Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
I step into the main hall of the Natural History Museum and immediately feel like I’ve wandered onto the set of someone else’s movie. Tonight, the majestic Victorian architecture is bathed in warm, carefully placed uplighting, casting shadows that dance across marble pillars and vaulted ceilings. The museum’s grandeur is striking on its own, but paired with the meticulous efforts of our marketing team, the space feels downright magical.
Above me, the massive skeleton of a blue whale—Hope, as the museum calls her—is suspended from the ceiling, her colossal frame frozen in an eternal dive. The bones, reflecting blue and pink thanks to our event lighting, stretch the length of the hall, casting elongated shadows onto the walls.
Further back, a prehistoric giant looms—a dinosaur’s ribcage arcing overhead like the remnants of a shipwreck, its vertebrae a jagged, ancient spine against the glass panels and gilded stone.
The bones are suspended by near-invisible cables, giving the eerie illusion that the creatures are mid-flight, desperate to get their own front-row seat at the book launch.
I glance around, looking for a way to help—a way to edit—but everything is complete. The tables are dressed flawlessly, linen crisp, centrepieces subtle but elegant. Projection screens loom gracefully above, cycling through vivid images of the book jacket, interspersed with carefully chosen quotes from glowing early reviews. In the centre of it all is a glossy, oversized display of freshly printed hardbacks, arranged as precisely as sculptures in a gallery. And there, larger-than-life beside them, is Rory’s author portrait, captured in black and white—his easy confidence radiating from the canvas like a beacon.
There’s absolutely nothing left for me to do. My editorial fingerprints are invisible here, hidden neatly behind marketing gloss and moody lighting. The book exists beyond me now, and apparently, so does Rory.
I should walk away. I want to walk away. My heels are already pivoting toward the exit when, for some inexplicable reason, I freeze. Damn it.
I glance back at the display, and the author portrait beside it.
“Don’t do this,” I mutter under my breath, adjusting my glasses as if they might somehow shield me from the pull of curiosity clawing at my resolve.
Rory Keane, bestselling author and resident pain-in-my-professional-neck. Also, the man I decided to have a friends-with-benefits relationship with, that neither of us was able to handle. Forget the fact that I practically bled over every draft of this damn book, coaxing it out of him when he found himself without his usual co-writer. Forget the fact that I helped him find the heart of the story he’s now promoting to the world. Nope. He walked away smelling of roses, leaving me with nothing but a bruised ego, keen disappointment, and a lingering sense of unfinished business.
You’re better than this , I tell myself, gripping the strap of my bag tighter. “You don’t need closure. You don’t need to see him. You certainly don’t need to stand in a crowd of swooning fans while he basks in the glow of his own brilliance.”
Still, my feet remain planted. I stare at the glossy poster again, at Rory’s name in big block letters. Rory Keane. The man who could never quite decide what he wanted—from his plotlines, from his career, from me . And yet, against all logic, he got everything anyway.
Of course he’s thriving. Why wouldn’t he be?
My phone buzzes in my bag, jolting me back to reality. I fish it out, half hoping for a distraction, but it’s just an email reminder about a meeting tomorrow. Nothing urgent. No excuses to leave just yet. And I am looking for excuses.
But am I? Because the truth—the ugly, uncomfortable truth—is that part of me wants to be here. Not because I miss Rory (I absolutely do not miss Rory) but because there’s a small, petty satisfaction in knowing I had a hand in his success. I was the one who pushed him to dig deeper, to write something real. If he’s going to stand up there and read from our book, shouldn’t I at least get to see it?
And there it is, the crux of the problem. If I stay, I have to face him. If I don’t, I’ll spend the evening wondering what he said, how the audience reacted to the reading, whether he noticed I wasn’t there. Either way, I lose.
My fingers tighten around the strap, knuckles white. I take a deep breath, trying to steady the riot of emotions swirling inside me. Hurt. Anger. Curiosity that tastes suspiciously like hope. None of it makes sense. All of it feels like too much.
Make up some excuse and just walk away.
The voice is of someone who refuses to let a charming man with pretty words derail her life any further.
But my feet? Again, they refuse to move.
I drift towards the book display, drawn to it like a moth drawn to a flame.
His name gleams in embossed gold lettering across the glossy covers, practically screaming bestseller . Because it is. It’s obnoxious, really.
My heart skips, then stumbles into an uneven rhythm. Of course, it does. Because nothing says “you’re completely over someone” like your cardiovascular system staging a coup at the sight of their name.
The book is heavier than I expect, solid in my hands. Clearly, no expense was spared on this first print run. I glance around, irrationally certain someone is watching, judging me for this moment of weakness. No one is, of course. The universe isn’t that cruel. Just… cruel enough to let our orbits collide in the first place.
My thumb brushes the edge of the cover, and before I can talk myself out of it, I flip it open. Straight to the dedication page. Like a fool. Like someone who doesn’t know better.
The words hit me like a sledgehammer:
To L.Y.—
For teaching me what it means to write with my whole heart.
For seeing me when I couldn’t see myself.
For everything. Always.
My breath catches, as if the air’s been knocked out of me. For a second, I just stand there, staring at the page, the letters blurring together until they don’t make sense anymore. And yet, they make too much sense. Every word feels like a carefully aimed dart, hitting its mark with precision.
“Always,” I whisper under my breath, trying out the word like it’s new, unfamiliar. My throat tightens as something warm and unbearable blooms in my chest. Anger? Sadness? Hope? God, I don’t even know anymore. It’s all tangled up, a knotted mess of emotions I have no idea how to unravel.
“Seriously?” I hiss, glaring at the page like it might glare back. “He gets to do this? He gets to… dedicate a book and just—” I snap the cover shut, holding the novel against my chest like it might escape. My eyes burn, and for a terrifying moment, I think I might actually cry. But no. Not here. Not now.
I clutch the book tighter, my nails digging into the dust jacket. This is exactly why I didn’t want to come here. Why I told myself I wasn’t going to care. Because Rory Keane never does anything in half measures. Not his writing. Not his charm. And apparently, not his ability to rip my carefully constructed walls to shreds with a single damn paragraph.
“You’re such an idiot,” I whisper to myself, but the words lack bite. They sound hollow, even to my own ears. My reflection stares back at me from the glossy cover, distorted and warped, and I hate how small I look. How vulnerable.
Always .
If I think about it enough, it’ll lose its power. But of course, it lingers, wrapping itself around me like smoke, refusing to let go. Damn him. Damn his stupid talent and his stupid words and?—
My fingers tremble as I set the book back on the stack, careful not to disturb the others. But it doesn’t matter. The damage is already done. Those words are burned into my brain now, tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.
“Walk away,” I whisper, my voice shaky but determined. “Just walk away.” And this time, my feet listen. Sort of. One step, then another. But the weight in my chest doesn’t lighten. If anything, it grows heavier, pulling me down, tethering me to something I thought I’d left behind.
Always .
The word clinging to me like a shadow as I head towards the exit.
The book stares back at me from the pile, exactly where I left it. Its spine is glossy and unassuming, but it might as well be screaming my name. I hate how it’s there, just sitting innocently like it doesn’t hold a grenade of emotions with my name engraved on the pin.
Always.
The word echoes in my mind, curling under my ribs like a hook, pulling me backwards—or maybe forward. Toward him.
I cross my arms tightly over my chest, ignoring the way my pulse insists on picking up speed. The dedication—it wasn’t just a string of poetic nonsense wrapped in Rory’s usual charm. No, this was intentional. Calculated. An invitation disguised as a goodbye. I can almost hear his voice weaving through the words, low and steady, daring me to do something about it.
I can’t attend the launch now. What would that even look like? Would I linger near the back, pretending I’m just another face in the crowd? Or would I be stupid enough to march straight up to Rory and demand an explanation? No. No, it’s better to pretend I’m sick and go home. Logical. Professional. Safe. That’s what I’m good at, right?
I push through the side exit, the cold night air hitting my skin like a slap. The streets outside are quiet, save for the occasional cab blaring its horn and the hum of conversation from groups heading towards more exciting Friday night plans. I take a deep breath, pressing my fingers against my temples. I’ve made the right choice. Leaving was the only option. There is absolutely no reason to subject myself to the circus inside.
I’m already halfway down the pavement when I hear my name.
“Lara!”
I turn to find Danny striding towards me, looking equal parts relieved and exasperated. He’s slightly out of breath, his navy suit jacket askew, and his hair ruffled like he’s been in a fight with the wind.
“Are you—” He stops short, taking me in. “Hang on. Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling you. You were supposed to meet me at the station.”
I wince, realising I’d put my phone on silent hours ago. “Oh. Right. Yeah, sorry about that.”
Danny squints at me, then looks at the grand museum entrance behind me.
“Wait, were you inside?”
“No.” I cross my arms. “I mean, technically, yes. But now I’m not.”
He exhales sharply. “Lara, what the hell?”
“It’s complicated,” I mutter, already hating the way this conversation is going.
“Oh, I bet it is.” He folds his arms, studying me. “And by complicated, do you mean ‘completely avoidable but requiring an intervention because you’re catastrophically overthinking everything again?’”
“Danny—”
“Because,” he barrels on, ignoring me, “you’ve done the hard bit. You made it here.”
I stare at him. “That’s… not true.”
He smirks. “Lara, I know you.”
“Okay, fine. Yes. I left.” I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “It felt—wrong. Being in there. Like I was complicit in this whole thing. In supporting him.”
Danny tilts his head. “Or was it more that you felt something, and you didn’t like that?”
I shoot him a sharp look. “I felt nothing.”
“Right.” He exhales. “Okay, then let’s get practical. You’re an editor. You worked your arse off on this book. You said yourself it’s already looking like a bestseller. That’s your success too. You don’t have to talk to Rory if you don’t want to, but you should be in there. You should own this.”
I hesitate, my fingers twitching at my sides. He’s right, of course. I hate that he’s right.
“And,” he continues, “we had a deal. I came all this way on the promise of expensive wine and the vague possibility of celebrity gossip. You cannot leave me to fend for myself in a room full of publishing types. I’ll get adopted by some highbrow literary agent who only reads 600-page experimental novels about grief and capitalism.”
I exhale sharply. “So this is about your suffering, is it?”
“Obviously.” He grins. “But also, it’s about you. Look, I get why you’re freaking out, but what’s done is done. You worked on the book. It’s out in the world now. You might as well celebrate the fact that you did a damn good job.”
I glance back at the grand museum entrance.
Danny nudges me. “Come on, Lara. Do it for me. Do it for the wine. Do it because, deep down, you know you’d rather regret going than regret not going.”
I exhale slowly, my resolve faltering.
“Fine,” I mutter.
Danny throws his hands up in victory. “There she is.”
“Shut up and walk before I change my mind.”
He grins, looping his arm through mine as we turn back towards the museum. “Oh, I’m walking. Straight to the bar, for my suffering.”
I roll my eyes, but as I glance at my watch, I pause. “Wait. The event doesn’t even start for another hour.”
Danny stops mid-stride, scandalised. “You mean to tell me I rushed over here, full of concern and righteous indignation, only to learn we have an entire sixty minutes to kill?” He tuts dramatically, shaking his head. “Not to worry, dear Lara, for I have a solution.”
“Oh, God.”
He straightens, adopting his most grandiose tone. “We shall head to The Queen’s Arms, and she will embrace us with the finest of stouts, ales, and wines until merriment commences.”
I exhale, amused despite myself. “You just want a pre-drink.”
“Absolutely,” he says. “And, ideally, some chips. I can’t endure a literary event on an empty stomach.”
I hesitate, but he gives me a gentle tug, guiding me away from the museum steps.
“Come on. A drink will help. Fortify the spirit. Drown the doubt. Plus, you get to bask in my delightful company for just a little longer.”
I shake my head, finally relenting. “Fine. But if I’m drinking before an industry event, you’re buying.”
Danny presses a hand to his heart. “It will be my honour.”
And with that, we veer towards the pub, my stomach still knotted but my resolve a little steadier.