Chapter 2
I PACED BACK AND FORTH at the far end of my office like a cornered alley cat as I attempted to ignore the small box in my periphery. My phone vibrated in my jacket pocket. I glanced at the display, clocked the name, and let out a weary sigh.
Outside of my office’s floor-to-ceiling windows, night had begun to draw in.
The golden hue of the sunset dazzled the glass buildings of the business district and glinted off the Thames just beyond.
It was Friday evening, and life was buzzing through the capital.
Red brake lights flicked on and off, making slow progress through the evening traffic, and in the distance, lamps blinked to life along the South Bank to the multi-coloured spectacle of the London Eye, turning a slow spin.
It was strange to think that just a month ago, this busy view soothed my mind, because now it left me aching.
I drew a deep breath and succumbed to that familiar feeling of…
lack. Dear god, Alex, climb out of your arse, I chastised.
‘Lack’ was the last word anyone would use to describe me.
I checked my smartwatch and saw ten minutes had passed in a moment.
While there was no doubt in my mind that tonight would go down in history as the worst evening of my life, for some deep-seated reason, I couldn’t stand to be late.
I grabbed the box from my desk and replied to Mimi.
Evan will pick you up in 15 minutes. I’ll meet you at the theatre.
I called my driver. “Lord Toverton,” Evan answered.
“Please collect Ms Preston-Black from the apartment in fifteen minutes and bring her to Covent Garden. I’ll make my own way.”
“Right away, sir,” he replied in his oddly soothing Welsh lilt, given that the man could disable an attacker in the blink of an eye. That’s why he was also my bodyguard.
I hit the button on my desk to engage the smart glass, then unzipped the Gieves I had to work late this evening.”
“I hope you’re prepared,” she clipped. “Rupert has organised a photographer to be at the predrinks, and everyone who counts will be in attendance. Your announcement will be front-page news tomorrow.”
Wonderful, Mimi’s father, the opportunistic media mogul, was pulling the strings as usual. “How considerate of him.”
“We expect a little gratitude given the arrangements we’ve all made to secure your future.”
My future! You have to be kidding. “I’m just not sure tonight is the right time—”
“It’s time,” Mother said with certainty. “Remember, your duties to the duchy take priority—always.”
Always? “Yes, Mother.”
“Believe me,” her voice dropped low. “You’d much rather deal with me than your father. Now, let’s get this done.”
“Of course.”
“Goodnight, dearest, and good luck.”
The lift pinged on the basement garage, and I strode to my black Bentley Continental for the short drive to the Royal Opera House.
The conservatory of Paul Hamlyn Hall was softly lit, emphasising the deep twilight tinting the glass ceiling.
I adored this building, which was once a vibrant flower market selling seasonal blooms to the good houses, the romantics, and the guilt-ridden.
Tonight, it was filled with displays of funeral-esque white lilies. They seemed fitting.
“Alex, dahling! You must promise to have dinner with us soon,” Lady Charlotte Fadbury interrupted my thoughts.
I smiled genially at her and took a gulp of champagne, waiting for the welcome dullness to wash over me.
She passed her empty glass to her bored-looking husband and latched onto my arm, partly in flirtation and partly for stability.
“And you must bring Mimi too. She is such a lark. The life of the party. Isn’t that what I told you, Andrew?
” Lottie angled her head towards his deadpan expression, not waiting for a reply.
“I thought your mother mentioned she was coming this evening.”
“She’s on her way. I needed to work late, so I couldn’t accompany her,” I said easily, hiding my racing pulse as the box burnt a hole in my pocket.
“Oh, I can just envisage it. You inside your ivory tower, looking over London as it bends to your whim—”
“Are you a fan of Verdi, Alex?” Andrew interjected, attempting to manoeuvre the conversation away from his inebriated wife.
“I am, although I prefer a traditional production to the modern adaptations that seem so popular.”
“You Brits are always the same,” he scoffed in a vowelly Boston drawl. “Culture must move with the times. It surprises me you have such a traditional view on things when you head up a technology company.”
Something about his comment ruffled me. “I don’t condemn the contemporary, quite the opposite. I simply appreciate the authentic rather than the novel. I suppose I’m somewhat sentimental at heart.”
Just then, Miriam Preston-Black entered the conservatory and scanned the room with keen eyes.
I noted she’d opted for the black backless Vera Wang that, on anyone else, might have been deemed indecent for a night at the opera, but Mimi could pull it off.
Her slender frame and wispy, long blonde hair were engulfed by most of her clothing, so she often wore little, day and night.
She looked like she might snap at any moment, although I knew all too well she was anything but fragile.
I necked the rest of my Moet and raised my hand.
Mimi locked onto me, making a beeline that cut right through the middle of the assembly.
Men turned their heads while their wives and partners eyed her from head to toe.
The diamond necklace I’d bought for her birthday the month before twinkled in the soft light as she glided closer.
How long ago that felt.
“Dahling!” Mimi drawled, entering our small circle. She moved in to air-kiss my cheek.”
“You’ve kept me waiting for over half an hour,” I whispered.
“I expected you to collect me, tonight of all nights. There were press outside the apartment. It would have been the perfect shot.” She gave me a hard stare before turning to the couple with a well-practised smile.
“Traffic was murder; I thought I’d miss the start.
All those ridiculous bus lanes snarling up the roads.
” In a beat, her gaze shot to a nearby waitress carrying a tray of champagne flutes. She clicked her fingers.
I winced. Graciousness cost nothing, which was why it was worthless to a social climber like Mimi.
“It’s so lovely to see you, dahling!” Lottie declared a touch too loudly and moved in for a contactless kiss. “You look divine, as always!”
Mimi swiped a glass without acknowledgement, missing the server’s subtle eye roll. “Thank you, this was a little treat from Alex.” She switched her expression to demure while modelling her dress. “He’s such a dear heart.”
Andrew eyed her lecherously from head to toe. “Your boyfriend was just telling us he’s not a fan of modern versions of classic operas. What do you think, Mimi?”
“Oh, yes, yes, I quite agree. They’re so vulgar and often only done to show more sex.” She rolled her steel-blue eyes to me in evident meaning. I averted my gaze towards the exit. “Two lovers in Paris, as if they needed to spice it up!”
I rolled my head back with a wry smile. “You’re thinking of La Bohème.”
“What’s that, dahling?” Her eyes narrowed, holding my gaze as she sipped her champagne.
I continued undeterred and not a little petulant. “La Bohème is about two lovers in Paris. We are watching La Traviata: the courtesan who falls for the aristocrat and then dies.
Before she could scratch back, the five-minute bell rang through the conservatory, marking my cue. Mimi shot me a triumphant look, and I spotted the photographer setting his camera. “Are you ready, dear heart?”
My gaze darted back to the exit, and I seriously considered it, but I wasn’t one to run… Equally, I wasn’t one to be bullied.