Chapter 4
"Tell me again why I agreed to this?" Viola muttered, staring at the rack of pastel sundresses while Samantha danced around in oversized sunglasses.
"Because," Sam said, spinning dramatically, "you need to leave your dungeon of solitude and live a little. You used to love shopping."
"I used to love a man who said we'd grow old together. Look how that turned out."
Sam lowered her sunglasses, peeking over them with a stern look. "Vi. That man was a walking red flag wrapped in cologne and broken promises. You dodged a lifetime of emotional constipation."
Viola snorted despite herself. "You're ridiculous."
"And you love it."
They were at The Willow District—the artsy part of the city filled with boho boutiques, coffee shops, riverfront bookstores, and local musicians. It smelled like espresso, river breeze, and baked bread. The sun peeked through fluffy clouds, casting golden light that made the whole place feel like a movie set.
Viola sipped her oat milk latte while Samantha dragged her from shop to shop, giving her full commentary on every outfit and stranger that passed by.
"Okay," Sam said, holding up a silk green dress. "This. This is your colour. It says: 'I'm mysterious, emotionally unavailable, and might own a dagger.'"
"I do own a dagger," Viola replied dryly, eyeing it. "Somewhere in my storage unit."
They laughed together—the easy kind of laugh only years of friendship could build. It felt good. Safe.
But even here, among the shopping bags and sarcastic banter, his voice echoed in her mind.
"I'm not here to play it safe, Viola."I want a war. And I want you to be the battlefield."
She hated that it got to her—that a man she barely knew had cracked through so much of her steel in one night. It wasn't love. Not even lust. It was something darker. More dangerous.
Obsession. His or hers? She wasn't sure.
"Okay," Sam said, walking beside her as they strolled down to the riverside. "You've been quiet for a full five minutes. That's illegal. Spill."
Viola sighed, kicking a pebble toward the water. "It's that man from the restaurant."
"Mack." Sam raised her brow. "Mr. Mafia Mood?"
"Mr. Disruption."
Sam cackled. "Girl, you've named him. You're in trouble."
"I don't know what he wants. He says these things that sound like lines, but they feel… personal. Like he sees past my walls."
Sam looked at her best friend, her tone softening. "Maybe it's not about what he sees. Maybe it's about what he makes you see in yourself."
That struck Viola silent.
They sat on the river wall, legs dangling, watching boats drift past. The wind lifted her hair—the way it always used to when life felt simpler.
"Whatever happens," Sam said, bumping her shoulder, "just remember—you survived worse. You don't owe anyone your softness, Vi. But don't forget you still have it."
Viola leaned on her, quiet for a moment. "Thanks, Boo."
"Now come on," Sam grinned. "Let's find a bookstore where you can flirt with a fictional man who doesn't carry a gun."
Viola smirked, but in the back of her mind… she already knew.
Fictional or not, none of them compared to Mack.
By noon, the boutiques had drained them dry—not just their energy, but their wallets.
Viola tossed her latest purchase in the back seat of Samantha's car and groaned. "That's it. No more. I swear if you make me try on one more floral jumpsuit, I'm throwing myself in the river."
Samantha slid into the driver's seat with a grin. "Please, you looked hot in that last one. If you walked past Mack in it, he'd combust on sight."
Viola gave her a sharp look. "Can we not say his name during our sacred girls' day?"
"Fine," Samantha said dramatically. "The tall dark demon shall remain unnamed."
They both cracked up as the car pulled into the cobbled street of Café Miel, a cosy eatery nestled in the corner of the riverside district. Inside, warm lighting bounced off dark wooden shelves filled with jars of honey, hanging herbs, and old French recipe books. The aroma of baked camembert, roasted garlic, and fresh bread made Viola's stomach growl.
They chose a booth by the window overlooking the river, its wide glass letting in sunlight and breeze. This was Viola's favourite kind of peace—quiet, golden, and scented with herbs.
"I'm ordering the truffle pasta," Samantha said, already halfway through the menu. "And we're getting wine. Don't argue."
Viola raised a brow. "I'm driving home."
"Exactly why I'm ordering the wine. You need to chill."
Viola smirked. "Okay, but we split that molten chocolate thing at the end."
"Deal."
Their lunch was slow, indulgent, and filled with honest conversation. They talked about books, family, and the strange way grief and healing didn't follow a schedule. Samantha told a ridiculous story about a man who tried to flirt by comparing her eyes to swamp water. Viola nearly choked on her pasta laughing.
But somewhere between bites and jokes, Samantha turned serious.
"You've been quieter lately, Vi. I know you're working through a lot, but promise me something?"
Viola glanced at her, a fork halfway to her mouth. "What?"
"Don't shut the world out just because one person broke it for you."
Viola sighed, setting her fork down. "It's not that easy."
"I know," Samantha said gently. "But it's worth trying."
The dessert came, warm and gooey, the chocolate melting into the vanilla ice cream like a sweet exhale. They shared it—the kind of quiet only best friends could enjoy without needing to fill the space with words.
By the time the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the river in orange and gold, they were back in the car, shopping bags in the trunk, music playing low.
Viola leaned against the window, her head slightly tilted as the breeze teased her hair. "This was a good day."
"One of many," Samantha said. "You're allowed to have more."
They pulled into Viola's driveway just as the first stars appeared. Sam walked her to the door like she always did, hugging her tightly before stepping back.
"Call me if you need anything. Even if it's to insult fictional men or rant about lace."
Viola smiled. "Always."
Inside, the quiet wrapped around her again—but it felt softer this time. Less heavy. She set her bags down, lit her favourite candle, and sat by the window.
Across the room, her phone lit up.
One new message. Unknown number.
"Next time, I'll be the one waiting by the river." — M
Viola stared at the screen, her heartbeat slow but loud.
She didn't reply.
But she didn't delete it either.