"Red, come on! It's just a quick trip to the boutique. You can't keep hiding in here forever."

Frida's voice echoed through the hallway, sharp with the same enthusiasm she had when she first mentioned the fundraiser event a few days ago. I hadn't expected her to still be so adamant about it, especially since the two weeks the doctor recommended for me to stay home had come and gone. But here she was again, pushing for something I wasn't ready for.

I stood by the kitchen counter, absently stirring the now-cold coffee in my mug. It had become a habit these past few weeks—letting time pass while I went through the motions. But Frida wasn't having it. She had a mission, and it involved me putting on a smile and pretending that life had some semblance of normalcy.

"I'm not hiding," I muttered under my breath, though even I didn't believe it.

Frida appeared in the doorway, her hands full of shopping bags she'd no doubt already picked up in anticipation. She seemed to be radiating some kind of nervous energy, a mix of excitement and impatience. "Oh really? Because it sure looks like it. You've barely left the house since the doctor said you needed rest, and now you're going to hide from life forever?"

I glanced down at my mug, focusing on the swirling pattern in the coffee. "I'm not hiding. I'm just not... ready to go out yet."

Frida's gaze softened for a moment, her hands falling to her hips as she let out a small sigh. "Look, I get it. It's been rough." She glanced at the clock on the wall, her face tightening slightly as she added, "But you can't just sit in here forever. The fundraiser is this weekend, and I'm not going alone. I know you're not exactly excited about it, but I really think you need to be there."

She was right, of course. The fundraiser was a big deal, and Frida had been talking about it for days. She hadn't told me what it was for, but she stated it was a cause close to her heart, and she was the organizer. But the thought of stepping out into a crowd, socializing with strangers, still made my stomach twist.

The last time I ventured out was a few days ago, to pick up a book from my office. It had been a short trip—one that ended with Damian showing up unannounced, disrupting the fragile sense of calm I'd been clinging to. Seeing him had unsettled me, especially after all that had happened.

"I don't know, Frida," I said quietly, not wanting to meet her gaze. "I don't know if I'm ready to go out there, not yet."

Frida's voice softened. "I'm not asking you to throw yourself back into the world like nothing happened. I'm just asking for a few hours, Ruby. A couple of dresses, maybe a cup of coffee. No pressure. You don't have to be anything other than you, just... try."

I opened my mouth to protest, but the words died in my throat. There was no easy way to explain the heavy feeling that lingered in my chest. I had spent the last few weeks confined to my own thoughts, trying to regain some semblance of control over a life that had spun out of my grasp.

Frida crossed the room, sitting beside me at the counter. Her hand found mine, squeezing it gently. "You don't have to be perfect."

I took a deep breath, the weight of her words pressing against me. She wasn't wrong. I had been hiding, keeping myself locked away in the quiet of this house. I couldn't keep avoiding the world forever. But at the same time, the idea of stepping out, of exposing myself to the chaos outside these walls, felt terrifying.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice small. "I didn't mean to snap. It's just... I'm just anxious about having to face everything out there."

Frida's expression softened, and she nodded understandingly. "It's okay. I'm here, and I'm not going to force you. But I do think it'll help, just a little."

After a long moment, I sighed and met her gaze. "Okay," I whispered. "I'll go. But only because you're persistent."

Frida's smile was immediate, and I could almost feel her relief in the air. "Yes! I knew you'd come around. Now, go get dressed—we're leaving in twenty minutes. You won't regret it, I promise."

As she bustled out of the kitchen, already preparing for our little shopping trip, I felt a flicker of something inside me. I wasn't sure if it was hope or just the tiniest bit of curiosity, but it was enough. I couldn't stay hidden forever. And maybe, just maybe, today would be the start of something a little lighter.

I drained the last of my cold coffee and headed upstairs. Frida was right—I had to show up. For her, for me. Maybe today didn't have to be so heavy after all.

We drove in silence, the weight on my shoulders easing with each passing mile. At the boutique, Frida's energy was contagious, and despite my nerves, I followed her inside. I wasn't here for the shopping—I was here because Frida needed me to be. The bruises from the attack were barely noticeable now, but they still made me feel exposed, like I was still wearing them even though they were gone.

Frida, oblivious to my thoughts, rushed off to find her dresses. I stood in front of a red dress, its boldness pulling me in. My fingers grazed the fabric, hesitant. Could I really wear something like this? Could I be the woman who wore something beautiful again?

Frida returned, arms full of dresses, and helped me into the red one. When I looked in the mirror, I froze. The dress clung to me, revealing parts of myself I wasn't sure I was ready to see. But Frida, always so sure of herself, stepped forward and gently helped me remove my scarf—the last piece of armor I had been hiding behind. The bruises were faint, but it felt like I had nothing left to hide.

"You look amazing, Red," she said, her eyes soft and understanding.

I stared at myself in the mirror, unsure of the reflection staring back. But then something clicked. Maybe I could wear this. Maybe I could be this. I took a breath, letting myself feel a small flicker of pride.

"I think I'll take it," I said, my voice steady, even if my heart was still unsure.

Afterward, we stopped for lunch at a French restaurant, the warm atmosphere and the hum of conversation offering a brief respite from the weight of my thoughts. It was a simple moment, but for once, I didn't feel completely lost in my own head.

The world didn't feel so heavy when I could find small moments of peace. And for the first time in a while, I believed that maybe—just maybe—I was healing.

💖💖

The morning had started like any other, but it quickly turned unrecognizable. I stood in Frida's kitchen, the scent of cinnamon and coffee swirling in the air, when the news report sliced through the quiet. Our city, our lives, were unraveling. I had always known danger was lurking somewhere in the distance, but now it was right in front of us.

The report spoke of fatalities, curfews enforced on certain cities in the state, and rising fear spreading like wildfire. Each passing word made the walls of my world feel as though they were closing in on me. I could feel the weight of it pressing down, suffocating me.

It wasn't just the lives lost that struck me—it was the gut-wrenching realization that I could have been one of them. I should have been one of them. My family, the people I loved most, could easily be caught in the growing darkness. My parents, Donald's distance, Sapphire's safety—it all played in my mind like a broken record. What would happen to them if this nightmare came for us?

Frida left to make a call, and I was left alone with my thoughts. I turned inward, spinning in circles of indecision and dread. Nothing felt certain. The fear was all-consuming, and no avenue of escape seemed clear.

The silence in the kitchen stretched, thick and suffocating. I tried to collect my thoughts, but everything felt disjointed. The weight of the world pressed harder with every passing second. The fear, the dread, the growing uncertainty of what tomorrow might bring—all of it felt overwhelming.

Frida's footsteps echoed as she returned. There was a quiet urgency in her movements, a determination in her eyes. Without saying much, she mentioned we should head to the hotel. I didn't question it. The idea of leaving, of getting away from the oppressive silence of the house, felt like the only thing I could do. I nodded, too tired to argue, too lost in fear to resist.

I wasn't sure why I agreed to go, but I knew I needed to leave. To step away from the weight of it all. It was the first time in a long while I was afraid to be alone with my thoughts.

📞📞

I moved through the opulent lobby of the Astaire Hotel, my footsteps muted by the plush carpet. The air was thick with the scent of polished wood and expensive perfume, but it all felt distant, unimportant. The luxury around me only amplified the fear that gnawed at my insides. My mind wasn't on the gleaming chandeliers or the gilded mirrors; it was consumed by the thought of my family—my father, my mother, Donald—and how easily they could be swept into the chaos.

Frida, usually the one to command attention, seemed smaller today. Her sharp confidence was replaced by a quiet unease, her eyes scanning everything with a careful, guarded intensity. Charles stood by the entrance to the event room, his tailored navy suit and salt-and-pepper hair a sharp contrast to the tension in his posture. I could see the disappointment in his eyes, but it felt like a distant, irrelevant thing.

Inside the event room, everything was perfect—crystal chandeliers, pristine white linens, delicate floral arrangements. But none of it mattered. The beauty of it all felt hollow, empty, as I was consumed with fear for my family. The fundraiser, the curfew, the growing sense of doom—it was all unraveling. I could feel the weight of it pressing on me, but I couldn't escape it.

Charles greeted us, but his words faded into the background, drowned out by the buzzing in my ears. The fundraiser was postponed. I saw the quick, tense exchange between him and Frida, the unspoken understanding that this wasn't just about an event anymore—it was about survival. I couldn't focus on their disappointment, or even on the luxury surrounding me. All I could think about was how to protect the people I loved.

Needing space, I stepped away, wandering down the quiet corridors of the hotel. The soft carpet underfoot did nothing to ground me. The abstract art on the walls was just noise, the colors and shapes nothing more than distractions. I felt disconnected from everything around me, lost in the fear that gripped my chest, knowing that nothing—especially this luxury—mattered as much as my family's safety.

I dialed Donald's number, my hands shaking despite my attempt to stay composed.

This call... I'd hoped it would bring us closer, maybe offer some reassurance, but deep down, I knew better. The line clicked, and his voice came through, familiar but distant.

His words should have comforted me, but they fell flat, echoing in my mind like an empty promise. He told me about Mama's insulin pump arriving in two days, how Papa had resigned from his job at the warehouse and was struggling to find another job. Sapphire was still having trouble at school, but she was okay otherwise.

I bit my lip, hesitant. "What about you? How are you holding up?"

He paused for a second before replying, his voice short, strained. "I'm okay. Everything's fine."

His response hit me harder than I expected. I knew what he wasn't saying—the weight he was carrying alone. I wanted to ask more, to offer more, but his tone made it clear he wasn't interested in going deeper. So, I shifted the conversation.

"I can send more money," I said, trying to keep things practical. "With Papa out of work..."

"No need," Donald interrupted quickly. "The money you gave us has been enough for now. We're okay."

Okay. His word echoed in my head, but it didn't bring the relief I wanted. It felt more like a reassurance he was trying to convince himself of rather than me. I wanted to ask more, to push for the truth behind that 'okay,' but I didn't. Instead, I tried to steer the conversation elsewhere.

"Have you heard about the curfew?" I asked, not fully believing the question even as I asked it. The unease gnawing at me wasn't about the curfew, but about everything else.

"Yeah, we'll be fine," he said. "Don't worry about it."

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to take him at his word, to feel some sense of peace, but the feeling in my chest wouldn't settle. Something felt off, and no matter how many times I told myself it would be fine, I couldn't shake it.

"Alright," I said, my voice faltering a little. "Take care of yourself, Donnie."

"Will do," he replied, but it was flat, devoid of warmth.

The call ended abruptly, and I was left staring at the screen, feeling the weight of his silence more than the conversation itself. His words hadn't reassured me, hadn't filled the emptiness I'd hoped for. Instead, I was left with the quiet, nagging feeling that the distance between us was only growing.

A flashback hit me like a wave, uninvited and relentless. I saw the dim neon glow, heard the pounding bass that vibrated through the floor. The air was thick with smoke and the sharp scent of cheap cologne. My heels clicked against the stage, each step a reminder that I wasn't there for myself.

I moved mechanically, my body swaying in rhythm to the music, but my mind was elsewhere, detached. Every touch from the men who crowded the stage felt like a violation, but I pushed it down, ignoring the disgust crawling beneath my skin. I didn't dance for them. I danced for survival, for a chance to keep my family afloat. For all the things we couldn't afford.

Each night blurred into the next, each dollar earned felt emptier than the last. The bills never made me feel freer. They just reminded me of everything I was losing—my dignity, my self-worth, and, worst of all, the love of my family.

I felt the weight of my choices—the guilt and shame that came with each touch, each leering gaze. But I did it. I did it for them. To keep them safe. To keep the broken pieces of my family together.

The sharp sting of guilt would always follow, especially in moments like this, when I longed to be with them, but the distance between us was insurmountable. I had lost more than I could count, but the truth was, I hadn't regretted it then. I had done it all for them, even if it meant losing myself in the process.

My vision had become unfocused on the abstract painting before me. The vibrant colors and shapes should have meant something, but they blurred into insignificance. The soft carpet beneath my feet felt like clouds, but instead of comfort, it only deepened the emptiness.

Life moved around me, but I wasn't part of it. I was just watching.

Then, a voice sliced through the silence, snapping me back to reality.

"Dr. Nielson."

I spun around, my heart racing. It was rare for someone to address me that way—like they were waiting for me, like they knew me already. My eyes landed on the man standing just a few feet away, and something about him made everything else in the hotel fade into the background.

He was handsome—there was no denying that. His dirty blond hair fell effortlessly across his forehead. But it wasn't just his looks. It was the way his green eyes seemed to hold a glint of mystery, like there was more to him than what met the eye.

His smile was charming, the kind that made you think he was in on some secret you weren't privy to. He was dressed in a tailored suit that fit him perfectly, the fabric hugging his frame just enough to be stylish without looking forced.

"Good afternoon," he said, his voice smooth. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

I blinked, momentarily stunned by the suddenness of his presence, the unexpected familiarity in his tone. The words didn't feel right, like they were meant for someone else, someone he already knew. "How do you know my name?"

His smile widened, slow and knowing. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."

The noise of the hotel seemed to fade as his eyes locked onto mine, drawing me in.

He extended his hand. "Call me Alex."

I hesitated, then took it. As his grip tightened, I wondered what I had just walked into—and why, despite everything, it felt like I couldn't walk away.