Chapter 4
Kara - Present
The black Bentley pulls up to the kerb in front of Claridge‘s. They’ve extended the pavement into the road and covered it in a luscious, red carpet which runs along the length of the front.
Posh cars line up, waiting to drop off their guests.
On either side, photographers stand behind rope, constantly taking pictures of people as they mingle towards the entrance. Some talk, ignoring the flashes, while others stop and pose for them.
Some I recognise, mostly though they are just faces in a sea of people.
I glance in the compact mirror and reapply my blood red lipstick that matches my dress, my eyes coated in a gold, shimmery eye shadow.
I’ve done exactly what Anya suggested when she came and helped me get ready.
My hair is in a messy chignon, with loose tendrils falling out, framing my face. My make up natural. The four-inch Dior heels hug my feet, and the dress looks amazing.
I look amazing.
My dark hair and bright blue, piercing eyes have quite the effect, my complexion clear. My make up is contoured and I have powder accentuating my key features. Making everything more prominent.
Having spent last night reading the information provided from Andrews and staying up well into the early hours adding my own information, I’m feeling reasonably well acquainted with Mr Cooper.
Who, it would seem, has managed to bury Owen King exceptionally deep, so deep even our intelligence has had a hard time trying to locate anything concrete.
Snippets of reports here and there, but one thing that was easy to find: our link.
Which should put my mind at ease, but it doesn’t. If anything, it raises the question as to why he hasn’t buried me? Buried us.
As for Owen Cooper though, well, he went to university, studied politics, and passed with a 2.
1 and a butt ton of debt. From there he started local, building a name and following for himself in his local community.
Support built, along with pressure for him to join a political party, but he was independent, and adamant about staying that way.
Although that’s what the intelligence says, I don’t believe it. Not if he somehow has ties to the Covenant. And if there’s doubt, it’s a real possibility that everything I have read is fake.
Foster care, school, university, politics.
I climb out the car gracefully, careful not to step on the train of my dress and slowly make the walk up the red carpet.
Eyes are on me, and I stop across from the cameras to pose.
Tonight, Kara Snow is wearing a mask.
The mask of Lucy Cook.
Heads turn. Men stop mid conversation, their dates looking over to see who has caught their attention. I nod my hellos and smile politely at people who watch me pass. I think it’s safe to say I’ve made an entrance.
Doormen stand, waiting at the opulent entrance that has had a modern facelift with Roman stone and a mirrored foyer breaking up the otherwise red bricked building.
The doorman opens the double doors and I step into the grand lobby of Claridge‘s, its black-and-white checkered floor and ornate decor welcoming me into the luxurious space.
People are directed through the hotel towards the ballroom reception.
The whole way, I feel like everyone is watching me as I follow the stream of people.
I take a glass of champagne from a passing server and slowly follow the couple in front of me down the corridors, which have been decorated with large vases of lilies and white roses, the red carpet our personal guide to the event.
“Independent Politician,” I overhear the man in front.
“They say he’s making quite the impact, David,” the woman replies.
“As an independent?” he retorts with a snort, his posh, pompous accent and deep voice giving him an air of arrogance—which I can imagine is exactly what he is. “How can he possibly make an impact without a political party standing behind him?”
“Things are changing, David. People are fed up.”
“Nonsense. People are like sheep, they follow. Social Media outlets help that, the media. They control them all, Diane.”
I roll my eyes.
This is why I am dreading tonight—nothing to do with Owen Cooper.
It’s the politics, and arrogant people like David here.
I hate it.
I hate anything that the government stands for. The entire system is broken, and here I am, hearing the first conversation of the evening talk about not only Owen but also politics.
This is going to be a long, trying night.
I take a gulp of my champagne and see a sign for the ladies, where I quickly head, letting Diane and David go off ahead. I don’t think I could stomach listening to any more of their nonsense. I should also probably not stab them with the knife that’s strapped to my leg.
Everyone’s an expert.
Everyone has an opinion.
By the time I’m back in the hallway, Diane, and her arrogant twat of a partner, husband, brother, whoever the bloody hell he was, are nowhere to be seen.
Thank God.
In fact, the hive of activity has reduced, except for the group that has just passed me.
Falling in behind them, I enter the grand hall. The room, just like the hotel, it’s set to the highest of standards. An extravagant chandelier hangs centre stage, with other smaller chandeliers across the rest of the ceiling.
The décor is beautiful; white chairs with gold accents, tables covered in white cloth with mirrored tops, tall centre pieces, mirrored vases that have roses perfectly placed to create a circle, with orchids running out and draping down on to the table.
The lighting is dim, but high enough that you can make out who is where, the white glow giving the room a romantic and warm atmosphere.
Well, this isn’t too shabby.
To the right stands a table plan, along with some attendants who stand with clipboards to help guests find their tables.
Andrews sent me full information about the event along with plans of the hotel, which I’ve managed to memorise along with a number of different exit routes if the proverbial shit hits the fan.
I smile at the attendant with a clipboard.
“Lucy Cook.”
She scans her clipboard and locates my name. “Miss Cook, you’re at table 8. Just towards the right over there, first row around the dance floor.”
“Thank you.” I head with my champagne glass towards my table as a round of applause starts. All the guests heads are looking towards the entrance behind me.
I halt in my tracks and turn slowly, placing my glass down and bag on the nearest table. My hands raise on their own, following suit to clap—not that I have any bloody idea why.
Walking through the crowd of faces is a couple, radiating grace.
The lady’s dress is a sequinned number that clings to her thin frame.
The light from the room captures the little beads, making them sparkle and flicker as she walks through the room with her partner tucked up against her.
They are in their mid-fifties but walk through the crowd as if they own it.
Which maybe they do.
They shake hands and smile at key people. But something—no, not something, someone—pulls my attention to their right. A gentleman stands behind them, talking with a couple off to the side.
His tuxedo is tailored and fits his physique perfectly, his broad shoulders and long legs covered by the dark material.
He looks just the same, but so different all at once.
His dark hair is the same. Longer, but a similar style to how he used to wear it as a teenager; after he got through his weird obsession with curtains. I smile, remembering the time I got chewing gum in it. He was furious.
His jawline is stronger, peppered with a light dusting of dark facial hair, like he hasn’t shaved for a few days. His face looks more defined and fuller, but he’s just as beautiful.
So different, but so innately similar.
It’s him.
My body thrums as heat flushes through me, building from my heart, flushing over my chest, making my heartbeat faster.
Fuck me.
Adrenaline, like I want to immediately bolt, catches me completely off guard.
He must sense my eyes on him, as he glances up and looks straight to where I stand. Our eyes lock, and in that moment, everything disappears. Like a willow of smoke being blown on a wind.
I am rendered frozen, speechless, as images from our childhood filled with the good, bad, and damn right ugly threaten to overwhelm me.
I blink them away as he continues to stare and I see the very moment that he recognises me. His eyes widen, and he tracks my body in slow motion, taking me in just as I did with him.
I absorb him, drinking every inch of him like I’m parched. Emotions play over his face like a film, and I desperately fight to keep mine in a neutral position.
He says something to the people he’s with, he walks towards me, ignoring anyone talking to him or trying to get his attention.
I am his one and only focus, and I am melting under his intense, green stare.
He strides across the room with profound purpose, and suddenly something wakes inside of me.
A feeling, an emotion.
It’s clawing at my throat, and I quickly swallow it.
In this moment, I’m not Kara Snow pretending to be Lucy Cook. No, I am Lucy Cook, and walking towards me, getting closer and closer by the second, is the very person who abandoned me and left me in the hell house.
But he’s also the person who saved me so many times, and luckily for him, right now that emotion is stronger. That emotion that feels relief at seeing him, that finds comfort in being in his presence again. And for the first time in years, a calmness washes over me.
And I want to grab hold of it with two hands.
My face splits out in a big grin. He mirrors it, and it’s the most breathtaking smile I have ever seen. His whole face lights up, like it did as a kid, his dimples prominently showing.
Forgetting about my bag and champagne, I close the remaining distance and throw my arms around his neck. He swiftly catches me around my waist and picks me up off the ground.
We are both laughing and as he spins me round, his voice is by my ear and he whispers, “Cookie.”
His breath warm.
The sound, the emotion, the memories, it engulfs me in a blanket, and warmth spreads over my body as I flush. My pulse quickens, and I realise in that exact moment, I’m fucked.
All those years of training, all those years of learning how to suppress emotions. All those years I’ve hidden from Lucy Cook, the person I used to be. But in this moment, seeing Owen again, I realise she’s still very much a part of who I am.
As is Owen King.
Yup.
Completely and utterly fucked.
He puts me down on the floor, but we don’t let go; my arms locked around his neck, his around my waist as he buries his head into my hair and breaths me in.
And I do the same.
The smell of his aftershave, which is fresh and sharp with a warm, woody base intertwined with his shampoo and washing powder, brings a moment of calm in the storm of my emotions.
“I think we’re drawing a crowd,” I whisper as we continue to grip hold of each other.
I pull back and grin at him.
Owen Cooper is cute. No, cute isn’t the right word. Owen Cooper is beautiful.
Breathtakingly beautiful.
His hands are resting on my face as he stares intently at me, searching for something deep inside of me. He glances around and there are indeed a number of people looking on at our reunion, including a few camera flashes.
He places the briefest of kisses to my forehead before his hand drops from my face and grabs hold of my pinkie finger.
I miss the warmth of his touch and glance down stupidly at our intertwined fingers, my heart beating wildly at him, holding my hand in the exact same way as we did as children.
My finger wrapped around his, looking so tiny. Just like it always did.
He pulls me towards the side where we aren’t creating quite the spectacle of ourselves, and I follow, still blinded and sluggish from our reunion.
Get your head in the game, Kara, Andrews’ voice fills my subconscious.
Owen navigates me towards a door, but stops at one of the smaller tables that line the walls.
Like the dinner tables, they are shrouded in a white tablecloth, but these are bar height, allowing people to stand at them, the simple vases in the middle with a small flower display tying the decor together.
He finally let’s go of me and we stand in front of each other, the table between us.
I don’t speak.
Instead, I watch him. Owen looks intently at me, tracking over my body again, over my face, deep into my soul.
He’s making sure I’m okay.
It’s what we used to do as kids, after an episode when it was safe, after…he would claim me from the hiding spot he had put me in, and he would stare at me.
My cheeks would be tear stained, my teddy would still be in my hand, my little fist gripping it in a tight vice. But I’d be okay, because Owen would have hidden me.
Every time he would stare, and he would ask me with his eyes and a slight nod of his head whether I was okay. And that’s exactly what he’s doing now.
But I don’t nod.
Not like I used to.
Instead, I shake my head barely.
No.
Because I wasn’t okay, or at least I hadn’t been okay, because he abandoned me.
He broke his promise.