I get checked out by the paramedics. Given the all clear. They bandage my cut- it's nothing serious, give me some painkillers and water. But still, I don't feel alright. My heart won't stop beating and my breathing is still heavy. Although the majority of the citizens of the building that once was my home have disappeared to elsewhere, there are still a few people milling about. Some police officers have arrived on the scene and I see a man in uniform -a detective maybe?- hastily scribbling in a notepad. After about twenty minutes, I realise that I never sent Rafe my address. Swiping open my phone I slowly start to tap out a message to him -it takes me nearly a whole minute to do so not only due to the slickness of the screen but also the dense fog that has taken residence in my mind- but he arrives before I can even press send.

A sleek black Aston Martin DB9 cruises languidly down the street, stopping a few metres from where I sit, huddled against the cold and the rain. Somebody has lent me a cheap green umbrella which whips wildly in the wind, barely doing anything to stop the piercing drizzle, snapping shut at inopportune moments and ballooning open after a delay of several seconds. I wrestle with the umbrella, manage to shut the unfortunate thing, and prop it against a wall. It's a pathetic accessory, battered, broken. It will simply be cast away. I throw it a forlorn look as I start to walk towards the car. I know how it feels to be unwanted.

The car slows to a stop and Rafe jumps out. He's wearing a very expensive looking khaki green bomber jacket. Tailored, probably. And for some unknown reason I cringe a little as the rain pelts the silky material when he jogs over to me.

"Rafe..." I start, but he embraces me, pulling me into his arms, and my words are muffled by his shoulder. I don't know what I was going to say anyway. And yet now, thoughts are rushing through my head. Emotions, like surprise. Why is Rafe hugging me? Even in my delirious, dizzy state, I am confused. Doesn't Rafe hate me? We stay there for a minute, locked in the hug and I. don't. want. to. leave. I breathe in his familiar musky cologne. Squeeze my eyes shut and let the stress drain from my body.

He feels familiar. Safe. And yet the tears still fall. Splashing down my face. And my breath hitches slightly. Hiccups. But Rafe doesn't complain. He strokes the back of my head, entangling one hand in my smoky damp hair, while the other draws comforting circles on my back.

"Shhhh. Angel, it's okay. You're alright."

There is the heavy rumble of thunder, a sudden flash of lightning that draws us apart, and Rafe stands there, not caring about the rain. He has a Burberry blanket with him. The warm wool cashmere is draped over his arm, and as we pull apart he unfolds it. Lets the famous tartan pattern fall from a neatly folded parcel to extend to a rectangle of its full length. I reach out to touch the soft fringe of the shawl and Rafe stares at me, a furrow creasing his brow. He takes both ends of the blanket. Wraps it tight around my shoulders. Gently pushes a stray tendril of hair behind my ear. Tugs me toward the car. And bundles me in. He collects my things, places then in the back. Squeezes my shoulder gently before he puts the car in drive and we leave the burning remnants of my past life behind.

The rain lashes at the windscreen and the car is quiet save for the sound of the storm outside. I think Rafe talks. Peppering me with questions. But I stare straight ahead, don't say a word. The words don't connect in my mind anyway; I have no idea what he is saying. And eventually, I see his mouth stop moving. I see him take a deep breath, sighing sadly, and he casts me yet another concerned look. I'm so tried that I barely even notice when we arrive. My mind vaguely registers a name: The Henley. Of course Rafe lives in the most exclusive and expensive hotel.

But other than that, I don't remember much. Rafe murmurs to me when we're in the lift, I think that he's asking if I'm alright- I see the shape his lips make, oh-kay ?, and I nod in the affirmative. But I am really not. Peculiarly, the hot shower I have does nothing to clear the fog that has once again taken residence in my brain, and barely ameliorates the numbing coldness that has settled within me. After I am dressed in navy blue satin silk pyjamas -I glance at the label, immediately forgetting the designer name- I exit the bathroom to find Rafe pacing anxiously. He speaks. I still don't know what he says. I feel like I'm underwater. Everything feels so distant. I shut my eyes tight, as if to block out the world and Rafe understands. He leads me to a room. A bedroom. Four poster bed. Sheets that are so smooth, so soft. Rafe murmurs to me again as I lie in the bed. He brushes away a tear from my cheek with his thumb and kisses my forehead. Switches off the warm yellow glow of the light and I am shrouded in darkness. There are no dreams tonight. Only oblivion. And I let the inky blackness of the night take me away.

*

I am awoken by sunlight.

Bright resplendent tendrils reach out to caress my cheek and I yawn, lazily, carelessly, before the events of the last night come crashing down upon me. Oh my god. A blur of thoughts dart rapidly across my mind, spiralling about in my brain. My house has burnt down. I am homeless. I nearly died. Rafe Archer helped me. I'm going to be late for school.

The last thought is so bizarre that it kinda snaps me out of my daze. Brings me to a more important point. I am in a four poster queen-sized bed, lying on sheets of Egyptian cotton, in Rafe Archer's suite in The Henley Hotel. Ohmigosh. I must still be dreaming. But no. This is real. Reaching up to brush a tangled strand of hair behind my ear, I catch sight of the clothes I wear. Navy blue silk pyjamas. Why would Rafe have female pyjamas in his suite? Then it hits me.

Looking around the room, I notice the little things. An elaborate ivory comb on the bedside table. On the dresses lies a pair of drop pearl earrings. And although the room seems as though it has been empty for a while, the faint scent of jasmine lingers in the air. Evidently, Rafe's penthouse is a double suite. And I happen to be in a girl's room. Oh. This thought makes me feel slightly queasy. How many girls have slept in this bed before me? How many times has Rafe slept here? Before these thoughts get too convoluted, I take a minute to pause and think. The room is immaculate. Not just due to room service, I think. It's been empty for a while. And the precision of everything. It's somebody else's designated room. Why would Rafe have a separate room for the girls he brings home anyway? He sleeps with them. So whose room is this? A sister perhaps? Does Rafe have a sister?

I stretch, languidly. After the nightmare that was last night, I sank into such a deep sleep that I didn't have any dreams -or nightmares. Not that I can remember anyway. And I slept undisturbed for hours. I feel well rested but not quite totally clear headed. My glasses are on the bedside table beside me, and I put them on, ruffling my hair a little bit. I feel like a model in an editorial in Vogue with my artfully tousled bed head and designer pyjamas, lying amongst the finery of an exquisite world-class hotel. As I prop myself up onto the pillows, I catch sight of the resplendent view of the city through the wide picture window and I hastily pull myself out of bed, bare feet padding against the hardwood floor.

Astoria is always so beautiful. But up here, it is especially gorgeous. This building is so tall that the township looks tiny from this height. Like the sketches out of the maps I'd pored over in Robinson's bookshop. Looking at a methodical grid of parks and gardens and streets, the gentle flow of the traffic that weaves through the roads, the city is so lively. Bustling with life. An Italian word from my piano exam days dips into my mind. Allant.

After surveying the view once more, I breathe out a sigh and amble out of the bedroom into a small living room of sorts. There is a fireplace -electric, I think; I can't imagine Rafe sorting out a fire by himself- nestled in the middle of the room. A skylight high up lets thin slats of sunlight stream down and I follow the gleaming ribbons down to where they fall on the coffee table. A piece of paper rests right in the middle of the table, next to my satchel and my phone, as if deliberately left there for me, and I make my way over to the table, not crashing into anything for once, and pick up the piece of paper. It's a note, from Rafe.

Hey Angel.
Sleep well? I checked up on you earlier but you were practically passed out.
Hope you're feeling okay !
Feel free to order up food anytime. Just ask room service.
(By the way, Chef Renaldo's berry pancakes are brilliant- give him my name. He makes all day -and night- breakfasts for nobody else.)
And try to relax. Explore the place- there's a pool, gym, theatre, spa and god only knows what else.
Mi casa es su casa, right?
Put it all under my tab.
I'll be back around 6PM.
See you then.

P.S. Yeah no, there's no way you're going to school today. I'll talk to all your professors, collect your homework and assignments. Chill out for once, yeah?

P.P.S. Oh and the wifi password? Take a guess, Evangeline.

I can imagine Rafe's smug expression as I read through his words. That boy! He's so arrogant and yet still so... suave. But I am smiling. He knows me so well! And, uh, pancakes do sound really good. But there's no way that I'm leaving the room. I still feel a bit panicky after what happened last night. No. I'll stay here. Rafe's right. I shouldn't go to school today. What will I do all day though? There are still several hours until Rafe gets back. I reach for my phone, turn it on. Rafe must have powered it off last night so that my alarm wouldn't go off. It's so considerate of him. And kind of sweet too. For a few seconds, I ponder over what the wifi password could be. Then it hits me and I rapidly tap at the screen.

RichBoyArcher.

Correct. I smile, smugly at that. I swipe through my contacts, find my mother's phone number and press dial. As I wait for the call to connect, I run my hands over the thick sturdy sheathe of paper that the letter is written on. It's such good quality paper, with a nice creamy texture. Like artists' paper.

As I wait for the call to connect, I suddenly tip over my satchel, allowing the contents of my bag to spill out onto the coffee table. Amongst the mess lie my notebooks and my pens, interspersed with some coloured pencils which roll off the little table onto the floor like a deconstructed rainbow. I haven't properly written anything in so long, and as I pick up a grey lead, a wistfulness to let myself be caught up in a song, in the writing of some sheet music, washes over me.

I think I do what I'm going to do today, after all.