It was up to me now.
It was all up to bastard me.
My brothers and sisters held their drinks up in the air, all echoing, “Long live the king,” and took long sips. Vera smiled at me sadly. I had to leave. I couldn’t fucking be here right now, with my uncles’ ghosts freshly in the walls and my father a vegetable in his bed.
“I’ve got something to do.” I swiped an unopened bottle of whisky off the bar as I left. I got into the back of the car and got confirmation that my men had cleaned up both death sites and the pigs had nothing on us. Then I sat back and closed my eyes, drinking the whisky as I was driven to the one place I couldn’t ever fucking keep away from. Hadn’t done for five fucking years.
Oxford.
Her.
The one that kept me coming back for more.
Chapter Five
CHESKA
I opened the blinds and let the morning sun flood my flat. The minute the sun cut through the glass, I saw it glisten off the large diamond … the diamond that now sat on the ring finger of my left hand.
My stomach fell just thinking of two nights ago. Hugo down on his knee in the orangery in my father’s Chelsea home. My friends and his friends gathered around us, wide smiles and champagne flutes full. The celebrations, the hugs and kisses of congratulation. And the one face that entered my head the minute “Yes” slipped from my lips.
Blue eyes behind thick-framed glasses. The face that would never be mine.
My chest tightened as I thought about being Hugo’s wife. About being tied into this life forever. About giving up what I truly loved—no, not what. Who.
I sat on the end of my bed and glanced at the clock. I had to get ready for uni. I was now studying for my master’s in Business Studies at Oxford. Oxford was my treasured place of solitude away from my father and Hugo. From the life that was slowly suffocating me day by day. I’d decided on my master’s so I could stay here a little longer, avoiding the life that awaited me.
And mostly because Oxford was where we met in secret, away from prying eyes. Where, for a few hours every week, I had him in my arms and in my bed. Where I could pretend that he was mine. Where we could pretend that our vastly different worlds didn’t keep us apart.
This ring changed everything.
I had to tell Arthur. I didn’t know how I would do it. I didn’t know how I could say goodbye to him for good. I was pretty sure it would break me.
I made myself get up and shower. I had just slipped on my jeans and jumper when the doorbell rang. Frowning, wondering who would call at such an early hour, I looked at the camera, and my heart stuttered.
Arthur was leaning against the wall. He was wearing a cream Aran jumper and black trousers and was clutching an almost empty bottle of whisky. I buzzed him up, opening the door and standing on the landing to wait for him. I heard his slow, heavy footsteps on the marble steps that led to my top-floor apartment. He never took the lift, always walked up the five flights of stairs.
The minute I saw his dark hair, my chest tightened. He was as beautiful as ever. A lethal, dangerous kind of beauty that stole every ounce of my sanity whenever I looked at him.
But that wave of desire quickly dampened to one of worry when he looked up and I saw complete devastation in his sapphire gaze.
“Arthur,” I said, just as he swayed on the top stair and took another gulp of his whisky. He quickly righted himself, then walked toward me, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He placed one in his mouth, then, stepping closer to me, pushed me back into my flat.
He slammed the door shut behind us and backed me against the wall. He took another cigarette from his packet and placed it between my lips. Lifting his lighter in the small space between us, he drew a flame and lit both our cigarettes. Arthur took a deep drag; I did the same. I blew out the smoke, then ran my hand down his jumper. He never dressed like this, this casual. He always wore suits with waistcoats and handkerchiefs. Pocket watches and expensive shoes.
When I looked up into his eyes, searching their depths, I saw they were red raw, and deep dark circles lay beneath. “Arthur, what’s wrong?” I asked. His nostrils flared. I could smell the whisky on his breath and his usual cologne on his clothes. It was the only thing that brought me any comfort at this point.
Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.