Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
Gigi
I’m falling I’m falling I’m falling—
This is wrong and fucking cruel.
I’m nothing except lost without Harry, so why does the decision I made to save his life feel so dishonourable?
“Just tell me,” he said. “Why him? Why not me?”
It’s always been you.
Even now.
Even after all this time.
But he can’t see the truth, so instead he sees the woman who’s bashed him time and time again selfishly choosing another man, purposely shredding his heart in the process.
Jamie’s voice slides over the words: “Till death do us part.”
His grip is like a vice as he leans in, the threat lingering in the air. Unable to give in to the torment with Harry watching out there somewhere, I turn my head at the last second.
A chorus of “awws” echoes through the crowd. Unbeknown to them, Jamie’s lips are stiffly moving to my cheek, accessorised with a dangerous flare in his eyes. Rather than voice the threat, he laughs coldly, in a way that makes it clear I’ll regret doing that.
A flash of movement in the crowd pulls me towards Harry as he walks away. I only catch a glimpse of him before he disappears behind the curtain.
His safety is what I’ve fought to have for months, yet I’m dying on the inside knowing he believes the lies I continue to play into. The devastation in his eyes when I claimed to love Jamie hits me with force again. The pain that coursed through him ignites a memory in me I’m powerless to ignore.
I wince at the image and turn my voice shallow. “Will you excuse me?”
Jamie stares long and hard, but I wasn’t asking permission.
Before he can protest, I disappear into the sea of people, blending into the crowd so I can easily rush down the hallway. I hurry my steps, my chest racing with my pathetic attempt to hold myself together.
Claridge’s boasts nearly 270 rooms, and I stumble into one of their luxury suites full of confetti and rose petals with my heart in my mouth and my palm bracing my lips in case I vomit.
It feels like a sick sense of déjà vu as I start ripping at my dress, attempting to free myself of the material that’s too restricting against my skin. I tug desperately at the pieces round my neck, crying out with rage as they struggle to come undone.
My heart beats so intensely I can barely keep myself together, the walls closing in round me so quickly I struggle to catch my breath.
I’m spiralling I’m spiralling—
I trip over my feet and fall to the carpet, catching myself on my hands.
With a trembling palm, I clutch my chest, scratching my nails against the delicate material.
I can’t do anything; can’t think of anything other than how I want to die.
But I can’t. I won’t.
Not when I’ve promised to live for him.
Yet all I know is that I’d take this awful feeling ten times over to save Harry one ounce of pain for the utter torment I’ve put him through. Again.
I deserve this.
This is my fault. It’s always my fucking fault.
That internal voice chimes in: You were always awful to him.
My jaw quivers, my whole body starting to shake, as I succumb to shock.
Through the pounding in my ears, the crackle of a fire brings my attention higher. With tears swarming my lashes, I spot the brewing orange flames from the coal fire. It triggers the memory of one of my biggest regrets, the visual flashing in front of me.
Was Harry self-harming as some sort of temporary relief from the pain buried deep within him?
Did the pain give him peace? Satisfaction?
The intrigue alone is enough for me to drag myself across the carpeted floor until I’m pulling the hot poker out of the rack.
My shaky hands have the equipment clattering in front of the fire, ringing against the marble tiles.
With a more stable grip, I wrap my hand round the handle, pushing the end into the fire to redden the metal as the memory takes over with such toxicity I can’t see anything in front of me other than the past.
That night on paper may seem no different from any other in our journey, yet it contains such self-hatred that it will be forever etched into my brain.
As I move closer to the bed, Harry steps in front of me, forcing me to tilt up my chin.
“You’re a bitch,” he says.
My fingertips toy with the hem of his T-shirt. “I know.”
With agonising slowness, he unbuttons his shirt. We don’t have time on our side, which leaves me impatient to have my eyes on him.
Through the tension, I debate saying something tacky to draw a cheap smile out of him. A rare tug of his mouth that I’ll privately cherish. The fabric slips from his shoulders, and my mouth parts, prepared to tell him to hurry up—
What … what is that?
The distant look in his eyes is enough of a warning that I shouldn’t lower my head to look at the discolouration on his chest. But I give in to the curiosity, slowly trailing my gaze lower.
Everything turns unbelievably cold.
Hot poker burns. Dozens of them.
A sob gets trapped in my throat. I’m silent as I sweep my eyes over him, tears brewing so deeply behind my lashes that my vision blurs. I keep my chin lowered, away from his prying gaze, as I count every single one.
No. No. No.
Harry, what have you done?
I caused that.
My hands start to shake at my sides with the need to hold him, comfort him, and apologise for my wrongdoings.
I brought this man to such low depths that he tortured himself.
I did this to him.
I’m the cause of all his suffering.
I’m so far deep in this mess I’ve created, stumbling so far into the darkness, that I can’t afford for him to see the level of my own self-hatred.
The pain in my chest is sharp, and it makes clearing my throat difficult.
I manage to scratch out the words: “A waste of pretty skin. Such a shame.”
I clutch the poker and press it straight to my chest, right over my heart.
A sob claws its way out of me as molten heat marks my skin. I ache to pull back from the torture, but I refuse to shy away from the decisions that will forever mark me.
The memory hits me with force again, the reminder of the pain behind Harry’s green eyes far more hurtful than the raw heat burning my skin.
The stench of melting skin swirls in the air. Despite the urge to let go of the steel, I wrap my spare hand round it so tightly I don’t know how to do anything other than prolong the torture. Don’t know how to do anything other than continue inflicting pain.
My head spins, the pain becoming too much to bear. The steel rod slips from my fingertips as dizziness overcomes me, and I fall back against the carpeted floor.
I lazily tilt my head sideways as I notice movement. Someone steps through the suite door, long legs and black-suited trousers coming closer. Panicked steps lead them to me before they crouch down at my side.
Their fearful voice sounds faraway. “Gigi!”
My eyes flutter closed as my subconscious slips away from me, until I’m left with nothing but utter heartache.
The lingering antiseptic smell of a hospital clings to the back of my throat, the dull hum of machinery filtering in before my eyes open, taking in my surroundings.
A machine echoes a steady beep at my side – the only sign I haven’t slipped beneath the surface completely. I turn my head slowly from the blue privacy curtain towards the empty chair beside the bed.
I’m in Medical, back at the Circle headquarters again.
The room is cold and quiet, the midnight darkness slipping through the crack in the blinds. I listen out for movement. No nurses, no hum of distant voices, no footsteps in the hallway – none of the usual urgency that comes with an organised crime group.
I sit up, the effort tearing through my muscles. Pain is the first thing I feel. A raw, sharp ache blooming on the left side of my chest.
I peer down at white sheets and the hospital gown that replaced my silk dress.
How long have I been out for?
I look round, eager to know how long it’s been, only to find nothing. But I can tell from the foul taste in my mouth and the greasy strands I run my fingers through that it’s been at least a couple of days.
My fingertip wraps round the front of my gown, and I pull it back to find bandages.
I move my legs over the edge of the bed and slip off the sheets.
My bare feet hit the floor with a soft thud.
I drift out of the room, the metal IV pole trailing behind me.
I pull it from my arm with a wince, letting the wires swing loose.
The hallways are dim at this time of night, the ceiling lights flickering to life with each of my steps. I turn the corner, barely noticing someone on the floor just beyond the nurse’s station. They’re tucked against the wall, sitting low, legs pulled in close.
I step nearer, recognising Andy.
Or … what’s left of him.
He’s dressed in a hospital gown, head tilted down, hair messier than I’ve ever seen it, stubble shadowing his jaw. A shadow of the man he once was.
His arms are wrapped round his knees like a boy trying to disappear into himself.
I walk slowly towards him. “Andy?”
His head snaps up.
The change in him is immediate.
His entire body jerks upright like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Eyes wide, he looks at me with such terror I think he might actually bolt.
I whisper, “Can I sit?”
He says nothing, though I notice the way he hides his trembling hands by rubbing them together.
He’s silent for long enough that I slump down against the wall opposite him.
My bandages tug with the movement, my breath shuddering in my lungs.
I rest my head back, watching as his eyes dart everywhere but at me.
His eyes are red-rimmed, his mouth set in a line so tight it might snap. Purple shadows bloom across his jaw, along the edge of his throat. His lip is split, knuckles too.
Did someone—?
He catches my stare and tilts his head away, pushing his hands underneath his armpits to cover it. I stop my prying. Not because I don’t want to know, but because he looks … terrified.
We sit like this for a while. I don’t speak. Neither does he.
I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms round them.
Whether it’s his presence or the silence surrounding us, this is the first time I’ve felt safe enough to whisper the confession eating away at me. It’s just us two, me and a man I once knew so well, in the emptiness of this cold, dark hallway.
I juggle the idea, tripping over broken breaths with the fear of voicing it out loud. The confession could be about anyone, but he would know.
Finally, I whisper, “I miss him.”
Andy freezes before suddenly rising to his feet, standing up so fast he nearly stumbles. Panic reaching him quickly, he retreats a step. He slams against the wall, one arm wrapping instinctively round his ribs.
“I’m sorry,” I rush out with a pant. “I won’t say anything, okay? I’ll just be quiet.”
His eyes are wide with fear.
“Just stay,” I beg. “Please.”
He stops, his shoulders tensing. For a moment, I think he’ll still turn and flee. His throat moves as if he’s trying to swallow something sharp.
Then, after a long pause, he nods.
Slowly, he sinks back down to the floor across from me, head bowed, arms wrapped round his knees.
So I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes.
We don’t speak again.
In the hallway, we simply sit.
Two people broken, both hurting, both basking in the silence of things possibly too complicated to understand.