Rose's stomach gave a low, insistent growl that echoed through the stillness of her room. She glanced at the clock on the wall—11:04 a.m. Her stomach twisted again, and she groaned quietly to herself. She hadn't eaten anything since the previous day. Not dinner. Not a midnight snack. Nothing. The last thing she had consumed was that miserable tension-filled conversation with Nikolai, and that wasn't exactly nutritious.
She pushed herself off the bed with a tired huff, her limbs heavy, not just from hunger but from the weight of her thoughts. The oversized sweater she had thrown on earlier was slightly slipping off one shoulder, and her black leggings clung to her legs as she padded across the floor. The wooden planks beneath her feet were cold, making her shiver slightly.
Stepping out into the hallway, she paused, her eyes instinctively darting toward Nikolai's bedroom door. Closed. Silent. Good. She let out a slow breath of relief. She didn't want to see him—not right now. She wasn't sure what she'd do if she did. She might yell. Or worse, cry. Or even worse than that, throw something at him. Her fingers flexed involuntarily thinking of throwing a vase at him next time she sees him.
She made her way into the sleek kitchen, its pristine counters reflecting the morning light spilling in through the penthouse's tall windows. Everything looked untouched, like a display home. Still no meal for her. She sighed and walked over to the wall-mounted phone beside the fridge.
She pressed the number five.
It rang once. Then a gravelly voice answered, sharp and tired. "Sir?"
A smirk played on Rose's lips. It was Scar Face.
"Hey Scar Face," she chimed, her voice sweetly mocking.
A loud groan came through the receiver. She laughed, genuinely amused.
"What is it now?" he grumbled.
"Well, I'm kind of starving. Your vampire boss didn't make breakfast, and I don't even know how to make eggs without setting the place on fire. So, I'm gonna need you to rescue me. Maybe golden pancakes with chocolate syrup, and a cappuccino. You've got ten minutes before I lose what's left of my sanity."
There was a long pause. Then, a sigh. "Yes, your food will arrive in ten minutes."
"You're a gem, Scar Face."
He hung up. She snickered and returned to the living room. The penthouse was eerily quiet except for the distant hum of traffic many floors below. She curled up on the sofa, tucking her feet under her, her eyes drifting again toward Nikolai's room.
Still no movement.
She leaned her head against the couch cushion. Her gaze softened, distant. She didn't want to admit it, but her argument with him had shaken her. Not because of what he had said to her—she could handle that. It was the strange fact that she might have dome more than strike a nerve. She might have dug deep into his trauma unknowingly. She hated that she might have hurt his feelings, no, no ,no. He deserved it.
Stop it, she told herself.
"He sold you like an object. He watched Boris drag you away. Don't you dare start feeling anything for him." She said to herself.
Still…
The soft ding of the elevator snapped her out of her spiraling thoughts. She sat up straight, her stomach leaping with anticipation.
The metal doors slid open, revealing Scar Face standing stiffly, holding a brown takeout bag and a coffee tray. His scarred face was as unreadable as always, though a flicker of annoyance danced in his eyes and helplessness.
He stepped out and made his way toward her.
"Ah, look at you. You're much more reliable than those delivery apps. Never late," she said with a grin.
He rolled his eyes. "I don't get paid enough for this."
"I'm sure you don't," she replied, patting his shoulder lightly as he set the food down on the coffee table.
"I'm out. If you need anything else, keep it to yourself. Don't call."
She widened her eyes in mock offense. "You don't mean that."
He gave a long-suffering sigh and turned around, disappearing into the elevator without another word.
Rose watched the doors close behind him before turning her attention to the box on the table. She lifted the lid slowly, reverently, like she was about to open a gift on Christmas morning.
Golden pancakes, stacked in perfect layers, drizzled with thick chocolate syrup. A warm cloud of buttery sweetness drifted up to greet her. Beside it, a tall cappuccino sat in its holder, steam swirling into the air like silk.
She didn't wait. She picked up her fork, sliced into the pancake stack, and took her first bite.
Heaven.
The warm, fluffy pancake practically melted on her tongue, the syrup rich and velvety. Her eyes fluttered shut for a second. She let out a small moan of approval. This—this was what she needed.
Better than Nikolai's food, she thought with a little smirk.
She took a sip of the cappuccino. It was smooth, strong, and exactly the right temperature. She curled deeper into the couch, pulling the blanket off the side and wrapping it around herself like a cocoon.
As she ate, her thoughts drifted again. But this time, it was more grounded.
Scar Face. She had to ask him where he ordered this from. She needed to be a loyal customer. Maybe even memorize the menu.
She took another bite. Still warm. Still perfect.
Her eyes scanned the living room. The crystal chandelier overhead glittered like ice. The massive windows offered a panoramic view of the city below, all glass and chaos. The skyline shimmered faintly in the morning haze.
She wondered if anyone else in the world was eating chocolate pancakes in a penthouse owned by a dangerous man who confused her more than life itself.
Probably not.
With her hunger slowly fading and her stomach content, she set the box aside, pulling her legs up and resting her chin on her knees. She stared ahead at nothing, just letting the silence fill her ears.
Would he come out today?
Would he pretend like nothing happened?
She wasn't sure which answer would hurt more.
And so, she sat there. Wrapped in a blanket, full of pancakes, and haunted by the man who never smiled.