Florence hadn't planned to leave her mother's house early. She lingered after lunch, fussed with the teacups, listened to her mother talk about the stubborn neighbor's dog who always barked at the postman. It was comfort, familiar, the rhythm of home. But as the sun started its slow drop toward evening, Florence felt an ache in her chest, a tug she couldn't explain. Maybe she missed her boyfriend, Henry. Maybe she just wanted to do something sweet, remind him she was still the girl who believed in them.
She kissed her mother's cheek, promised to come again soon, and stepped into the crisp air. The city stretched before her, golden light bleeding across the streets, the hum of traffic softened by the hour. On impulse, she ducked into a corner café. The glass display gleamed with rows of delicate pastries, chocolate croissants, almond tarts, glossy fruit pies. He always liked the strawberry ones, though he'd never admit it outright. She remembered the way he'd eaten one once, licking powdered sugar from his thumb, teasing her that she watched him too closely.
She bought two, tucked them carefully into a white paper bag, and carried them like an offering. Her chest felt lighter. Tonight would be different. They'd been strained lately, she knew it, felt it, but maybe all they needed me was a reminder of what they were. A small sweetness after a long week.
Her heels clicked against the pavement as she walked, the cool air tangling through her hair. She replayed their last conversation in her mind. He had been distracted, eyes darting to his phone, words flat. She'd wanted to press, to ask if something was wrong, but her best friend, Gwen had warned her not to "cling too tightly." Gwen always had advice. Sometimes it stung, but Florence trusted her. She always had.
By the time she reached the apartment complex, twilight had settled like a bruise across the sky. The building loomed familiar and warm, windows glowing against the darkening blue. She shifted the pastries in her hands, already imagining his surprised smile, maybe even a laugh, the tension easing between them for just one night.
She climbed the stairs quickly, her breath a little fast from the weight of her own anticipation. The hallway smelled faintly of floor polish and someone's cooking, garlic, maybe onion. She slid her key into the lock, heart quickening.
The door opened easily.
And then, something. A pause.
The apartment was too quiet. No television hum, no music. Just the faintest sound, like fabric rustling. She frowned, closing the door softly behind her. The paper bag crinkled in her grip.
"Babe?" she called, voice light, testing.
Silence.
She moved forward, setting the bag on the counter. Her eyes scanned the room. His jacket wasn't on the hook. Two wine glasses sat on the table, half-drunk, red clinging to the crystal. Her stomach tightened. He wasn't much of a wine drinker. Not unless…
Her pulse thudded in her ears.
And then she saw it, careless, blatant. The collar of his white dress shirt, tossed across the back of the couch. Smudged with a streak of lipstick, deep red, too vivid to mistake for anything else.
Her breath caught. Not hers. She never wore red.
Voices drifted from the bedroom. Low, intimate. A laugh she knew too well.
Gwen.
Florence's legs went cold. She stood rooted, every thought crashing against the next, disbelief battling the truth in front of her eyes. She wanted to scream, to tear open the door, to demand why, but her throat locked. Air wouldn't come.
The world tilted.
She stumbled back, her hand knocking the pastry bag to the floor. The box split open, delicate tarts smeared against linoleum, crushed under her heel as she fled.
The door slammed behind her, and suddenly she was running. Down the hall, down the stairs, into the city night where neon bled across wet pavement. Her chest heaved, tears burned, everything a blur. She didn't know where she was going, only that she couldn't breathe inside those walls, couldn't hear their voices, couldn't see the lipstick stain again.
The streets swallowed her.
She ran until her lungs screamed, until the sharp ache in her side forced her to stop. She pressed a hand against the brick wall of some unfamiliar street corner, gasping, shivering. Her heart was shards inside her chest. Gwen. The name was a poison on her tongue. Her best friend. Her anchor. Her everything.
She bent forward, pressing her fist to her mouth, muffling the sound that wanted to break out. A sob, raw and jagged.
She couldn't go back. She couldn't go home.
She walked, aimless, eyes blurred with tears, past bars spilling laughter, past couples holding hands, past strangers who didn't care that her world had just been shattered. The city kept moving while she fell apart.
And then, headlights cut across the street. A black car slowed, sleek, predatory. The engine purred, expensive and dangerous.
Florence froze, the hair on her arms lifting. The passenger window rolled down, and for a moment all she saw was shadow. Then a man leaned forward, the light catching sharp angles, dark eyes that seemed to see straight through her.
"Lost?" The word was low, smooth, wrapped in something that felt like a warning.
Florence's heart stumbled in her chest. She froze. Something in his gaze rooted her to the spot. He was a stranger, but not the kind
you could pass by. He had a presence, a dangerous presence.