Chapter 20
Lucia
My fingers trembled as I flicked through a page of the prenup. I could gauge enough, even without being fluent in legal jargon. He smiled at me when I glanced his way.
How stupid did he think I was?
“You call this a nuclear family for a child?” I asked, holding the paper by the corner as if it were diseased.
“I think it’s reasonable—”
“Heavily in favour of you.”
“Well, yes—”
“I refuse,” I cut him off again.
“I’ll admit I was a little rash initially.”
I scoffed, but he continued.
“But it changes nothing. You’re carrying my child, and I will take whatever action is necessary to secure him or her—with or without you.”
I gasped at the implication of his words before hardening my heart.
“If I decided to run away and hide, you wouldn’t find me or my child. Being in the foster care system teaches you how to hide, beg, and survive. You and your money are nothing.”
“There isn’t a single stone I’d leave unturned to hunt you down.”
I needed to nip this in the bud.
I sighed.
“Okay… for the well-being of our child,” I murmured. “But if you—”
“I swear. I won’t release any of the footage, and since you’re being reasonable, I’ll delete them all in good faith.”
Yes, you do that, you dumb dickhead.
“Thank you,” I whispered, sniffing a few times for effect.
He moved closer, resting an arm across my shoulders.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured, his hand rubbing slow circles on my back.
I leaned into him, mentally preparing everything I needed to do to disappear from London.
?? ?? ??
I dialled in sick with rehearsed calm. “Flu,” I lied, voice steady, no tremor. Evelyn accepted it, sympathetic and easily distracted. There was no time to feel guilt.
Back at my flat, I moved with a surgeon’s efficiency. My suitcases were already packed—everything I owned reduced to two cases.
I pulled the SIM from my phone and slid it into my old phone I’d kept “just in case.” The screen lit up like a forgotten toy.
I typed a message I’d composed twice before: a simple test that would convince anyone checking that I was elsewhere.
Then I boxed the phone and SIM in a used envelope and walked two blocks to the post office.
It would be shipped to Spain. To a mobile repair shop that shared a courtyard with housing units. Hopefully, the misdirection would throw the dickhead off my real location.
The queue was long and messy; the man behind the counter barely looked at the package. I declared a low value on the customs form so it would make it through unnoticed.
The train to Carlisle was half-empty. I slept in fits, elbows tucked, exhaustion taking over. When I woke I was almost smiling: dull tiles of northern stations, colder air, anonymity. I changed my jacket in the loo at the station, folding the old one and leaving it in a bin. Small changes add up.
Carlisle was quiet, cheaper, mercilessly ordinary. I rented a room above a laundrette where the landlord took cash and didn’t care about ID if the money was right. The room smelled faintly of detergent and history—exactly the kind of place nobody in Laurent’s circles would think to look.
I picked up a free pay-as-you-go SIM card, but I didn’t activate it. Not yet. I’d watch and wait.
I slept for the first time in weeks without waking to the sound of his messages or his footsteps in the hallway—the ones I’d learned to listen for when I was permitted to sleep in the spare room.
I woke knowing it wasn’t over. He would rage, he would search, he would spend money. But I also knew this: if he wanted what he thought he wanted, he’d have to look away from his mirror and into the real world. And I would be somewhere he’d never expect.
I rubbed my flat belly.
The last thing I ever expected was to become a single mother.
Maybe it ran in the genes.
But I sure as fuck wouldn’t hand my child over to the system.
Fuck you, Mother.
?? ?? ??
The room had a small kitchenette and a bathroom. It was all I needed for now. I’d sorted out my new abode, but now I needed employment.
I scoured the area’s small businesses to see if anyone needed a new hire, and who’d pay cash in hand. Every day, I got knocked back. The other option was pubs, but I didn’t want that environment—I wouldn’t last if I punched a groping patron.
I tried another local newsagent’s, and the older lady behind the counter shook her head. I was heading for the door when someone called out to me.
“Wait!”
I glanced back to see a young Indian girl talking quickly to the older woman. She wasn’t staff—not with that tone. Definitely family. She began waving her hands around, her voice rising—definitely the lady’s daughter.
I waited while they finished their conversation, but I didn’t understand a single word of it.
“Look,” the girl said, turning to me. “I’m going to university soon. I help my parents out here because, well… most people we hired had a thieving habit.”
“Oh,” I said.
She tilted her head. “Are you in some kind of trouble? You seem… out of place here.”
I hesitated, glancing at her mum, who was still behind the counter. The girl was astute.
“I’ve left a bad situation,” I admitted.
She turned to her mother and rattled off something else. The older woman frowned, then sighed.
“Fine, fine,” she said, softening before she smiled at her daughter. “You can start at the weekend.”
The relief was so overwhelming that I began to tear up. It didn’t surprise me in the least that it was women giving me an opportunity. I wiped my cheeks with the back of my sleeve and introduced myself. Days of searching for a job had left me disheartened.
“My name’s Lucy,” I said, holding my hand out to the daughter.
“I’m Sana,” she said, smiling warmly.
I thanked them both before leaving. The area was rough, but the place still had heart. It wasn’t too different from the scheme I grew up in.
All I had to do was work hard and gain their trust for more shifts.
?? ?? ??
The bell above the door gave a little ping every time someone came in.
By mid-morning, the air in the newsagent’s smelled of coffee, newspaper ink, and the faint sweetness of the boiled sweets that filled the plastic jars on the counter.
Sana’s mum barked orders in a mixture of English and Punjabi, and the radio hummed behind the till.
The husband-and-wife duo were pretty hilarious to watch. They swapped shifts with banter and smack talk. Either that or they had a weird way of flirting.
It wasn’t glamorous work—stacking papers, counting change, sweeping the floor—but it was honest. Simple. The kind of quiet I hadn’t known in months.
By the end of my first week, I’d learned the rhythm of the shop: the pensioner who bought the Telegraph at ten, the school kids who spent their pocket money on crisps and sweets. Ordinary people living ordinary lives.
During the lull between customers, I sat on a crate in the storeroom and let my hand rest against my stomach. The flutter there was small and steady, a reminder that I was no longer running, no longer watched.
For the first time, I allowed myself to imagine the future not as a trap but as a doorway.
A baby. A home. A chance to build something that was mine alone.
I smiled to myself and drew a long, calm breath.
The world outside could rage all it wanted.
For now, I was safe.