From Mob Princess to Mugshot Photographer novel Chapter 68

**Storm Behind Sleeps by George Orwell 68**

**Chapter 1**

It had been seven long years since I had turned my back on Ryker Robinson, a decision that still echoed in the chambers of my mind.

Our paths unexpectedly converged at a quaint little flower shop, its windows fogged up from the heat of the day and the sudden downpour outside. I had ducked in, seeking refuge from the relentless rain that was drenching the streets.

As I stepped inside, the atmosphere felt charged, thick with unspoken words and memories. There he was, standing in front of a vibrant display of blooms, carefully selecting flowers for his pregnant wife. The sight struck me with a mix of nostalgia and discomfort.

An awkward silence enveloped us, stretching uncomfortably as we both processed the moment. Finally, we resorted to the polite formality of greeting one another.

“Hey,” I managed, my voice sounding foreign even to my own ears.

Ryker, with that characteristic carefulness that had always defined him, asked how I had been managing all these years. There was a distance in his tone that was almost palpable, as if he were testing the waters of a long-forgotten friendship.

I mirrored his demeanor, responding with a casual, “Everything’s great,” though the words felt hollow as they left my lips.

Just as I thought we would part ways, he hesitated, an almost imperceptible shift in his posture.

“Allison… you’re different now. Aren’t you?”

His words hung in the air, heavy with implication. I offered a smile, a small, tight-lipped gesture that masked the truth.

Because if I were to be honest, I hadn’t changed.

I had simply stopped loving him.

And that single fact had altered the very fabric of my existence.

A damp gust of wind slipped through the crack beneath the door, chilling my skin and reminding me of the storm outside. The only sound that filled the space was the relentless patter of rain against the windowsill, a rhythmic backdrop to our awkward reunion.

The silence stretched on, thick and uncomfortable, until the shop owner appeared, arms laden with a bouquet of irises.

“Mr. Robinson, you and your wife have such a beautiful relationship,” she remarked, her voice bright and cheerful.

“Even on a rainy day like this, you still come to buy her flowers.”

Ryker accepted the bouquet, his eyes flickering towards me for a fleeting second, perhaps a reflex, before he fell back into his habitual explanation mode.

“Nova’s emotions have been all over the place during her pregnancy. These flowers… they help calm her down.”

I nodded, offering a few polite compliments about the flowers, their vibrant colors contrasting sharply with the dreary weather outside.

The rain began to ease, a gentle drizzle replacing the earlier downpour. I reached for my bag, ready to escape the tension that had built between us.

Just as I approached the door, I felt his hand grasp mine, a sudden, unexpected connection.

“Where do you live? Let me give you a ride,” he offered, his voice earnest, almost pleading.

“No need,” I replied, taking a step back, creating space between us. My tone remained steady, betraying none of the tumultuous emotions swirling within me.

“I wouldn’t want your wife to get the wrong idea.”

With a firm tug, I freed my hand from his grasp—decisive, final—and stepped away.

As I turned to leave, I thought I heard him say something.

But the wind was howling too loudly, drowning out his words.

I didn’t bother straining to catch them.

All I could focus on was the breakfast I had been clutching, now thoroughly soaked and ruined.

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