Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
Gigi
The night I was discharged from Medical, I wiped my mascara-stained eyes, disposed of the hospital gown, readjusted the ring on my finger, and got back to work. Underwent the heists. Approved the wedding plans. Agreed to the engagement interviews. Played the part.
This is life now, and I can’t revel in self-pity anymore.
I built this cage.
It’s a busy morning as recruits prepare for today’s schedule: a few low-level jewellery stores dotted round the city. I lean against the wall outside Richard’s office, returning nods as people pass by.
I check the watch on my wrist, waiting for Jamie to emerge from inside. We’re on our final engagement interview, scheduled with a national tabloid in Leicester Square. I’m a fool for thinking he might act with the slightest urgency given their popularity.
As the remaining figures leave the hall, I inhale a staggered breath, staring at the ceiling as I fight the demons attempting to creep through.
After witnessing Harry’s heartbreak firsthand, I half-expected to see Jack tainting my dreams with reminders of my failures.
But I’ve heard nothing, only silence. I’m not sure if that’s worse nowadays.
I’m persevering as best as I can, but I can’t be that convincing, as a quiet whisper draws my head up.
Poppy stands a metre away, her expression vacant. “What have they done to you?”
I frown, dropping my gaze to my white two-piece suit. There are gaps in the fabric that weren’t there a few weeks ago, emphasising my especially pale skin.
If she’s perceiving me as weak, she’s far from wrong. I may not be able to get out from under Jamie’s hand, but I’d die before allowing someone else to belittle me. I’ve faced worse than Poppy. I’m facing worse than her every day.
Calmly, I take steps closer until we’re an arm’s length apart. She stares me down.
I grab her by the neck, whip her round, and slam her against the wall. A gasp echoes from a few people behind me, but I shove her deeper into it.
The darkness lies within me after all.
I bring my head closer. “Since when do you care about my well-being?”
Her voice turns distant. “Since I realised what they’re capable of.”
I hear what she says, the emphasis on her words and the opportunity to confess, but I always veer on the side of caution with Poppy. Her relationship with Richard is one I choose not to delve too deeply into. I still haven’t forgotten her murder attempt during my initiation training.
“They haven’t broken me,” I say assertively, trying to believe the lie.
I swear I see a flicker of sympathy in her smile.
“He’d make them pay …” she mutters. “All you have to do is ask.”
I release her, her words striking my body stiff. She slowly turns, unfazed by my outburst.
Maybe she’s saying what I want to hear. Maybe she really has grown closer with Harry throughout my dance with darkness. Maybe, just maybe, she’s toying with me to give her the upper hand against Richard.
Despite everything, I’m desperate to pry. Ask how he is, what he’s up to, how he responded to my betrayal of accepting forever with someone else.
Fuck, just to hear he’s okay.
She would know, wouldn’t she?
I wrap my hand round the handle, trying to grip reality. Richard’s office door swings open. I have just enough time to right my feet before I stagger into Jamie’s chest.
He glares, his expression screwed tight. “What’s with the rush?”
I turn my head over my shoulder. Poppy has disappeared. It’s as if she was never there. Not a speck of misplaced dust. I turn back to Jamie to find his brow raised impatiently.
“The chauffeur is waiting outside,” I say.
He raises his brow higher.
“The engagement interview.”
He hikes it further still.
“The one in Leicester Square.”
He nods stiffly, his feet already moving towards the exit. His impatient strides force me to rush to his side.
“The last one, right?”
I pant breathlessly as I catch up. “Yes.”
“And the reporter’s name?”
“Allen, I think. I only spoke with their assistant.”
Jamie nods thoughtfully, though I don’t suppose he gives a toss about any of the information. It’s likely a tactic to ensure I’m still invested in this lie – any excuse to remind me of my failure in the position of his future wife.
We climb into the back of the Mercedes. The driver, a balding middle-aged man, puts up the privacy screen at Jamie’s gruelling request.
The journey takes longer than expected despite us swerving through rush-hour traffic. Even with Jamie barking for the driver to put his foot down, we arrive no less than forty-five minutes late.
The driver pulls the car into a free bay by the entrance. I step out, grinding my teeth as I get to my feet, ignoring the pulsing of my spine from heavy hands underneath my clothes.
Jamie’s phone rings. He slips it from his pocket, eyes tracing the screen. “I have to take this.”
“How long will you be?”
He glares sharply, and my muscles ache at the thought of what punishment that slip-up will later entail.
As Jamie mutters into his phone, I enter the building alone. Though that’s probably the wrong decision. This level of publicity was all your fucking idea, I’d kill to remind him.
Pushing open large glass doors, I step into the hallway decked out with framed prints of the tabloid’s front cover, from coverage of the royal family to exclusive interviews with Hollywood actors. Jamie’s obnoxious enough to assume he’s also worthy of this coverage.
“Gigi Thomas.” A woman with tied-back black hair offers me her palm. “We spoke on the phone.”
I shake her hand. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“You have an interview with our senior reporter about your engagement.” Her gaze drifts over my shoulder. “Will your fiancé be joining us?”
I hesitate. “I’m not sure.”
She smiles apologetically, as if I should be saddened that Jamie might not attend, but each minute not by his side is a blessing nowadays.
She escorts me into an interview room, gesturing for me to sit down in an empty chair opposite the desk. I accept an offer for a coffee as I settle into the plastic seat.
“I’ll tell Miss Allen you’re here.”
The woman leaves the door slightly cracked as she slips outside, the coffee machine groaning to life. The shadow of someone at her side stretches into the room.
“… don’t think he’s coming,” she whispers. “Poor girl.”
“Fucking men,” another woman retorts. “Imbeciles, the lot of ’em.”
I snicker.
As I sit in the silence of the empty office, the sound now limited to the spurts of water filling the coffee cup, I turn my attention back to the door.
What was the name of the reporter again? Miss Allen, the woman said …
My face turns pale.
No. It can’t be.
I only know one person with that name who’s the type to call men imbeciles. I hadn’t even thought of making the connection until now. A senior reporter at a prestigious company.
Shock keeps me still as the door swings open, giving way to blonde hair and a bright yellow co-ord that would only be worn by someone with her confidence.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.” An iPad in her hand, Mia keeps her head down, running her eyes over the screen. “I shouldn’t bother you too long. I’ll just press you for the juicy gossip and hopefully be out of your hair within the hour.”
At the sight of my former best friend, my mouth gapes, but no words follow.
“Would that be okay, Miss Thomas …?” Mia’s eyes halt on the screen. Her head darts up, and she watches me with such puzzlement I can’t decipher an ounce of her reaction. “No.” Her voice trails off. “I’m here to interview the future Mrs …”
She double-checks her iPad screen, returning her gaze to me quickly.
I still can’t tell whether she’s filled with disgust, elation, or sympathy.
I sit quietly as I watch confusion rise to the surface. There’s only silence between us, written by bad decisions between childhood best friends. We were once inseparable, but in this moment, we may as well be strangers. It’s no fault but my own.
Can she sense the regret sitting behind my silence?
The door swings open, the coffee I ordered placed in front of me. I offer a gentle thanks to the assistant as she exits the room. Mia watches my every move, her eyes narrowing as I take a sip from the coffee cup.
She states, “You’re hurt.”
I snap my focus to where the white suit has gaped at the front of my chest. The sight of the poker scar alongside a path of dark purple skin has me panicked, tugging the fabric back into place.
I meet her concerned gaze. “Mia—”
“She’s just in here,” a voice says from the hall.
Jamie appears in the doorway, and for perhaps the first time since I’ve known him I’m thankful for his presence, having narrowly avoided explaining the suspicious markings.
I know without a doubt Mia would press me for answers.
And despite everything that’s happened, I don’t know if I could lie to her.
I think I’m in the clear, but I watch as her features quickly rewrite themselves, eyes darting between me and Jamie as he sits beside me.
Her gaze drifts towards the door as if she’s preparing to alert someone.
No. No. No.
She continues searching before turning her attention back to me as Jamie adjusts the front of his shirt. I plead with my eyes for her silence.
Her brow furrows deeper.
I subtly shake my head. “Please.” My mouth moves silently round the words. “Don’t.”
Her eyes hold mine, and I see the unspoken question there. She suspects something bad. But she doesn’t say a thing – not with Jamie sitting beside me.
He finally shifts his attention from his shirt, leaning back to stretch his arm over the back of my chair. I breathe steadily, trying not to flinch. Mia pauses as if forgetting where she is for a moment.
Then, as if sense comes racing back to her, she clears her throat. “So.” She displays a cheerful smile with impressive speed. “Where were we?”