A D E L I N E

It’s been a week.

Seven days without a single message. Seven days without flowers appearing in my apartment. Seven days without that eerie, unsettling feeling of someone watching me.

I should be relieved.

I am relieved.

That’s what I keep telling myself.

But the truth?

The silence haunts me.

I can still feel it—the weight of those roses surrounding me, their scent so strong it clung to my skin for hours after I threw them away. I can still see the note, crisp and deliberate, his words burned into my memory like an unshakable whisper.

"I’ll be seeing you soon, little writer."

I remember how my chest tightened when I read it, how my pulse skittered in something that wasn’t just fear.

And then... nothing.

No more notes. No more signs. No more him.

It’s what I wanted, right?

I should be able to breathe now.

But instead, I can’t stop thinking about him.

My fingers tighten around the mug in my hands as I sit curled up on the couch, staring at nothing. The TV hums in the background, some rerun I’m not paying attention to. My apartment is quiet, but my mind isn’t.

Because this isn’t right.

Something about his absence feels wrong.

I should be grateful that he lost interest. That he moved on. But a part of me—a twisted, buried part of me—wonders if that’s really what happened.

Or if he’s just waiting.

I rub at my arms, trying to shake the chill that creeps up my spine. It’s late, but I don’t want to sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see those roses. I see the way the petals scattered across my floor, like drops of blood.

I see the shadows shifting outside my window.

I see him.

And worst of all?

I wonder when I’ll see him again.

I needed to do something.

Anything.

Sitting here, drowning in my thoughts, wasn’t helping. If anything, it was making it worse. Every quiet second stretched too long, wrapping around me like a noose. The walls of my apartment felt smaller, suffocating, like I wasn’t alone—even though I was.

I shifted on the couch, exhaling slowly, trying to shake the feeling off. Maybe I should write. Get my mind lost in something other than this… whatever the hell this was.

But the moment I reached for my laptop, my phone rang.

The sharp sound made me jump, my heart stuttering before I saw the name flashing on the screen.

Daya.

I sighed, my body sinking back into the couch as I answered. “Hey.”

"Get up, bitch. We’re going out."

I frowned, my grip on the phone tightening. "What?"

"You heard me. Get your ass up and put on something slutty. It’s girls’ night, and you have no choice."

I hesitated. "Daya, I—"

"Nope. Don’t even try. You’ve been locked in that apartment all week. I swear, if I show up and you’re still in your sad writer pajamas, I’ll actually kill you."

I exhaled through my nose, dragging a hand through my hair. I wasn’t in the mood to go out, let alone to a club, but maybe… maybe she was right. Maybe I needed this. A distraction. A way to shake off the last week.

Still, my stomach twisted at the thought.

"You there?" Daya’s voice cut through my hesitation.

I swallowed. "Yeah. Just…"

"No thinking, Addie. Just get ready. I’ll be there in thirty."

Before I could protest, she hung up.

I stared at the screen, chewing on the inside of my cheek.

A night out. Loud music. Alcohol. A packed dance floor.

It sounded exhausting.

But it also sounded… better than being here. Better than letting my thoughts chew me up from the inside out.

With a deep breath, I pushed myself off the couch and headed for my bedroom.

I moved on autopilot, rifling through my closet until I found something suitable. A black bodycon dress, hugging my curves in all the right places, the hem stopping just above my knees. Classy, but enough to make a statement.

I slipped it on, the cool fabric molding to my skin, and caught my reflection in the mirror.

My face was still tired, my eyes slightly hollow from the restless nights, but this was good. This was necessary.

I needed to forget. Even if it was just for a few hours.

And if there was anything Daya was good at, it was making me forget.

---

The bass thrummed beneath my feet, a steady pulse that vibrated up my legs and settled in my chest. The club was packed—bodies swaying, lights flickering in hypnotic patterns of red and blue, the air thick with the scent of liquor, sweat, and expensive cologne.

I wasn’t drunk. Not yet. But the alcohol was warm in my veins, loosening the tension I’d carried for days.

Daya and I moved together, laughing as we lost ourselves in the music. It felt good—God, it felt good—to finally let go, to drown in the moment and not in the weight of my own thoughts.

No roses. No notes. No suffocating silence stretching over my life like a dark omen.

Just this.

And then I felt it.

Not fear. Not danger. But awareness.

Someone was watching me.

I turned my head, pulse quickening, eyes scanning through the shifting crowd—until I found him.

Tall. Sharp features. Effortlessly handsome.

Dark hair tousled in a way that seemed both careless and deliberate. A crisp suit worn with an ease that made it clear—he wasn’t trying too hard, and he didn’t need to.

The kind of man who knew exactly who he was.

His gaze met mine across the dance floor, unwavering, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Unapologetic interest.

I didn’t look away.

I kept dancing, keeping his gaze, letting him watch.

His smirk deepened, and then—he moved.

Cutting through the crowd, he walked toward me like he already knew I wouldn’t stop him. And he was right.

Stopping just in front of me, he didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. He simply took.

One hand slid to my waist—light, teasing, not demanding. Waiting.

I let him.

Our bodies moved in sync, my hands resting against his chest, his grip firm enough to feel but not restrain. He was confident but not overbearing, his movements smooth, practiced.

His lips brushed near my ear, his voice a deep murmur over the music.

"Mind if I steal you for a drink?"

I tilted my head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes gleamed with amusement, expectation.

I should say no.

But something in me—the part that wanted to forget, to drown in something other than the silence left in the wake of him—said yes.

I nodded once.

His smirk widened.

"Come on, beautiful."

He took my hand, his grip warm and sure as he led me through the crowd. I didn’t resist. I should have, but I didn’t. Maybe it was the alcohol loosening my inhibitions. Maybe it was the way his touch anchored me, pulling me out of my own head for the first time in days.

Or maybe it was just the need to feel something real.

The bar was dimly lit, neon lights flickering against the mirrored shelves stocked with expensive liquor. He gestured for the bartender, ordering for both of us like he already knew what I’d want.

A whiskey neat slid in front of him. A vodka cranberry for me.

I lifted a brow. “Confident, aren’t you?”

He chuckled, bringing the glass to his lips. “You looked like the type.”

I took a slow sip, the tart sweetness coating my tongue. “And what type is that?”

His eyes darkened, scanning me with quiet intensity. “The kind that wants to forget.”

The words sent a shiver down my spine.

I swallowed, setting my glass down with careful precision. “And what about you? What are you trying to forget?”

His smirk was slow, calculated. “Who says I am?”

I didn’t answer. Just studied him, the way he held himself—casual but controlled, as if he was used to being in charge.

A businessman? A player? Someone who knew exactly how to charm his way into a woman’s night and out of her morning?

None of that mattered.

Because right now, I didn’t care who he was.

I tipped my glass back, draining the rest of my drink before setting it down.

He watched me for a moment, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass before he spoke. “You got a name, beautiful?”

I hesitated, then lifted my chin slightly. “Adeline.”

A slow smirk curved his lips. “Adeline,” he repeated, like he was tasting the name on his tongue. “Nice to meet you.”

I raised a brow. “And you?”

He leaned in just enough to lower his voice. “Archibald Talaverra.”

I arched a brow. “That’s a mouthful.”

His smirk deepened. “Then just call me Arch.”

He stood, extending a hand. “Dance with me.”

It wasn’t a question.

I let him lead me back onto the dance floor, the music thrumming around us, a steady beat that sank into my bones.

His hands found my waist, pulling me close—not too close, but enough. Enough that I felt the heat of his body, the slow, deliberate way he moved. I followed, my hands resting on his shoulders as we swayed in sync, the tension curling between us like a whispered promise.

His fingers flexed slightly, pressing into my sides. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?”

I tilted my head, my breath brushing his cheek. “You have no idea.”

He chuckled, low and deep, before his lips grazed my ear. “Let’s get out of here.”

I didn’t think.

I just nodded.

---

The door to my apartment clicked shut behind us, but the second it did, Arch was on me.

His hands were firm, demanding, as he pressed me back against the door, his body caging mine in. His breath was warm against my lips, his scent—a mix of expensive cologne and whiskey—wrapping around me like silk.

I barely had time to process before his mouth was on mine.

Soft. But not hesitant.

His lips moved against mine with purpose, a slow burn igniting in my veins. His fingers skated down my sides, over the curves of my hips, before gripping my waist and pulling me against him.

I exhaled sharply, my hands flying up, fingers threading into his thick, dark hair. I didn’t stop him. I didn’t want to.

The kiss deepened.

His tongue slid against mine, teasing, exploring, owning.

A low sound rumbled in his throat—satisfaction—as his hands moved lower, gripping the backs of my thighs. In one smooth motion, he lifted me, and instinct took over.

My legs wrapped around his waist, my back pressing harder against the door as his hips pushed against mine.

Heat. Friction. A need I hadn’t felt in so damn long.

I gasped into his mouth as he rolled his hips, letting me feel exactly how much he wanted this. Wanted me.

His lips trailed down—my jaw, my throat, the curve of my shoulder—before his teeth scraped against my skin. A delicious shudder coursed through me.

“Fuck, you’re addictive,” he murmured, voice rough as his hands explored, sliding beneath my dress, fingers skimming along the inside of my thighs.

I shivered, my nails digging into his shoulders.

He chuckled.

“Sensitive, aren’t you?”

I barely had time to respond before his fingers brushed against the lace of my underwear, pressing just enough to make my breath hitch.

He grinned against my throat. “You’re already so wet for me, beautiful.”

A sharp exhale. “Shut up.”

His dark chuckle vibrated against my skin. “Make me.”

I pulled his mouth back to mine, swallowing his smirk as he slid his hand into my panties, fingers slipping through the slickness between my thighs.

Fuck.

A slow, teasing stroke.

Then another.

(A/n: Oh no... where is Zade guys?)

My head fell back against the door, lips parting, a soft moan escaping before I could stop it.

Arch’s lips curled against my skin. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Let me hear you.”

Two fingers pressed against my entrance, circling, teasing, before he pushed them inside.

(Kahi Zade ko koi aur Adeline toh nhi mil gyi?)

My breath caught—a sharp inhale, a shock of pleasure.

His fingers moved with precision, curling inside me, finding the spot that made my thighs tremble around his waist.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

His mouth found mine again, swallowing my moans as he pumped his fingers deeper, his thumb pressing against my clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that sent sparks of heat through my body.

My nails raked down his back, my hips moving with his hand, chasing the high that built too fast, too intense.

I was close.

So fucking close.

His teeth grazed my bottom lip as he whispered, “Come for me, Beautiful.”

And I did.

My body arched, pleasure crashing over me in waves, my moan muffled by his mouth as he kept moving, drawing out every last tremor until my body sagged against him.

Breathless. Dazed. Boneless.

He pulled his fingers out slowly, smirking as he brought them to his lips, sucking them clean with a look that made heat pool between my legs all over again.

But before he could reach for his belt—before he could push this further—his phone rang.

The sound cut through the haze, sharp and insistent.

Arch exhaled harshly, muttering a curse before reaching into his pocket. He glanced at the screen, and his entire expression shifted.

Tension. Annoyance. Something unreadable.

His jaw ticked before he answered.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice clipped. A pause. His eyes flicked to me. “Now?”

Another pause.

Then, with a sigh, he hung up.

His hands slid down to my thighs, gently easing me back onto the floor.

I blinked up at him, still trying to catch my breath. Still trying to process.

But his expression was unreadable.

“I have to go,” he murmured.

I frowned. “What?”

“Something came up.” He stepped back, running a hand through his hair, looking almost reluctant. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

I stared at him for a second, my body still buzzing, my head spinning.

Then, before I could say anything, he pressed a quick kiss to my lips, turned, and walked out the door.

Leaving me breathless. Confused. And alone.

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