Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
Gigi
The breath is gone from my chest by the time I’ve pulled myself from Pixies’ stage after another performance. I slip off the wig, wiping it over my forehead to collect the build-up of sweat on my skin.
As I reach my dresser, I brace my hands against it, focusing on regaining air into my lungs.
I need a minute.
Just a minute to catch my breath
Hudson asks gently, “Gigi?”
“Give me a second,” I snap before turning my voice softer. “Please.”
A second at least.
My heart rate slows as I take a moment to pull myself together through the exhaustion. While my body aches for more time, I don’t want to risk pressing further with Hudson’s watchful gaze. Can’t risk letting them see me weak.
I step back, righting my balance and pretending the sweat hugging the back of my neck isn’t accompanied by stars at the edges of my vision. Hudson watches every movement carefully.
“You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Well, I do, is what I want to say. Otherwise you’ll tell them.
Instead I avoid eye contact and say, “I’m going to shower.”
I slip into the bathroom before he can question it and press my forehead against the closed door, taking that extra moment of relief. Just for the second I promised myself before stepping away.
I pretend the hot water from the showerhead doesn’t ache against my sore skin, nor do my roots scream with resistance as I brush the strands.
Play the part, I remind myself. You chose this.
I slip out of the shower, wrapping the towel round my body and turning towards the ivory dress hanging on the back of the bathroom door: a silk halterneck gown by a prestigious British designer, hand-picked for today’s event. The notorious engagement party dress.
I didn’t have a say in it, of course, or in any part of the planning, for that matter. The only thing I know from fittings is that it hugs my waist a little too tight and shows more side-boob than necessary.
I snatch it from the hanger, refusing to think about it further.
The silk slithers over my skin as I step into it, my knees threatening to buckle under the weight of the fabric.
I attempt to secure it round the back of my neck, only to struggle with the intricate fastening.
Holding the pieces against my chest to conceal myself, I step out of the bathroom as a harsh knock bangs against the dressing-room door.
Barely a moment passes before Jamie saunters in, his features set rigid.
“What’s taking so long?”
Hudson starts, “We only just finished the performance—”
“You’re not even dressed yet!” Jamie barks at me.
“I can’t fasten my dress.”
“For fuck’s sake, I’ll do it.”
His response is too quick to be kind.
I watch him carefully, cautious as he steps up to my back. He takes the fabric balanced round the sides of my neck, fiddling with the pieces. He hesitates long enough that I start to turn towards him.
“Jamie—?”
Strong fingers pull tight on the silk, closing off my windpipe. It restrains my throat, cutting off my ability to breathe.
I wrap my fingers round the fabric, trying to pull it away, as I gasp for air.
My own calmness doesn’t surprise me. I know Jamie wouldn’t kill me before our marriage binds him to his fortune, and perhaps the idea of death doesn’t seem that terrifying after what I’ve suffered the past few months.
He pivots us to face Hudson, and my eyes lock onto his concerned expression.
Jamie drawls, “I think this version suits her better – don’t you think?”
The material groans as it cuts into my neck.
I thrash against him. “Stop—”
My lungs tire for air, and I scan the ground through my darkening vision, preparing myself for the inevitable fall when I lose consciousness.
Jamie pulls tighter.
Oh fuck.
I brace for the impact, stiffening my joints …
Hudson’s voice cuts through. “Don’t.”
Jamie’s head whips towards him, the sudden movement loosening his grip just slightly, allowing me to inhale a desperate breath. Panic flashes over Hudson’s face before he stands taller. At his full height, he towers above Jamie at least by a few inches.
“If the engagement is meant to be believable, you don’t want her to turn up with bruises. People will ask questions.”
A moment of pause.
“Ah,” Jamie muses. “You’re right.”
He finally lets go, and all at once, the air comes rushing into my lungs.
I fight the immediate reaction to clutch my throat, knowing he’ll get a kick out of the pain.
I busy myself with grabbing the pearl earrings from the side table and slipping them into my ears, despite how much I want to stab the pieces of jewellery into his fucking eye sockets.
“Here.”
I turn back to him. He’s preoccupied with something on his phone as he slips his hand into his pocket. He pulls out a wooden box, presenting it in the palm of his hand without looking up.
I stare at it, frozen.
Jamie tilts up his chin, raising his brow. “Take it.”
I step forwards, taking the box into my hand.
My hesitation forces him to groan, “Open it then.”
I press my thumbs against the box, popping it open.
The diamond shines bright, twinkling, in the low light of the dressing room.
I don’t know much about diamonds, but I’m not a fool.
The white rock is huge and would have cost a fortune.
It’s a classic design, with a single stone in the shape of a pear.
Would he know if I were to place it on the wrong finger?
Probably.
I slip it onto my ring finger. The silence in the room forces me to offer a tight smile.
“It’s beautiful,” I mutter.
“Cost me a quarter of a million.”
I roll my eyes as he turns away. Would you like me to tell you that’s impressive?
Jamie turns on me fast, and my pupils flare as I realise I said that out loud.
He storms closer, stopping only a foot away, hand flexing at his side as if he’s tempted to use it. “Do I need to remind you why you’re here?”
“No.”
“Then be fucking grateful.”
“I am grateful – really.”
But his brows draw together as if seeing straight through the lie. Fear pricks at the back of my neck as he steps closer still, his expression unforgiving.
“This is the life you want.” He drops his voice lower, yet the threat hits just as heavy. “You’d better act like it.”
My heels echo against the marble as I move through the crowd, graceful and composed. The way I’m expected to be. Every hair in place. Every smile measured.
No matter how much I ache to.
Everything is so rehearsed, so fake, and so quintessentially British. The brush of kisses on my cheek with people I barely know. Playing into the plot of the upcoming marriage, worthy of magazine front covers, a love story with a London socialite.
The ballroom in Claridge’s, a luxury hotel in the heart of Mayfair, is swarming with guests.
Reporters follow me round like vultures, desperate for interviews or a candid shot of me revelling in the excitement of the engagement party.
But I’m constantly on my feet, moving through the crowd in an attempt to look busy, desperate not to be caught by a single individual.
I’m pulled to a stop when someone places a manicured hand on my arm.
“Gigi, you’re glowing.”
I smile in thanks, searching my brain for any knowledge of who this woman is. I come up empty. Her teeth are perfectly white, contrasting the grey streaks of hair that catch in the light as she turns her attention to the man drawing closer.
“Isn’t he just dashing?”
Jamie saunters over, his smile smug like he owns the ground beneath him.
Expression tight, I muse, “Isn’t he just?”
Approaching my side, he slides his arm round my waist. “My future wife is as gorgeous as ever.”
He’s in his element here – sharp suit, smooth voice, charming enough to make the world forget what he really is when the cameras are gone.
The woman coos softly, like a proud grandma.
People call out, “Jamie, Gigi – over here!”
We’re swarmed quickly by a sea of reporters, bringing their cameras close. I keep smiling, letting him kiss my cheek for the flashing lights. Their blinding flash overpowers the glow of the rest of the room, the low background barely distinguishable over the shutter of the camera lenses.
There’s a smell of lavender and champagne in the air. It’s the kind of party where everything looks like a dream.
Except I’m wide-awake, and so is the nightmare.
Rare times like this I ache for the girl who lost her sanity to bite back and revel in her inability to care, since now I feel like a shell of who I used to be.
I hate it. I hate how I slip into self-pity when I’m not the one who matters here. It isn’t my life on the line, and it wasn’t my house that burned down due to someone else’s decision.
I hate it … because I’m not a woman worthy of sympathy after everything I’ve done.
It doesn’t matter that I feel like I’m dying, because Harry is out there breathing.
His name is a knot in my chest that won’t come undone no matter how many flutes of champagne I force down.
“Keep smiling, darling,” Jamie murmurs. “You wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen.”
The cameras flash a second faster as his lips brush my ear, his hand moving to the small of my back.
My skin flinches under his touch, but I don’t move.
I steer my attention elsewhere, but the word “engaged” screams at me, “Jamie + Gigi” plastered across the bottom.
It’s in everything I see, everywhere I look, from the bunting across the wall, to the three-tier cake tucked away in the corner, to the embroidered napkins.
My heartbeat quickens in my tightening chest, and I dart my hand out as a waiter walks past. I cling onto a glass of champagne from their tray, downing it quickly – faster when Jamie’s grip presses in lower.
Something heavy settles on the back of my neck, a weighted gaze calling for my attention. I turn my head over my shoulder, pulled towards the bar, but all I see is a server and an array of expensive drinks.
A camera’s bright flash forces my attention forwards.
I drop my voice low. “I’m just going to grab another drink.”
I’m already heading towards the flutes of champagne before Jamie can protest. As I make my way over, I steer my attention back towards him to make sure I’m not being followed. But of course, he oozes charisma, one hand resting leisurely in his front pocket as he chats with the cameramen.
Bastard.
A glass is already at my lips before I’ve managed to sit on a barstool. Strangers’ questioning gazes as I rush my drink forces me to tilt my head away.
Hudson appears alongside me, resting his elbow against the worktop. “You’re doing well.”
I snatch the drink gripped between his fingertips. “I’m glad to know I passed your test.”
A rumble of laughter draws my eyes to the corner of the room, where Jamie now stands laughing with a group of politicians Richard hand-picked, none of whom I recognise.
But that’s to be expected, since this is as big of a display as any. There are only a few familiar faces in the crowd, a mixture of recruits from the Circle and Richard’s elder friends, but other than that, complete strangers—
Hot breath fans the back of my neck. The hairs on my skin stand on end, the effect strong enough that I rise to my feet.
A deep voice asks, “Would you like another drink?”
My stomach twists, and I turn round slowly.
His voice is so low, so familiar – but no, it can’t be.
Still, something about the broadness of his shoulder claws at my memory.
The bartender keeps his eyes down as he wipes a glass that doesn’t need cleaning. A fitted white shirt clings to his torso, emphasising his large frame, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Hair so black it looks like midnight.
A fleck of red on his neck that looks suspiciously like blood.
My attention darts back to his face. Everyone here has been vetted and approved, but this man—
“Something the matter, Miss Thomas?” he drawls without looking up.
I shake my head, trying to push myself out of the trance. My eyes are still trained on his face as I reach for a glass. He reaches out at the same time, knocking his knuckle against the stem, causing the drink to slip before I can properly grasp it.
A cold splash hit my chest, the white silk turning slightly sheer and clinging to my skin with the gold liquid. I force my head up, glued to the bartender’s unforgiving expression.
I don’t give a toss about the dress, but gasps quickly rise round me from party guests. I feel their wide eyes and watchful stares, as if they’re questioning why I’m not making a scene.
“Oh my God,” I say, purposely loud. “I need to get myself changed.”
Napkin in hand, he reaches forwards instinctively, stopping just shy of touching me. “I would say I’m sorry,” – his eyes finally rise to meet mine – “but that’s not the dress I ever pictured you in.”
Everything in me collapses.
Harry.
I can’t move.
Can’t speak.
Can’t do anything other than stare at him while my heart bleeds out in the middle of a room full of strangers.
He backs away subtly before turning without a word. No one seems to recognise him, let alone know he’s disappeared, as he slips behind the velvet curtain.
My hands are still shaking, my pulse all wrong, as I watch him leave.
I instinctively step forwards to follow him, but a hand wraps round my bicep.
Oh, fuck off.
“This isn’t a good idea,” Hudson warns.
“Will you tell?”
He visibly swallows, eyes darting over my shoulder. “It’s my job—”
“Then go on your break.”
I pull my arm free and pass through the crowd, ignoring those calling my name. Hudson’s voice is easily distinguishable above the raised voices, the ring on my finger weighing heavier as I chase after the very man I shouldn’t be.
There’s no sign of Harry when I reach the hallway. Unable to risk calling his name, I turn my head down the corridor, only to come up empty.
Fuck.
I hesitate before slipping into the woman’s bathroom, needing a moment to compose myself. The stalls are empty as I enter. A gilded mirror sits above a marble sink, a flustered bride-to-be staring at me through the reflection.
My chest is soaked.
The fabric clings too tightly, revealing too much.
My pulse quickens, my heart racing.
The door cracks behind me.
“Princess.”
I lift my head, meeting Harry’s dark eyes in the mirror.
“Are you fucking marrying him?”