Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 224334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1122(@200wpm)___ 897(@250wpm)___ 748(@300wpm)
I stare at her, in a muddle.
“Why would it be?” she asks, her eyes getting progressively wider. “Okay.” She cuts the call, her chest rolling with her deep breaths. I can’t move. Can’t speak. I also can’t read her. She looks pissed, but is that because of what he’s said, or simply because I’m standing in her office? I know Ava. She wouldn’t want to cause a scene at work, so is she holding out on me until we get home? Waiting to unleash her disgust, really give it to me, before she walks out on me?
“I’m at work,” she finally says on a breath of air after what feel like eons of just staring at each other.
“You won’t see him again,” I grate.
“Why?”
I hold on to my exhale. Why? He’s not told her? I can’t be relieved. He’s poking. Stirring. “You just won’t,” I affirm. “It’s not a request, Ava. You won’t defy me on this.”
“I’ll see you at Lusso,” she retorts, her words tight. Translated, this conversation is not over. And she didn’t say home. Our home.
“Yes, you will.” I force my dead legs to life and get my arse out of there before any one of my muscles pings and has me bouncing around her office and smashing it up. I make it outside and drink in the fresh air ravenously, leaning on the side of the wall to hold me up. I’m struggling to breathe. Stand. Think.
I stagger to the end of the street and round the corner, leaning my back against a wall, yanking at a tie that isn’t there in an attempt to breathe easier. Lifting a hand, I wipe my brow, looking down at my phone in my hand, taking a few deep breaths. “Fuck this shit.” I dial him, and the fucker lets it ring and ring, meaning I get more and more worked up. He sends me to his voicemail, and I quickly hang up before I blow the fucking thing up. Be calm. Don’t let him know I’m affected by his games.
“Hey!” I look up and see Kate approaching, her smile falling when she sees the state of me. “What’s happened?”
Where would I even begin? If I had the energy or inclination, I’d ask her what the fuck she’s doing, adding more stress to my life by throwing in girls’ night out. Fortunately for Kate, I have more pressing matters to deal with. “Nothing.” I make a poor attempt to smile.
“Is this about us going out on Saturday, because—”
“No, Kate, it’s nothing to do with you going out on Saturday.” I wish it was. “I’m just—” What the fuck do I say?
“Nervous?”
“Yes, nervous.”
She smiles and holds up a small pouch, and I accept it, tucking it into my pocket. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I start walking aimlessly, feeling her eyes on my back as I go.
I need to ride.
Run.
I’d probably kill myself if I did either right now. So instead, I pass the street where my car’s parked and cross Piccadilly to Green Park. I need to clear my head in a way that doesn’t risk my life. Or anyone else’s for that matter.
And still, it’s not the brightest idea I’ve had. The moment I step foot into the park, I hear the sounds of a little girl’s squeals, and I still, closing my eyes, the noise melding into a familiar shriek of delight. And with it comes pain of excruciating levels. I try so fucking hard to block it out, walking on, sidestepping dog walkers, joggers, mums with prams. Breathing becomes strained. My shirt sticky with sweat.
I come to a stop, realizing I’ve reached the other side, and look up at Buckingham Palace. I could turn and go back, but as I look over my shoulder, all I see is a gauntlet of triggers that need to be avoided. I’ve never been in the park at this time. Always at the crack of dawn when there’s no one around except fellow runners, or on the odd occasion, late afternoon when mums have taken the kids home for their dinner. I face the palace again, looking left and right, and carry on, just walking, aimlessly.
But not so aimlessly.
I reach St. James Park.
Enter.
Carry on walking, now numb to my surroundings, until I reach Duck Island. I asked for this. For this pain. More pain. More reminders. I take the few steps needed to get me to a bench and collapse onto it, feeling so fucking weak. So vulnerable. I close my eyes, terrified about what they might see and the further bedlam it may cause me. And I just sit there, praying the answer to all of my problems finds my sorrowful state here on the bench in a park in central London. Praying for mercy.
* * *
“Daddy!”
I snap my eyes open on a crashing beat of my heart. I see nothing—none of the people roaming, the kids playing, the runners running. I see only one thing. My treasured, dearest thing.