RED NOTES AND KISSES-Chapter 12: FRIDA -

Frida jolted awake, gasping for air. The weight of her chest rose and fell erratically as her wide, panicked eyes darted around the dimly lit room, trying to stitch together fragments of memory.

Her bedroom. She was in her bedroom. But it felt wrong. Foreign. The air itself seemed thicker, heavier, charged with a suffocating tension that made her skin prickle.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she scanned her surroundings. Everything looked wrong in its perfection.

The chaos she'd left behind, the clothes haphazardly strewn across the floor, the toppled wine glass, the disarrayed desk buried under papers, makeup, and yesterday's fatigue was gone.

The room was pristine, a tableau of order she never would've created herself.

Too clean.

A sharp chill raced up her spine as her eyes landed on the bedside table. Sitting there, as though it had always belonged, was a glass of water, a bottle of hangover pills, and a steaming bowl of chicken soup.

Her stomach twisted violently at the sight, her breath catching in her throat.

And then she saw it.

A red sticky note perched beside the soup like a predator lying in wait.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for it, the deliberate, confident strokes of ink leaping off the paper.

"I just wanted you to have fun, princess. You're so naughty."

Her breath hitched audibly, and nausea rolled over her in thick, relentless waves. She clutched the note tightly, her knuckles bleaching white as the reality crashed down.

He'd been here. Again.

Her sanctuary was no longer her own. She could feel it, the invasive energy he'd left behind, soaking into the walls, lingering in the air like an invisible stain.

Her skin crawled as she imagined him here, moving through her space, his hands grazing her things, leaving these calculated reminders of his presence.

The room felt too warm, oppressive, as though it still carried his scent.

Frida pressed trembling fingers to her temples, trying in vain to still the rising tide of panic. She wanted to scream, to throw the soup across the room, to smash the perfect order he had imposed on her world.

Yet she sat frozen, paralyzed by the weight of his intrusion.

Her mind unraveled, dragging her back to last night. She'd felt him. The memory was too vivid, too visceral to dismiss.

His hand brushing her hair back as she gagged over the toilet, his breath ghosting over her neck, his voice low and velvety, so close it felt like he was inside her head.

"Who do you want me to be?"

The words rang in her ears, haunting and intimate, curling around her like smoke she couldn't escape.

The sound of his voice made her shiver, her body reacting with a cocktail of fear and something far more dangerous.

She clenched the note tighter, her nails biting into the delicate paper. She had been so close.

So close to catching him, to facing him, to finally unmasking the shadow that haunted her life.

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But no, she'd let the alcohol dull her senses, let herself collapse like a pathetic damsel in distress, leaving him to creep around her like a phantom.

Her teeth ground together as anger flared hot and fierce in her chest. This was Leah's fault.

If Leah hadn't poured that final shot of whiskey down her throat, she wouldn't have been giggling like a fool, wouldn't have passed out. She would have turned around, confronted him, demanded answers.

Instead, she had let him win. Again.

The frustration burned as she stumbled out of bed, her legs shaky beneath her.

She needed to move, to wash him off her skin, to reclaim herself. The bathroom tiles were cold beneath her feet, grounding her as she stepped into the shower.

The water cascaded over her, scalding and relentless, washing away the sweat, the grime, the remnants of his touch.

But it couldn't reach the deepest parts of her, the places he'd invaded.

No amount of heat could burn away the memories or the intoxicating pull of his voice.

When she returned to her room, her gaze fell back to the soup. It sat there, steam curling lazily into the air, its aroma rich and inviting.

Her stomach growled traitorously, but she ignored it, unable to shake the thought of him preparing it.

Did he really make this for me?

Her hand hovered over the spoon, shaking. Laz wouldn't have done this he knew she hated chicken unless it was boiled just right, tender and fragrant.

And yet, the soup looked perfect. It smelled perfect.

Hesitantly, she dipped the spoon into the broth and brought it to her lips.

The taste bloomed on her tongue, warm and familiar, flooding her senses with a terrifying intimacy.

It was perfect...just the way she liked it.

Could it really be him?

The thought clawed its way into her mind and wouldn't let go.

Laz's voice... She hadn't heard it in so long, but last night...last night, it felt so familiar. The cadence, the way it lingered, the teasing edge that left her raw and exposed.

Her heart pounded as her gaze slid to her phone on the nightstand. If she could just hear his voice again, she'd know. She'd recognize it in an instant.

But what if it wasn't him?

Her thumb hovered over his contact, her chest constricting as doubt and anticipation warred within her.

Her breath hitched, her pulse a frantic staccato.

And then, as if struck by a sudden clarity, she winced, her lips curling into a bitter, self-deprecating smile.

"No," she whispered, her voice hoarse and shaky.

"I'd look fucking crazy."