarrass yourself at the wedding. If it's too much for you, just stay home. No hard feelings.’

I stared at the glowing text message.

‘Don't embarrass yourself.’

‘Just stay home.’

I read the words three times. There was no hello, no how are you message, he just sent me a message like I was some cheap knockoff. As I stared at the phone, something deep inside my chest shifted. The sadness suddenly froze over.

The tears stopped flowing instantly, replaced by white-hot fury.

He thought I was weak. He thought I would sit in my apartment and cry while he married my cousin in a five-star hotel.

I typed back: “Wouldn't dream of it."

Then I blocked his number.

Still angry, I slowly stood up from the floor, walked over to the coat rack, pulled his grey hoodie off the hook, and threw it straight into the garbage can.

“I'm not staying home, Derek,” I mutteted to myself through clenched teeth, “I‘ll show you. I’ll show all of you!”

That was by 3:12 PM.

By 7:16 PM in the evening, I was still lying in bed, the rain tapping against my bedroom window. The only light in the room came from the glaring screen of my phone.

I was doom-scrolling.

I knew it was a terrible idea, but the anger was keeping me wide awake. I was deep in Nora's social media page, torturing myself with her perfectly curated life.

A picture of her engagement ring close-up had six hundred likes. Derek kissing her cheek at a vineyard had eight hundred and fifty likes. And one with the caption: Forever with my soulmate, had over a thousand.

I felt sick to my stomach, but I kept scrolling, going back weeks, then months. I was looking for the overlap. The proof of when exactly they had started stabbing me in the back.

I stopped on a photo posted five months ago.

It was a picture of Nora and Derek at a high-end Italian restaurant downtown. They were holding up glasses of champagne, laughing.

But my eyes didn't focus on them.

My gaze drifted to the background of the photograph.

Sitting at a private booth, slightly blurred but entirely distinct, was a man. He was wearing a dark, tailored suit. He was resting his chin on his hand, looking incredibly bored as the man sitting across from him spoke.

I zoomed in. My heart skipped a beat, lodging itself firmly in my throat.

Even blurry, I recognized the sharp line of his jaw. The dark hair. The unmistakable, piercing silver eyes looking vaguely in the direction of the camera.

Inker.

I sat up in bed, the sheets pooling around my waist.

Five months ago. He was at the same restaurant as them. Was it a coincidence? It’s a big city, but I’m not sure people like him just stumble into the background of random photos.

A cold prickle of dread washed over my skin, my mind beginning to ask just who exactly this man might be.

Suddenly, my phone screen flickered. Then, the bedside lamp died.

The hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen stopped. The streetlights outside my window vanished.

The entire apartment plunged into total, pitch-black darkness.

I froze, the only light remaining coming from my phone screen clutched in my hand.

“It’s just a power outage,” I told myself, trying to slow my racing heart. “It's just the storm. The rain blew a transformer.”

But then, I heard it.

Heavy footsteps on the wooden stairs leading up from the gallery.

My blood ran ice cold. Jordan had locked the front doors. I knew he had.

The footsteps stopped right outside my apartment door. I held my breath, slowly sliding out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. I looked around the dark for a weapon, wishing Jordan had left the bronze sculpture up here.

The doorknob slowly rattled, but thankfully, it was locked.

For three seconds, there was silence.

Then, a deep, gruff male voice spoke through the wood. It was the exact same voice I had heard standing outside the closet door hours ago.

"Open the door, sweetheart," the man said softly, the sound scraping against my nerves like sandpaper. "We just wanna ask some questions about the man you hid earlier."