The first soft tendrils of morning sunlight crept through the tall glass windows, illuminating the pastel-yellow walls of the room in a gentle glow. Rose stirred beneath the covers, blinking groggily as the light danced across her face. Her brows furrowed in irritation as she rolled onto her side, dragging the silk duvet with her. A sigh escaped her lips as she stretched, her joints cracking from the stiffness of sleep. Her hand lazily reached out to the nightstand, fingers fumbling until they closed around her phone. The screen flared to life.
7:33 AM.
She groaned.
"God, it's morning already," she muttered, her voice hoarse. Her gaze wandered around the room, the yellow walls glaringly bright even in the early light. She winced. It was her first morning waking up in Nikolai Ivanov's penthouse, and she was already feeling nauseous—probably from the ridiculous color of the room.
"I'm going to throw up if I have to wake up in this sunshine prison one more time," she grumbled to herself.
With a resigned breath, she pushed herself up, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her bare feet sank into the plush cream carpet. She yawned and raised her arms overhead, stretching until her joints popped again. Then she stood, giving the bed a glance.
"Yeah, no way I'm making that," she muttered.
Back at Salvatore's mansion, the maids handled all of that. They even fluffed her pillows and folded her blankets with militant precision. But here? Here, there were no maids. Just a brooding vampire with cheekbones sharp enough to slice through steel and a personality carved out of stone. He looked like he drank judgment and control for breakfast.
She walked toward the en-suite bathroom, the marble tiles cool beneath her feet. The bathroom was pristine—like something out of a luxury hotel, all sleek lines, polished gold fixtures, and soft lighting. She turned on the faucet, splashed her face with cold water, brushed her teeth, and stepped into the shower.
The hot water poured over her like a waterfall, washing away the remnants of sleep and grounding her in the present. The tension in her shoulders eased slightly as the steam enveloped her. After her shower, she wrapped a thick white towel around her body, wrung the water from her hair, and padded into the closet.
Now this—this was something. The walk-in closet was massive, walls lined with shelves of designer clothing, meticulously arranged by color and season. She tapped a finger against her chin as she assessed her options.
Whoever arranged this had style. But she still didn't want to admit it might have been Nikolai. That thought alone made her stomach turn.
She chose a pair of high-waisted designer shorts and a white off-shoulder T-shirt that draped elegantly over her collarbone. The fabric was light and silky against her skin. She reached for slippers—ugh, slippers. She hated them. At Salvatore's, she used to glide around in slides. But here? Just heels, slippers, and nothing else. Not even a single pair of sneakers.
"Whoever arranged the shoes in this place clearly hates me," she muttered.
She slipped her feet into the slippers and stepped out of the room. The air outside the bedroom was noticeably cooler, scented faintly with citrus and something sharper—bleach?
She rubbed her eyes, adjusting to the brighter light of the open-plan living room. Then she froze.
There he was. Nikolai. The infamous, brooding, insufferably clean Nikolai Ivanov. And he was cleaning. Meticulously. Furiously. Like he was scrubbing away sins from the floor.
He was dressed casually in black joggers and a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms that flexed with each movement. He was wiping down the already-spotless glass coffee table like it had personally offended him.
She blinked. Was she hallucinating?
Was there a party last night she missed? Because this man was cleaning like he was preparing for a presidential visit.
"I would appreciate it if you stopped staring," he said, voice dry and clipped, not even glancing in her direction.
She snorted.
"You can show appreciation? Color me shocked. Anyway, are you expecting someone? Royalty? Secret inspection? The Queen herself?"
"No."
"Then why are you cleaning like a man possessed?"
"Because I am not a pig."
She rolled her eyes dramatically and strolled past him toward the kitchen.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Mr. Clean."
She felt parched, not hungry yet. Just needed something to cool her throat. She opened one of the sleek wooden cabinets, reached for a glass—only for it to slip through her damp fingers.
Time slowed.
The sound of shattering glass pierced the air like a gunshot.
She gasped, stumbling back a step, her heart suddenly pounding. Shards of crystal sparkled on the dark tiled floor like jagged stars.
In an instant, Nikolai appeared in the doorway, his gaze sharp.
But she didn't see him.
She wasn't in the penthouse anymore.
She was in the orphanage. Cold, damp air clung to her skin. The laughter—cruel, sharp, mocking—echoed in her ears. A plate lay shattered before her.
"Crawl on it to show you're sorry."
A teenage girl's voice. Smug. Merciless.
She remembered crawling. The pain. The blood. The way the shards embedded themselves in her knees and palms. The orphanage staff had turned away. One of them even filmed her. The sting of betrayal. The weight of humiliation.
She had cried for days. Weeks. No one cleaned her wounds. They got infected. She got a fever. And no one cared.
Her breathing hitched.
Now, staring at the broken glass on the kitchen floor, her entire body trembled.
Tears spilled from her eyes—uncontrollably, unrestrained.
Her arms wrapped tightly around her torso, her body curling into itself.
"No, no, no. I didn't mean to," she whispered, voice cracking.
Nikolai stepped closer, brow furrowed in confusion.
"Rose?"
"Don't make me crawl. Please don't," she whimpered, shaking her head violently.
Her heart pounded, slamming against her ribcage like it wanted out. Her legs went weak, and her vision blurred. She was back there. Cold floors. Bleeding hands. Laughter.
She clutched at herself as if trying to hold her soul together.
But then—
She looked up.
Her eyes locked with his.
Nikolai.
Not the orphanage staff.
Not those girls.
She blinked, grounding herself. The scent of citrus and bleach. The cool breeze from the AC. The modern kitchen.
She was in his penthouse.
Not there.
And he had seen her. This broken, messy version of her. She couldn't let him see any more.
She turned and ran.
She fled to the bedroom, slammed the door, and locked it.
She sank to the floor, her back pressed to the wood, her chest heaving.
Her trembling fingers grabbed at her hair, yanking it in desperation. She couldn't stop shaking.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as sobs wracked her frame. She rocked back and forth, her arms wrapped around her knees like a fragile barrier against the memories trying to consume her.
"Why now? Why can't it just stop?" she whispered into the silence.
But the silence offered no answers.
Only the muffled sound of her sobs filled the room.
She didn't know how long she sat there—curled into herself like a wounded animal. Minutes. Hours. The world blurred around the edges. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her vision swam with tears.
She had survived so much. Had endured more than anyone should. But here, in this luxurious penthouse, surrounded by opulence, the ghosts of her past had found her. And they didn't need permission to haunt her.
And Nikolai had seen it.
That terrified her most of all.