Shadows Gathered Under Fading Lights by Nyx Rowan novel Chapter 7

Tristan froze.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, forcing a laugh that fell flat. “I knew that. I just wanted to thank

you anyway.”

He drained his drink, but the warmth didn’t settle his nerves.

Something about my recent behavior, my sudden silence, the way I’d stopped revolving around him like a satellite, kept nagging at him.

Natalia was inside the private room laughing with everyone, fitting in effortlessly, but Tristan felt

strangely suffocated.

He stepped outside to get some fresh air, and a snippet of conversation between two nearby men stopped him in his tracks.

“Man, that girl from the other day was unreal,” one of them said. “Too bad she got away.”

“Seriously,” the other replied, chuckling. “Her skin was so soft.”

The first one smirked. “When she tilted her head and apologized, I swear I almost lost it.”

“Yeah,” the second one sighed. “Too bad she ran.”

Tristan recognized them instantly.

They were the two men who’d grabbed me that night.

A low, menacing voice cut through the air behind them. “So you didn’t actually know that woman?”

“Of course we didn’t,” one of them started, then both of them realized something was off.

They spun around, and when they caught sight of Tristan’s murderous expression, they recoiled as

if struck.

Tristan stood there, chain–smoking, his hands clenched into fists to stop them from trembling.

He couldn’t ‘stop imagining what could’ve happened if I hadn’t managed to escape on my own.

And he couldn’t deny it anymore.

He cared.

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Even if, in the beginning, I’d only been the decorative Mrs. Royston he’d chosen to polish his image.

He grabbed his phone and called again.

No answer.

He sent message after message.

[Fiona, where are you?]

[Fiona, reply.]

[I’m drunk. Come pick me up.]

But no matter what he sent, his messages vanished into the void, unanswered.

Tristan drove back to the villa, and the house manager stumbled out, yawning.

“Where’s Fiona?” Tristan demanded.

The house manager stared. “Fiona? She hasn’t been back in a week.”

Tristan’s brow tightened. “A week? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

The house manager hesitated, then mumbled, “Because you told us not to. You said anything about Fiona didn’t need to be reported to you.”

A week ago.

That was the night I’d run into those two drunk men.

A sick, heavy feeling settled in Tristan’s chest as he made his way to the third floor.

Right then, Natalia called.

“Tristan, where did you go?” she whined. “My stomach’s been feeling funny all of a sudden.”

Outside, a sudden downpour hammered the windows, and Tristan sat in the living room all night, unmoving, while the storm raged.

Far away from that rain, the little town in France where I was staying was bright and clear, the sky stretched

open like it had never known a storm.

After a few connecting flights, Henson had brought me to a quiet, welcoming town, one where people led simple lives and kept to themselves.

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I had a small house there, with a garden in front and a vegetable patch out back.

Next door were the private doctor and nutritionist Henson had lined monitor my recovery, but never overbearing.

After a month of gentle care, my body finally felt like my own again.

up

for me,

When I went out for walks, the locals greeted me warmly, like I belonged here.

close enough to

What surprised me was how many of them were expats and immigrant families, people who’d settled here years ago, with only a small handful of people who’d been born and raised there.

They cooked the food they missed from home and invited me over to eat, and in return I shared the vegetables and flowers I grew in my own garden.

Somewhere in that back–and–forth of kindness, the empty part of me began to soften again.

Henson stayed with me for a week, made sure everything was set, then left.

I knew he did it because he didn’t want me to feel pressured, because the warmth in his eyes was impossible to miss, and I had no heart left for anything new.

Still, I also knew he kept tabs on me through the doctor and nutritionist.

I loved baking, and once, during a call, I mentioned I’d always wanted to open a small bakery.

The next day, the best storefront in town had a new sign, and inside were brand–new ovens, tools, and shelves of ingredients like someone had built my idea overnight.

The bread I made quickly became a local favorite, and people raved about it like it was a special

treat.

Business wasn’t booming, but it was steady, and more importantly, it was mine.

Here, no one mocked the way I tilted my head to listen.

They even adjusted without thinking, stepping to my right side when they spoke to me, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Once I had something to do, I felt myself waking up again.

I tested new recipes, tweaked ratios, learned what the town liked, and every time someone complimented a new batch, the satisfaction landed deep and solid in my chest.

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Days passed, then weeks, and suddenly the New Year was close.

Houses glowed with festive lights and bright decorations, and the whole town was alive with a warm, celebratory buzz.

On the night before Christmas Eve, Henson somehow got a hold of a pile of fireworks.

People gathered in the central square to set them off, laughter and cheers drifting up into the cold night air as color exploded overhead.

I started to believe my life might keep going like this, steady and quiet, all the way through the next

year.

Then came New Year’s Eve, the countdown echoing through the square as everyone shouted the last seconds together.

And just as the final numbers rang out, a shadow surged out of the crowd and rushed straight toward me.

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