CHAPTER TWO
Kamila walked toward the building she called home. Outside, leaning against the cracked wall, stood her neighbor Josh—cigarette in one hand, a cheap bottle of whiskey in the other. As usual.
She glanced at him with open disgust. Everyone in the building knew what happened when Josh drank too much—which was almost every night. A slammed door. Shouted curses. And then his wife's muffled cries.
She quickened her pace, hoping he wouldn't notice her.
"It's all your fault," he slurred suddenly.
She ignored him. She'd been hearing that same drunken accusation for all five years she'd lived here. But his bitterness had worsened over time. Two years ago, she'd tried to help him—only for him to smash a beer bottle against her head. She'd spent six months in a coma, drained her savings to pay the hospital bills, and he hadn't even visited once.
She never forgave him.
Kamila reached her apartment door, digging into her bag for the keys—then froze.
The door was ajar.
A chill ran down her spine. Slowly, cautiously, she stepped inside. Everything looked as it always did: clothes scattered on the floor, a worn bed shoved into the corner, a small table, a cooking gas burner, and walls with peeling brown paint. The faint sweet scent of her perfume still lingered in the air.
No one was in sight. She exhaled.
"I'm getting paranoid," she muttered, turning to close the door.
That's when she saw him.
A man in a dark suit, sitting on her bed.
Her heartbeat stuttered. Her body locked in fear. And then, mercifully, the darkness took her.
Maybe it's better this way, she thought faintly. At least I won't have to keep living this miserable life. Maybe in the next one…I'll fall in love.
Everything went black.
---
When she woke the next morning, her head throbbed. Blinking against the blur, she realized she was still in her apartment.
"What happened? I remember… getting into a cab last night…"
Pain jolted through her skull, and the memory came rushing back—the man in the suit.
The door creaked. He stepped inside, holding a small polythene bag as if he'd been shopping.
Instinct kicked in. She jumped to her feet, ready to fight.
"What's wrong with you?" he asked, startled.
"What's wrong with me?" she shot back, voice trembling but fierce. "What the hell were you doing in my house last night? Was it Fredrick who sent you?"
"Fredrick? No! Who the hell is Fredrick?"
"Then what do you want?"
"I'm your fiancé," he said simply. "John."
Kamila stared at him, stunned. "Wait… what?"
He sighed, clearly exasperated. "Why don't you get cleaned up first? Then we can talk."
She hesitated, still wary, but finally nodded. "Fine. Wait outside. I'll call you when I'm done."
John gave a soft nod and stepped out, closing the door gently.
Kamila collapsed back on the bed, confusion swirling in her head. Questions. Doubts. A gnawing sense of dread.
Ten minutes later, dressed and composed, she opened her door. John was still there.
"Let's go eat," he said. "Then we'll talk."
She followed him to Press and Grind, a small café with a warm, nutty aroma drifting from behind the counter. They took white plastic chairs, and a server brought menus.
"I'll have a colada and two bagels," Kamila said.
"I'll have the same," John added.
As soon as the server left, Kamila leaned forward. "We're here. Start talking."
John raised his hands in surrender. "Alright, just… calm down."
"Calm down?" Her voice sharpened. "You broke into my apartment, claimed you're my fiancé, and you think I should calm down? Are you insane?"
"Okay, fine. I'll explain. Your father and mine were business partners before your dad died. They agreed to have us engaged until we were old enough to marry and take over the business together."
Kamila let out a bitter laugh. "My dad didn't even own a shop, let alone a business. This is bullshit."
"I'm not lying. Your father owned more than half the shares in Odell Industries."
She shot to her feet. "You think I'm a fool? Odell Industries—the company I've been trying to get a cleaning job in—is my father's?"
"Yes," he said firmly.
"Listen to me." Her voice dropped into a dangerous calm. "If I ever see you near my apartment again, I'll go straight to the police and file a sexual harassment complaint. Let's see how long you last in jail."
She turned on her heel and stormed out.
John watched her go, murmuring under his breath, "She's just like her father."
The server returned, placing the drinks and bagels on the table. "Sir, here are your orders."
"Don't worry about it," John said, leaving a few bills on the table before walking out.