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  The days after Nadia’s death were the most toxic, suffocating days I had ever experienced.
    And that didn’t stop the press. They swarmed outside the estate gates, cameras flashing, eager to capture a glimpse of the very window where Nadia had hung herself.
    The funeral wasn’t what I expected either. It wasn’t like the ones on television, where people wept openly, their sobs cutting through the air. Instead, it was eerily quiet. Only Drew, his mother… who, surprisingly, didn’t cry as much anymore… and a handful of family members attended. I wasn’t allowed to speak to any of them. I stood beside Alexander, feeling the weight of their stares like invisible shackles. We were all dressed in black.
    A man with jet-black hair, introduced as Mr. Bolivar, Alexander’s new bodyguard stood nearby.
    Celeste, too. And unlike everyone else, she wore a bright pink blouse and black pants, as if the occasion was a fashion show instead of a funeral. Even now, she went to great lengths to get Alexander’s attention. The audacity……
    I wasn’t sure why, but her presence sent a cold prickle down my spine. Everything felt… wrong.
    After the funeral, Drew and Gratia flew back to Manchester. I wanted to feel sorry for him, but I couldn’t. Deep down, I knew he didn’t deserve Nadia. She was too good for him. And now, she was gone.
    The reading of Alexander’s father’s will was rescheduled from six months, to eight months time to allow the family of the deceased grief. 
    Then there was that night. The one that still sent shivers down my spine.
    I woke up in the middle of the night, the need to use the bathroom dragging me from a restless sleep. But when I reached for Alexander, my hand met cold, empty sheets.
    My breath hitched.
    The bed was tousled, the covers disturbed—but he was gone.
    The door stood wide open.
    A flicker of unease curled in my stomach as I stepped into the dimly lit hallway. The silence was suffocating, thick and unnatural. And then, I saw him.
    He was walking…. no, drifting—down the corridor, his bare chest illuminated faintly by the moonlight seeping through the windows. His feet moved soundlessly, his posture stiff. My pulse pounded. It took me a moment to realize what I was witnessing.
    He was sleepwalking.
    How had I not known he was a sleepwalker? Then again, how could I have known? I had only slept in his bed once before, and he had vanished before i had woken up.
    I swallowed hard and followed, my heart hammering with each step. He moved with eerie purpose, as though something unseen guided him. Then I realized where he was headed.
    A chill shot down my spine as he stepped past the investigation tapes, oblivious to the caution signs. When he tripped over one, he barely reacted, continuing deeper into the room going over the fireplace that no longer held any portrait.
    I lingered at the doorway, watching, my pulse erratic.
    Then, as if sensing my presence for the first time, he turned.
    His eyes were strange.
    Unfocused. Empty. They held none of the usual coldness, none of the sharp control I had grown accustomed to. Instead, he looked… young. Vulnerable.
    Like a boy searching for something lost.
    He took a step closer, and I froze. His fingers grazed my cheek, featherlight. Then he murmured a name that sent ice through my veins.
    “Beatrice.”
    My breath faltered.
    Before I could react, he pulled me into a tight embrace.
    “Beatrice,” he whispered again, his voice breaking. “No… If we go back, you’ll leave me again.”
    My hands trembled.
    He thinks I’m her.
    “Alex—”
    He cut me off, cradling my face, his touch unbearably gentle. Then, in one swift motion, his lips brushed against my cheek.
    A shiver ran down my spine.
    I knew he wasn’t in his right mind. He was dazed.
    But then his hands slid to my waist, pulling me flush against his chest. His breath was hot, his touch desperate. No.
    “Alex, stop,” I gasped, pushing against him.
    His lips trailed lower, ghosting over my collarbone I gasped at the sudden contact and he used that opportunity to plunge his lips onto mine as he kissed me with a hunger i had never knew existed.
    Feeling weak kneed, i curled my arms on his neck to steady myself.
    A sound reached my ears.
    It took me a moment to realize it was coming from me.
    I was moaning.
    In the same room where a dead body had been discovered swinging.
    I had to snap him out of it.
    Without thinking, I used all my strength and shoved him away. Then I slapped him.
    Hard.
    He jolted, his entire body stiffening. A heartbeat passed. Then another.
    His eyes refocused, sharp and stunned, as if seeing me for the first time. His gaze darted around the dimly lit room—the dusty furniture, the caution tape. Then his expression darkened.
    “What are you doing here?” His voice was cold.
    I gaped at him, disbelief surging through me.
    “You sleepwalk, Alex,” I said, breathless. “You walked out of my bed and came straight here. I had to follow you.”
    His jaw clenched. “You shouldn’t have.”
    Anger bubbled inside me.
    He was acting like I was the one at fault?
    Without another word, he turned on his heel.
    “Go back to your room,” he ordered.
    And just like that, the moment shattered.
    The vulnerability I had glimpsed in his eyes was gone, replaced by the same cold indifference as always.
    I swallowed hard and obeyed.
    Alexander never returned to my room that night. But as I lay in bed, staring at the black shirt he had left on my floor, the memory of his lips and the desperate way he had clung to me haunted me long after I closed my eyes.
    The following days passed in a blur of silence.
    Alexander barely spoke to me. When he did was during the funeral when we had to make appearance and after that, Gratia and her son had returned to Manchester.
    The house felt heavier, suffocating under the weight of the scandal. More reporters swarmed outside, desperate for a statement.
    One morning, I stood by my window, watching a group of journalists swarm Alexander, microphones shoved in his face and camera flashes illuminating his cold expression. Bolivar struggled to hold them back.
    He didn’t react. Didn’t flinch.
    Just climbed into the backseat of his car as his driver speed off, leaving them shouting after him.
    Then, one evening, something new appeared on my dresser.
    I had just finished showering as I dabbed my hair with a towel while entering my room wrapped in a white bath robe.
    Two green passports and two first-class tickets……
    To Dubai.
    My stomach twisted as I stared at it picking up the one that had my name boldly inscribed inside as the water from my somewhat wet skin sipped unto the hard paper darkening that spot.