Chapter 46: The Rooster and the Wind

My body shook with the need to flee, but I waited—one agonising, pulsing minute that stretched like an elastic band ready to snap. Every second was a choice between survival and collapse.

Silence buzzed in my ears. No footsteps. No voices. Just the distant hum of life, out there, beyond the door. Slowly, breath held hostage in my chest, I unfolded from the floor, limbs stiff from hiding in that cabinet of nightmares. My fingers trembled as I reached for the lock, its tiny click sounding thunderous in the echo of my panic.

I tried to climb out quickly, to burst free with the kind of cinematic energy I’d always seen in movies—but my legs betrayed me. Cramped. Frozen. Useless. I stumbled and fell hard, sprawling across the threshold and landing at the feet of an elderly woman.

Pretty cobblestones bit into my backside and palms as I looked up at her, blinking in the harsh daylight. She frowned at me, her sharp features framed by wiry white hair and a red scarf tied like a bow beneath her chin. With the dismissive air only the French could perfect, she hoisted her bag higher and muttered, “Excusez-moi,” stepping daintily around me and continuing on her way.

I bounced upright, ignoring the sting in my knees, commanding my uncooperative body to un-atrophy. Move. Run. Live.

The street swallowed me whole. It was too real, too bright. Too… alive. The sky was a crisp winter blue. The sunlight flared on glass windows and licked my skin with a familiarity that felt foreign. A breeze slipped beneath my collar, and I nearly wept at the sensation.

I blinked rapidly. The street looked like the epitome of France—quaint wooden signs swayed gently from iron hooks above crooked doors. Wonky stone buildings pressed in close, smiling with shuttered windows and iron flower baskets overflowing with red geraniums and violets. Fruit stalls spilled with oranges, pears, apples. So vibrant they looked artificial. All of it—too beautiful. Too impossible.

Everything was written in French, and though I could read some of it, I knew I’d be lost within minutes. Where was I? Were we near Paris? Marseille? A village in Provence? I had no bearings. No clues. Just the knowledge that I was somewhere outside hell, and that was good enough.

For now.

I would never take freedom for granted again. The sun on my cheeks. The noise of life. The chaos of strangers brushing past me without cruel intent—it made my heart ache. I felt disoriented, my senses too awake. After being caged for weeks—if not longer—this much stimulation was like being born again into a world I’d forgotten existed.

I moved with purpose, or at least I tried to. I didn’t know which direction Céleste or François had gone. I kept my head down, eyes trained on the shifting crowd, darting fugitively across the narrow road to a green grocer’s storefront.

“Bonjour, ma belle,” an elderly man greeted me as I passed. His voice was warm, but my skin flinched from the sound. I didn’t answer.

My stomach growled. The scent of fresh bread and ripe citrus almost brought tears to my eyes. It had been so long since I’d eaten something that wasn’t rationed or forced. But I didn’t have time for hunger. Didn’t have the luxury of taste or scent or kindness. Not yet.

The crowd was a blur of scarves and coats, moving like a river I was trying to swim against. And yet… it felt good. Being among people. Alive. Moving. Unnoticed. It was intoxicating. Liberating. I never realized how much I craved belonging until I was removed from it.

Sure, I’d always felt like an outsider in some way—insecurities leftover from a childhood lacking love—but I’d found something like a tribe at university. Fiona, Adrian, luca. We’d been a trio of ambition and dreams. Designing impossible structures, laughing through lectures, sketching treehouses and underwater cities like gods of imagination.

A tightness closed around my heart. They didn’t know what had happened. Would they understand? Would they believe me?

Or would they see me as broken? As the girl who’d allowed things… felt things... for a captor?

I swallowed the lump in my throat. How could I explain it? The way my body betrayed me. The burning humiliation. The heat I felt in the presence of someone I loathed. The tension that curled inside me like a sickness, like shame.

Would they judge me? Or worse—would they pity me?

I couldn’t go down that road. Not now.

Police. You need the police.

Everything inside me snapped to attention. I scanned the storefronts, choosing one instinctively. A small, charming building with a hand-painted red rooster hanging above its door: Le Coq. The name made my skin crawl, but it was a chance. A door. A possibility.

I paused on the threshold, fingers trembling. Lucien would be furious. He would hurt Celeste. He would kill her. The thought stabbed me clean through.

I cursed myself for caring. For feeling loyalty to a woman I barely knew. But she had helped me. She had defied him in her quiet way, cracked open the door of my prison and let me crawl through. That mattered.

But I couldn’t go back. Not even for her.

I inhaled a breath that felt like my first.

Then I pushed open the café door. A soft bell jingled overhead, its sound sweet and strange, like music from another life. The inside was warm and quaint, the scent of croissants and espresso thick in the air. A few people sat scattered at tables, sipping from cups and reading the newspaper. No one looked at me twice.

The woman behind the counter was plump, motherly, with ruddy cheeks and kind eyes. She smiled brightly as I approached, her apron dusted in flour.

“Bonjour, que puis-je faire pour vous?” she said cheerfully. What can I do for you?

I stared at her, the warmth of the room seeping into my frozen bones. My mouth went dry. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. This was it. No going back.

I forced my voice to work.

“I’ve been kidnapped,” I whispered, so low she leaned forward to hear. “I need a phone. And the police. Please.”

The smile fell from her face. Her eyes widened.

Time stopped.