Page 13 of Twisted Love

I don’t even look at her. “No,” I say flatly, taking a seat at the head of the table.

With a quiet nod, she retreats, leaving me alone in the vast room. I stare out into the garden, my mind blank until the food arrives.

The silence stretches as I pick at the food, the clink of silverware against fine China the only sound. It is a feast by anyone’s standards—roast shank of lamb, buttery vegetables, fresh-baked rolls, some sort of lime and chocolate dessert, fruit, cheese—but I barely taste any of it. My mind is elsewhere, circling back to her, to the painting, to the way this house feels more like a stage than a home.

Somewhere upstairs, she’s probably unpacking, settling in, trying to figure out what the hell I’m playing at. Let her wonder. This is what she wanted, isn’t it? To be the mistress of a grand estate, to live the life of luxury she’d always dreamed of?

I stab a piece of lamb with my fork, the force of it scraping against the plate. Let her have it. I’ll make sure she enjoys every second of it.

When Nora is gone, I sit back alone with a glass of brandy and the echoes of my own thoughts. I’ve won. This is what winning feels like. This is how I get even.

And yet, for the briefest moment, I wonder if anyone would really call this winning.

CHAPTER8

RAVEN

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OpQFFLBMEPI

-just give me a reason-

I shut my eyes and the glow of the laptop burns through my closed eyelids. Exhaustion zaps away all my energy, and hunger gnaws at my stomach. I should have eaten something earlier when Nora offered, but I stupidly refused, and then the thought of roaming the house and possibly running into him was too much to contemplate. I open my eyes and stare at the open manuscript I’ve been tasked with editing. It’s a romance novel, the kind of story I used to dream of writing when I was younger.

Back then, it had all been so simple. Love wasn’t a plot device in a novel I was editing; it was something I truly believed in, something I thought was real because I had felt it. I wrote from the heart. The words flowed easily—what I knew was raw and consuming. It left me breathless and I simply transferred it onto the pages of my novel.

But after he left, I couldn’t bring myself to write a single word.

So I’m editing now. I fix other people’s stories, trying to piece together happy endings when I know they don’t exist. It’s ironic, in a way. Here I am, making sense of fictional love while my own life is a mess I can’t untangle.

I walk to the door, open it, and listen. I hear the faint sounds from far away, a chair scraping against the floor. I wonder if I’ll get to eat tonight. He, on the other hand, is eating, I’m sure. I know he’s back, I can feel his presence, and yet the distance between us feels insurmountable.

Should I stay here, invisible and hungry, or go down and face him? The minutes stretch. I hear the faint sound of the front door opening and closing. Then silence. This is stupid. I tell myself to shower, freshen up and go downstairs, but I can’t move. My body feels frozen.

Suddenly, the sound of his voice, low and indistinct, floats up from somewhere below. Instantly, it pulls me from my thoughts and makes me recoil back into my room. I shut the door quickly and lean against it. He’s here. Somewhere in this house, moving through it like a shadow.

I feel like a trapped animal.

I want to cry with sadness and frustration, but I don’t. I refuse to cry. Anger rises instead, hot and fierce, because it’s the only way I know how to protect myself from the ache in my chest. If I’m angry, I can win—whatever “winning” means in this strange, painful battle we’re in.

The floor creaks faintly in the corridor outside, and my heart leaps into my throat. I rush to the bed and sit in front of my laptop. I don’t know what to do, but I know one thing: whatever this is between us, it’s far from over.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, frozen in mid-gesture, the words on the screen a meaningless blur. I tell myself to relax, to push through the fog of emotions clinging to me like smoke, but it’s impossible when I hear his footsteps getting closer and closer.

They’re deliberate, unhurried, and they grow louder with each passing second. My breath hitches as I instinctively hold it. The knock that follows is soft, but before I can decide whether to call out or stay silent, the door swings open.

I freeze.

He steps in. The door closes behind him with a quiet click, and I can’t stop staring. Earl leans against the doorframe, his suit jacket unbuttoned, his collar open to reveal the taut line of his neck. His hair is slightly mussed, as though he’s run his fingers through it a good few times. The faintest shadow of stubble lines his jaw, and despite myself, I feel the air leave my lungs sharply.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there, his eyes fixed on me. There’s no warmth in his gaze, no hint of the man I used to know. What I see now makes my stomach twist—it’s a sharp, searing dislike that I can’t contest. It burns.

I sit up straighter, the sudden movement making my oversized hoodie and pleated skirt shift against my skin. I feel exposed, vulnerable, even though I know I’m completely covered. I wish I was wearing something else, something that didn’t make me feel so small under his scrutiny. But it’s too late for that now.

The silence stretches between us, thick and tense. My mouth opens, but no words come out. What am I supposed to say? What could I possibly say to the man who walked away from me without any explanation and then returned with this... animosity?

He steps closer, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator sizing up its prey. The air in the room feels heavier with every inch he closes between us. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears as I struggle to keep my breathing steady.

“I wasn’t expecting a visit,” I finally gasp. It’s the only thing I can think of to break the unbearable tension.

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