Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
Gigi
Four months later
The spotlight softens, turning golden instead of white. The floor beneath me becomes smooth, polished wood. The smoke turns into something sweet and delicate, and Pixies’ pink velvet curtains drop, concealing the stage from prying eyes.
And then I see him.
Harry.
He steps out from the far end of the stage, dressed in black trousers and a crisp shirt, collar open and sleeves rolled up to his elbows like he used to dress. His emerald-green eyes lock onto mine, drawing me closer to him.
He stretches out his hand, that familiar smile etched over his mouth.
“Dance with me,” he says.
I take his hand, not questioning it.
We move together in time with the music, and I forget the crowd, the lights, the club. I forget my bruises, my exhaustion, my debt. I forget everything except him.
His eyes are full of everything I haven’t felt in so long. The music wraps round us, and we dance, far from the performance we used to put on.
I press my body closer to his as we move slowly. “You came back.”
He murmurs against my hair, “I never left.”
He twirls me, once, twice, and I laugh as he pulls me back into his chest, almost tripping over my bare feet. I can’t remember the last time I sounded like this. Like someone who still has a heart to give.
Tears springing to my eyes, I whisper in disbelief, “You’re really here.”
“Of course I’m here,” he says softly. “Where else would I be?”
His eyes search mine with the kind of look you give someone you’ve missed so much it physically hurts. My head falls to his shoulder, and I simply breathe him in.
His hand cradles the side of my face, fingers stroking the strands of my hair. I can’t say whether we’re swaying, moving, or staying still – all I know is that he’s holding me, and I’m holding him.
I look up to his face, and trauma settles in his eyes. Panic barrels through me.
“Harry—?”
“But you’re his.”
I shake my head, lips trembling. “What I did, I did for us.”
But he doesn’t answer.
His thumb brushes the curve of my waist, and as I look round, I recognise the familiarity of his home. The sofa and the television set in the modest living room, a record player spinning lazily on the wooden coffee table.
But it’s not real. None of it is. Except for the promise I made – the one that keeps Harry safe. The one that keeps me standing here instead of screaming and setting the whole damn place on fire.
I know because his house is reduced to ash and unrecognisable remains, crumbled at the end of a driveway in a quiet cul-de-sac. The reality of us lies in the rubble in Surrey.
And that’s when I notice it.
His scent is wrong. Sharper. The way he holds me is different, and the hand surrounding my waist certainly isn’t his.
No.
The fantasy crumbles, giving way to the sticky floor, men’s greedy stares, and the thick, heavy smoke of Pixies’ stage. The lights flare, and everything reappears, crashing round me with brutal clarity.
My head snaps up, and I see Hudson.
His fingers hesitate on the strap of my dress. I’m meant to be encouraging the straps off my shoulders, but after slipping too far into my subconscious, nothing makes sense.
With his hand hovering on my forearm, he gently tugs me forwards, moving me into position. The dress falls. I’m supposed to be stepping out of the fabric like the routine says.
I drop my head, staring at the dress pooling at my feet.
“Gigi,” Hudson says quietly, trying to bring me back.
I force a smile, snapping myself back into focus to finish the dance.
The music ends, the slow rhythm slithering down my spine. An applause rings when the lights drop, but I barely hear it, desperate to compose myself.
A few moments later, I’m back in my dressing room, ripping off the ratty blonde wig and chucking it against the dresser. I drop down into the velvet chair, slipping off my fishnets as Hudson steps inside, quietly shutting the door behind him.
“Gigi?”
I keep my head down, slipping my feet out of the thin fabric. “Yes?”
He’s quiet for long enough that I’m forced to turn towards him. He hesitates, looking as if something is broken inside.
Not pity.
Not guilt.
Something quieter. Like regret.
“You weren’t with me,” he says under his breath, not accusing, just … knowing.
Hudson doesn’t need confirmation, because he’s seen it before. He’s witnessed firsthand the times I’ve slipped into a reality where I’m not promised to another man, nor am I forced to strip in front of an audience multiple times a day.
He watches closely, as if giving me the opportunity to deny it. I don’t.
I’m a stranger to myself – someone who smiles when told and dances when her bones want to shatter. But I persevere for Harry. The threat to his life is a blinding reminder of why I tolerate this pain every day.
Having lost myself again to another thought, I snap my head sideways as the en-suite bathroom door swings open. Jamie strolls out smirking, a woman with black hair clutching onto his elbow.
The prick’s belt is undone, fly zipped down.
Any other wife-to-be would be mortified, but the more he finds his fix elsewhere, the greater the chance I’ll be left alone.
The pair turn towards me, surprised but far from guilty.
“Nice of you to join us,” I say.
The woman at his side smiles, too tight to be kind.
She whispers something to Jamie before slipping past Hudson and exiting the changing room. Echoes of guests from the main floor slip through the crack in the door before it closes again.
Jamie asks breathlessly, “You’re both finished already?”
Hudson gestures to Jamie’s belt, and despite being caught red-handed, he grins as he readjusts his jeans. Though it does little to conceal his unbuttoned shirt and the nail marks tracked over his chest.
“How was the performance?”
I duck my head at his question, busying myself by slipping my dressing gown from my bag and wrapping it round my shoulders. Under the weight of Hudson’s stare, I tie the material with a knot at the waist, purposely making myself appear busy.
I half-expect him to say I wasn’t present or that I didn’t play the role I was supposed to.
I wouldn’t blame him.
“Fine.” He clears his throat. “Standing ovation as usual.”
I finally lift my head, my expression soft and silently thankful. I only have a moment to spot his weak smile in return before Jamie demands my attention, his eyes narrowed and accusatory.
“Blimey, you look miserable,” he spits. “You’d better perk up before tomorrow.”
I nod stiffly. “Of course.”
Jamie pauses midway through fastening his shirt buttons. His hand flexes as though he’s holding himself back. “Hudson.” He finishes with his shirt. “Give me and Gigi a moment alone, please.”
Hudson hesitates, undecided if that’s the right thing to do.
“It’s okay,” I say. “You can go.”
He lingers in the doorway, staring me down with an expression I’ve never been able to fully grasp. As expected, he sighs and follows the command, slowly taking his time to exit the room. The door closes behind him with a soft click.
Jamie casually fixes his cufflinks. “Do you know what tomorrow is?”
“Our engagement party.”
“That’s right.” He comes closer, stopping a footstep away. He ducks his head, forcing me to meet his gaze as his whiskey-laced breath fills my nose. “So why do you look so fucking miserable?”
I run my hands over my face to force the exhaustion away. “I’m just tired, Jamie. I’ve been working every night—”
He catches my wrist, applying a pressure that would have once forced me to wilt. But I learned quickly he thrives on acts of violence.
He sternly reminds me, “It’s our engagement party.”
“I. Know.”
“I want my fucking money.” He bends back my wrist, forcing the joint to scream with pain. “So tell me, what aren’t you going to do?”
“Look tired.”
“You’re going to look the part.”
He bends it back further, and further still, until my entire arm is screeching for redemption. I’ve given him the answer he wanted, but he smirks wider with each passing second, eating up my reaction as the agony forces me to blink back tears.
Finally releasing his grip, he steps back.
My chest loosens with the release, and I fist my skin, circling my hand to encourage blood flow.
“Now we’ve got that sorted.” He opens the door to the dressing room. “Let’s go home.”
I half-expect Hudson to be lingering in the hallway, but there are only a few girls in outfits not too dissimilar to mine. They duck their heads, keeping to themselves as they scurry past. I take my bag, resting it over my arm as Jamie and I exit the room.
The hallway smells of cheap perfume, cigarette ash, and stale vodka, all ingrained into the carpets. He escorts us through the crowded seating area as if purposely showing me off, his arm slung round my shoulders.
We pass the velvet fabric that decorates the back walls, the sounds of laughter quieting behind us as we near the exit. The darkness outside contrasts the pink strobe lights, and I blink hard to adjust my vision.
Jamie unlocks his Porsche and climbs into the driver’s seat. He revs the gas impatiently as I get in the passenger side. The car pulls away from Pixies before I’m able to fully clip my seatbelt round me, the tyres scraping against the road with the erratic movement.
The streets of London pass us by, the city rumbling with life. I listen to every sound – the beeping of pedestrian crossings, the heavy bass of clubs not too different from the one we just exited, and the rowdy shouts of late-night drinkers.
The nightlife turns quieter as we drive into the more affluent part of town, nearing our home in Hampstead.
Home.
A funny word since it feels far from it.
But to play the part, you also must live it.
And Richard and Jamie thought it would only be appropriate to purchase the most elegant townhouse in the entire neighbourhood, boasting six bedrooms and decorated with the finest modern appliances, every room interior-designed to within an inch of its life.
It’s something of a haven for me, since Jamie prefers for us to sleep in separate rooms – a demand I’m more than happy to allow.
Yet some nights, it doesn’t work out that way.
He parks the Porsche in the designated spot out front of the house. “You’ll stay in my room tonight.”
Fuck.
I mask the disgust settling in the pit of my stomach and offer that same forced smile he always analyses too intently. He doesn’t question it this time.
We trail up the steps, letting ourselves into the home that suddenly feels far colder knowing I won’t be on my own tonight. Jamie trails down the hallway to shower, and I bask in the silence while I can. But his bedroom is like a demonic ghost whispering my name, pulling me towards it.
My hand hesitates on the banister. I balance my weight against it, pulling myself closer to the room. I settle on the edge of the bed, wiping my face free of the glitter eyeshadow and red lipstick.
Condensation slips under the door leading to the en suite as I pull on my pyjamas. I climb under the sheets, the fabric feeling sharp and scratchy as I curl my body under its weight. I’m facing the wall by the time Jamie finally exits the bathroom.
I close my eyes, forcing my chest into a steady rhythm, pretending I’m asleep.
The mattress dips behind me as he climbs in, his fingertips curling into my side as he brings me closer to his front. I fight a grimace as he breathes into my ear, whispering something foul as his hand drops beneath my shorts.
I’ve learnt the hard way that thoughts are sacred, so again, as part of the devastating routine, I just imagine I’m elsewhere.
I imagine I’m with someone else.
I imagine I’m with him.