Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
Gigi
We’re in a blacked-out town car. Poppy rides shotgun, scanning her phone. I’m in the back. And so is Harry. He lounges beside me, one hand resting over his knee, the other along the back of my seat, close enough to touch my neck.
We’re staying in the city’s backstreets, the part not everyone sees – concrete balconies, narrow alleyways, windows hidden behind iron bars. I look out the window, trying not to let my eyes stray to the man next to me.
The hopeful thought from the plane comes to me again.
Kill Richard.
I close my eyes and sigh.
Harry’s gaze drags over me softly. He drops his arm, his fingers casually brushing my shoulder.
I let them stay there, just for a second, giving in to the idea we’ll make it out of this.
That everything will play into our hands – no hiccups, access to information that’ll not only equal Richard’s demise but unbind me of my engagement while promising Harry’s safety.
Who am I kidding?
I edge forwards, out of his touch, feeling his eyes running over me before finally turning away.
I’m still facing the window when the car pulls up outside the hotel. The wheel hits a pothole on the road before finally drawing to a stop, the night dark, but not enough to miss that Poppy opted for the worst of the hotels. Cracked windows. A front door that barely hangs on its hinges.
Harry steps out first, rounding the car and opening my door like a gentleman. But when I rise, he doesn’t move.
“You stay behind me the second it goes sideways.”
“I won’t.”
His voice lowers. “Then I’ll carry you.”
It not a threat but a promise. A desperate one. Because no matter how much he tries to hate me … I know Harry would tear the world apart if he thought I was in danger.
He stares at me for a full ten seconds before stepping back.
My eyes follow him, noticing the way he walks in the front entrance, biceps straining from holding all three sets of our luggage. His shirt clings to him from the humidity, emphasising the muscles in his back and the width of his shoulders.
Engaged, I force myself to remember. No matter the reason why.
Harry walks ahead, scanning the corners like he’s memorising the exit points. Though it seems the only way out is through the main entrance, unless we’re looking to break through the iron bars and opt for a window.
The hotel is dated and under the radar. Faded green wallpaper. A suspicious crack in the ceiling. Furniture worn and chipped, stains on its fabric. No cameras. Barely someone manning the reception desk. Poppy steps closer, her fingers drumming against the wood.
The receptionist is slouched in a stool, headphones turned up so loud I can hear the heavy bass from a few metres away. He doesn’t bother to look up, sliding three key cards over. Three. Thankfully, my luck didn’t run short in that department.
“You break, you pay,” he says in a French accent.
“Thanks,” Poppy says suspiciously, but she doesn’t question it.
She turns around, shrugging her shoulders. This is what we wanted after all – quiet and creepy enough to not draw attention.
As to be expected, the lift is broken, and we spend twenty minutes trailing up the stairs.
“The rooms better not smell like piss,” Harry groans.
I pant with each step, gripping the railing. Fucking hell, I really should have taken some extra training sessions at the Circle headquarters. Through my nights at Pixies and the even longer nights at home, my limbs are embarrassingly weak nowadays.
After finally reaching our floor, we agree to make base in one room before checking out the others. The door groans as I force my whole weight against it. The anticipation leaves us in tense silence as we step inside.
Discoloured carpet. Thin mattress. Shredded headboard. A cracked, lopsided nightstand. And I can still smell something foul, but at least that urine smell has gone. The curtains don’t fully close, and the window looks out over some darkened alley.
“Lovely,” Poppy muses. She takes her bag from Harry, tossing her duffel onto the bed, claiming this room. Though I can’t imagine our other rooms are much better. “I’m going to check the stairwell, make sure we’re not bunking above a murder scene.” She pauses at the door. “Don’t kill each other.”
I whip around, ready to hiss at her, but the door has already clicked shut.
Harry clears his throat, running his hand over his jaw. I lift my head to him, taking both key cards from the dresser.
“I’ll check out our rooms,” he says, “make sure they’re clear.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he’s already gone.
I linger by the door for five minutes before sitting on the end of the rickety bed, crossing my legs. A television plays muted news in the corner, and I watch it dully, straining my ears for trouble.
A news bulletin flashes about the disappearance of a man. The broadcast is in French, but it seems he was plucked from the city centre. Police are actively searching for him, I think.
More minutes tick by, and I anxiously fidget with my hands. My engagement ring reflects the television light. I twist it slowly, my mind drifting.
A deep voice follows. “You’re wearing it.”
I jerk my head up, finding Harry leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes following the movement. A quick glance over tells me he’s free of injury, and something loosens in my chest.
“Should I not be?” I ask.
He pauses as if debating his next question before asking it. Then his eyes flick to the ring. “Can I see it?”
I hesitate, my first instinct being to hide it. The cold metal brushes against my knuckle, a warning of its story. Still, I slowly raise my hand between us. Harry pushes himself off the door, taking it before I can change my mind.
His fingers graze my knuckles as he pulls my hand towards him. They close over mine, his thumb brushing the edge of the ring. I tighten my fingers just slightly, hoping he doesn’t notice how inaccurate the size is. He lifts my hand higher, closer towards his face.
“Wow,” he says after a moment. “Lucky girl.”
My throat feels thick. “Thank you.”
His touch lingers where my knuckles ache from clenching, running over the back of my hand, gentle in a way I don’t deserve. It’s the softest touch I’ve felt in months.
“That’s not the ring I thought you’d choose.” His eyes lift to mine, the pull in his gaze drawing me back to the moment I first met him in my brother’s room.
“Maybe you don’t know me,” I say, far breathier than I intend to.
“Do you want me to prove otherwise?” He grins – a hint of mischief that forces my breath short. “Though your fiancé might not be very happy about it.”
I don’t realise I’m biting my lip until Harry’s eyes drop to the movement, his fingers flexing on my hand as if he’s tempted to pull it out from my teeth.
Poppy walks in. “Coast is clear— Oh my God!”
I jerk away from Harry as if sparked by a current. Fuck.
I bring my hands straight to my face, hiding my flushed cheeks. All I hear is Poppy dry-retching, followed by Harry’s low chuckle. I peek between my fingertips, seeing the disproving shake of her head.
“I’m so thankful we’re all in separate rooms,” she says. “Work now, then you can shag later. Not in this room.”
Harry nods approvingly. “Deal.”
The takeout boxes from the local pizzeria sit on the bedside table. We’ve been dwelling over our plan all evening. We’ll approach early-morning, after we’ve strapped ourselves with weapons.
Harry brought enough knives, pistols, and ammo to stock a gun shop. It’s a surprise they allowed him to bring it onto the jet, but security didn’t have an issue with it. I can’t say the same for Leo.
His and Poppy’s marriage is … strange. He’s called her thirty times since we took off. Thirty. She side-eyed each call, as disinterested as the last. Finally, she flipped the phone face down and let it ring. Rather than switching it off, it seems like she’s revelling in making him squirm.
She sits in the corner now with her laptop, headphones in, deep-diving into the surveillance footage, her face alight with the soft glow of the screen.
Behind her, the hum of city nightlife filters through the window – sirens, heels on pavement, the distant murmur of jazz from a street bar a few blocks away.
There’s a calmness in the air, almost peaceful. Is this why Mum enjoyed it here?
I’d been looking for a sign since the moment we landed … but nothing. Paris could have been the only time she escaped William, if his lack of conversation was anything to go by. Was she trying to tell me something this whole time?
Movement to my left makes me pause. I almost laugh. Harry is pouring cocktails in chipped glasses like we’re on holiday.
I look up from where I’m sitting on the floor, my back against the foot of the bed. He steps nearer, lowering to the floor beside me, the maneuverer seemingly difficult with the sheer size of him. He settles, sliding the glass towards me.
“To Paris,” he says. He braces one arm over his knee, grazing mine when he shifts. A casual move, but not accidental.
I take a sip from the glass. “Since when do you toast?”
He shrugs. “Since I started babysitting engaged women pretending not to be in love with me.”
The drink sputters from my mouth so viciously I start to cough. The glass rattles as I place it down, Harry’s hand immediately on my back, soothing the outburst. A mischievous grin masks his sympathy.
“You all right?” Poppy barks, unnecessarily loud, headphones still pressed in her ears.
I gesture my thumb up to her. She nods barely, returning to her screen.
“Which was worse?” Harry asks. “What I said, or the proportion of vodka?”
I wheeze. “Both.”
He grins.
I roll my eyes, but the corners of my mouth betray me. Prick.
He reaches to his left, dragging a bottle between us. “Good thing I bought this.”
“Cheap red wine?”
“Not just any cheap red wine.” He pops the cork easily, and I definitely don’t notice how his muscles tighten while he does it. “French cheap red wine. The recipe to getting drunk quicker.”