The night air in Rome had turned sharp by the time Scarlett left the supermarket. After finishing her late-night class, she had stopped by to pick up a few things for dinner. The streetlamps flickered above her, spilling long shadows on the cobblestones as she balanced two grocery bags — one filled with vegetables, the other with meat she planned to cook for dinner. It had been a long day, and all she wanted was a quiet evening in her small apartment, away from the whispers, away from Alisa and Joanna.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Nicolas.
> Where are you?
She smiled faintly — tired, but touched. He still worries too much.
Before she could reply, another message came, sharper this time:
> Scarlett, answer me. Are you alone?
Her brows furrowed. Why is he like this again?
She typed back quickly:
> "Just walking home from the store. Don't worry."
But before she could hit send, her phone rang.
"Scarlett," his voice came, low and tense. "Get back inside. Now."
She blinked, startled. "What? Why?"
"Don't argue. Just listen to me. Stay where there are people."
Scarlett frowned, glancing around. The street was quiet, only a few cars passing by. "You're overreacting again, Nicolas. It's Rome, not a war zone."
"You don't understand—"
She sighed and cut him off. "I'm fine. Stop treating me like I'm fragile."
And before he could reply, she hung up.
She didn't mean to make him angry. She just didn't want to live in his fear.
By the time she reached her apartment, she was humming softly, setting the groceries on the counter, cutting vegetables, and letting the faint scent of garlic fill the air. Peaceful — or it would have been.
Until the pounding started.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The sound shook her small kitchen. She jumped, knife clattering onto the counter. Her heart raced as she hurried to the door.
"Nicolas?" she called, her voice shaky.
"Open the door." His tone was low — furious, but restrained.
She yanked the lock and swung it open, glare ready. "What is wrong with you? You scared me!"
Nicolas stood there, chest rising hard under his coat, eyes darker than she'd ever seen. "You turned off your phone."
"I didn't turn it off—"
"Yes, you did," he snapped, stepping inside. "And you walked alone after I told you not to. Do you have any idea what could've happened?"
Her anger flared. "You think I'm some helpless girl you can command? You disappear for days, push me away every time I get close, and then suddenly you show up banging on my door?"
He froze, guilt flickering in his eyes, but pride still anchoring his stance. "That's different."
"Different?" she repeated bitterly. "You vanish whenever you feel like it. You hide everything from me. But now that no one's around, you want to act like—like this?"
Her voice cracked on the last word. She turned away, blinking fast, trying not to cry.
Nicolas's jaw clenched. He ran a hand through his hair, fighting to stay calm. "You don't understand, Scarlett. There are people watching you. The Meng family—"
"Oh, of course," she cut in, voice trembling with frustration. "It's always about your enemies. Your world. Your rules. But what about me, Nicolas? I'm tired of living like I'm part of a secret you can't admit."
He exhaled sharply, stepping closer — the scent of rain and danger clinging to him. "I'm trying to keep you alive."
"And I'm trying to live," she shot back. "There's a difference."
For a long moment, silence fell. The ticking of the clock filled the room.
Then Nicolas's voice softened, the anger dissolving into something raw. "When you didn't answer, I thought—" He stopped himself, swallowing hard. "I thought I'd lost you."
Scarlett looked up at him. His hands were trembling, barely noticeable but real. The same hands that had once been covered in blood for her.
Her heart softened, just a little. "I'm not gone," she whispered.
He met her eyes — fierce, tired, and full of the emotion he never let anyone see. "Don't test my limits like that again, Scarlett."
"Then stop building walls," she said quietly.
They stood like that — two storms colliding in the small kitchen, garlic scent still in the air, words too heavy to finish.
Finally, she turned back to the stove, wiping her eyes. "Dinner's getting cold. If you're staying, at least help me set the table."
He didn't answer, just removed his coat silently and stepped closer, taking the plates from her hands. His movements were careful, almost apologetic.
Neither of them said another word.
But the silence between them carried more meaning than any argument could — fear, love, and something dangerously close to surrender.