That Zayn?

ROME

Zayn. Even his name tasted like blood and shame in my mouth.

It had been a week since he’d paid for me. A week since I’d been bent over in his VVIP room with his hand clamped around my throat and his teeth dragging down my skin like he had something to prove. A week since he'd looked me dead in the eye and fucked me like I was a thing, his thing.

I could still feel it. Not the heat, not the pleasure—God, no. The ache. The way my legs refused to work right for three days. The dull, persistent throb at the base of my skull from his grip. The bruises I had to scrub raw to hide. That wasn’t sex. That was war, and I lost.

And I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Which is why I packed my things.

Boxes cluttered every inch of the new apartment. My old place in Ven City had more light, more space, more everything, but I didn’t care. I just needed out. Needed distance. Needed to breathe in air that hadn’t passed through Zayn fucking Sanchez’s lungs.

I dropped onto the edge of my bed, my one clean space, and let my spine press against the cool wall. There were clothes scattered, receipts, half-taped boxes, and the silence that came when you cut off everyone.

I hadn't answered any messages. Not the missed calls. Not the “where are you” texts. Ghost mode. It was the only way I knew how to survive.

My phone buzzed again like a dying vibrator on cheap batteries. I didn’t need to check the screen, I already knew who it was. Only one person had the guts to call me six times in a row without leaving a voice note or, at the very least, dying.

I ignored it.

The screen lit again. Another buzz. Then another. And another. She wasn’t letting up. I hissed, grabbed the phone like it had personally offended me, and swiped to answer.

“What?”

“Damn, Romeo,” Sade's voice burst through like a cracked window on a windy day, full of chaos and sarcasm. “Is this how you treat your future sugar mommy?”

I sighed, pressing the phone between my shoulder and cheek as I dropped another unopened box on the floor with a grunt. “Unless your sugar comes with a house deed, I’m not interested.”

“Wow. Look who’s finally moving back to that city he swore he’d burn down before stepping foot in again.” I could hear her munching on something. Probably chin chin, her favorite snack from her home country. She had this nasty habit of eating like she was recording an ASMR video.

“I didn’t come back for sightseeing.”

“Clearly. I heard Ven City’s already lost 10% of its sex appeal since you left. Women are crying. Men are healing.”

I let out a small laugh which sounded very dry, involuntary. “You call me six times to tell me that?”

“Nope. I just missed you. And also, wait for it, I met someone. Well, not met-met, but saw. And my God, Rome, he looks like he fucks people into therapy.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“No no no! Don’t! Okay, okay, real talk… how’s the new place?”

I looked around the cluttered living room. Boxes everywhere. Blank walls, no art, no life. Just the thrum of silence and dust. My bed was the only thing functional, mattress still half-wrapped in plastic like I could up and leave again at any moment.

“Bare. Haven’t unpacked.”

“You’ve been there for a few days.”

“I’ve been busy avoiding mistakes with a dick.”

Sade choked on whatever she was eating. “Wait, wait, this is about that Zayn guy?”

I paused. The name hung heavy and it made my stomach churned in an irritating way.

“You’re joking, right?” she continued, clearly unaware. “That Zayn?”

I didn’t reply. She went quiet for a beat. And then, softly:

“Holy shit.”

I let down a deep breath, thinking of how I shouldn't have agreed to Violet's request if I knew Zayn was that Mr. Sanchez. I never knew him as Sanchez, his surname was Smith and for years I had ignored anyone bearing Smith just because of him.

Did he change his name? Or he lied like he always did?

“Fucking. Tell. Me, how it happened!" Sade’s voice broke through my reverie and before I could reply, a ping cut through signifying the arrival of a new message.

I turned my phone and checked the screen, a frown appearing on my face.

Stepbrother: Hello, loser. Although it is unbelievable that I am texting you once more after you left, unforeseen circumstances do happen. Since your father is aware of your return, he feels sorry for you and wants you to come retrieve your mother's belongings.

I felt sick to my stomach. Not out of grief. Not out of sentimentality. Only the burden of a past I believed I had buried deep, now dragging itself back with dirt under its claws.

I assumed they had forgotten about me and that I had moved on, but they still know that anything that has to do with my mother is the only thing that can truly make me feel deeply uncomfortable.

After her death, I attempted to retrieve everything she owned, but I was cast out to pay her debts and care for my ailing sister.

They are asking me to come get her stuff now? I let down a very shaky breath.

Sade was still on the line, speaking in a faraway tone. “Rome? You there?”

I stared at the message again.

“I’ve got to go.”

“You okay?”

“No.”

And I hung up.