Philip’s eyes lift to mine, a crease between his brows. There’s a twisted k
ind of torment in his face and it betrays his inner fight with what is right and what he is being told.
Clara reaches across the table, her hand resting on his wrist and drawing his attention. ‘Come on, darling, it’s time you did what you were born to do: take control.’
She runs her teeth over her bottom lip and looks at him adoringly. I can see the power-hungry glint in her eye. She doesn’t love him. She only loves what he can give her, and he has fallen for it. Fallen for what I myself have always sought to avoid.
‘Please, Philip,’ I say, calling his attention back to me. ‘Don’t do this.’
‘It will suit Granny better to be cared for in a specialist unit.’ There is no emotion to his voice as he drags his eyes to mine. ‘It would be better—easier—if you talk to her, convince her it’s the right thing to do.’
I shake my head. I can’t listen to any more, can’t witness the manipulation that’s so obviously in play.
‘No, I won’t do it. It’s her home. She has a right to die there.’
My eyes start to sting and blur, turning them into blobs rather than people. I plant my napkin on my plate and stand. I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
‘Sit down, child,’ my stepmother hisses. ‘Dessert is just coming—you’re making a scene.’
I blink back the tears and give her a scathing smile. ‘I hope for your sake that Philip doesn’t learn by your example, because if natural order has its way, there’ll come a time when you’ll be the dying one and he’ll be shovelling you off to an alien environment against your wishes.’
‘Well, really...’ she huffs but I’m already looking to Clara now.
‘And as for you, I’m not blind to what you are. One day the veil will lift and Philip will see it too, then you’ll get what you deserve.’
Her gasp of outrage fills my ears as I turn away and I take some comfort from it. I’ve hit my mark. But I can’t bring myself to say anything more to Philip. I need to be gone.
I need Ash.
My distraction.
It used to be Blacks. Now it’s him.
I get that I’ve only swapped one kind of escapism for another, and that this one has the power to hurt me down the road, but right now I can’t worry about that.
I just need him.
* * *
I know Coco’s upset. Her message tells me so by its urgency.
She’s asked me to pick her up two streets down from the restaurant and here I am, parked up and waiting.
I’m surprised she’s not here already. And then I spy her, scanning the road for cars, for me. She’s pale, sad, her eyes glistening and killing me even from this distance. She sweeps a shaky hand through her hair as she weaves through the pedestrians, the evening rush thick as ever in London.
I reach for the door handle, ready to go and get her, too impatient to wait for her to find me—and then freeze. My eyes zone in on someone else a few beats behind her.
Shit.
My blood runs cold.
Eric Bower.
My number-one rival. I lean back in my seat, as though at any moment he’s going to look straight at me and piece it all together.
I try to tell myself it’s just a coincidence—that the fact he’s walking in the same direction means nothing. But it’s bull. Everything about his overly casual stride and wandering eye tell me he’s on a job. And what are the chances he’s after someone else in the vicinity?
Coco pauses and pulls out her phone.