Chapter 46
FORTY-SIX
Harry
It still haunts me, the way she looked at the ring as if she wanted me to take it back. As if she wanted me to save her from this madness. And I didn’t.
The life I offered her may not be the conventional one, nor the life he’s promised her, with money and a relationship worthy of tabloids, but I’d give her everything.
It’s now been a full twenty-four hours, and I’m still as restless about the whole thing. Something foreign sits in my chest, forcing me to rub the area. I feel sick.
For Christ’s sake, I watched her walk into someone else’s arms when she’s mine—
Fuck, no. Fiancé, remember? She has a fucking fiancé – the wanker with the trust fund.
I need to pull myself together.
I pull up my motorbike outside Poppy’s home and kill the engine. The bungalow sits a few metres from the pavement in the middle of the countryside. I throw up my visor, the bike still ticking from the ride over.
I called to talk about a potential new lead, but she was busy getting ready, her voice holding a slight shake. She always has control, but something had clearly spooked her. After pressing her about it, she told me to come over.
I leave the helmet on the seat of the bike, pushing open the creaky gate beside the overgrown path, the metal scraping the concrete.
The door swings open almost immediately.
Poppy is dressed in a silk blue gown, red lipstick not too dissimilar to the colour of her hair. Nothing like the mess I expected.
“Harry.” Her voice is flat, like she’s trying to sound normal but failing. “Come in.”
I follow her inside. The house smells faintly of flowers. There are a few dotted round the home, starting to wilt. Ragged breathing draws my attention to the living room. The curtains are drawn, and I can hear the faint beep of machines coming from inside.
“How is he?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
Poppy’s gaze drifts momentarily. “Same as yesterday. Same as he’ll be tomorrow, I imagine.”
“Give him my best,” I say.
“I will.”
I sit down on an armchair in the entryway at Poppy’s request, unable to take my eyes off her. I try to act casual, but my voice comes out rougher than intended.
“You look … dressed up.”
She says nothing, accessorising herself with a pair of earrings. After a tense pause, she turns to me fully, finally lifting her head. Her expression softens, and she looks … sorry?
I don’t understand.
I study her more carefully. The hair, the gown, the slightly heavier makeup. The last time she dressed like this, she was going to Gi—
No.
Fury and something so much worse – loss – start to coil round my ribs.
“Don’t,” I whisper, my voice strained. “It isn’t …”
“I wouldn’t be a good friend if I didn’t say anything.”
“Poppy,” I grit out, panicked.
She hesitates, and if I didn’t know her so well, I might have thought tears were welling in her eyes. But I know Poppy, and I know she’s not capable of such an emotion.
“It’s Gigi’s wedding day.”
I laugh. I actually laugh, because she has to be joking. “No, it’s not.”
“Harry …” She inhales a deep breath. “I’ve known this whole time. I knew before we went to Paris. I knew the minute we got home.”
Her words hit like glass. She might as well have ripped my heart from my chest.
“I’m so sorry.”
I turn my head away, unable to stand even looking at her. I grip my jaw hard, inflicting searing pain. This is no nightmare.
“Why would you do that?”
She starts. “Listen—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I launch to my feet. “You’re meant to be one of my closest friends, Poppy. Fucking hell, I gave you away.”
She flinches. “Harry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you—”
I put a hand up to silence her.
“Where?”
“There’s nothing you can do—”
“Where?”
She turns her head away and sighs, “Westminster Cathedral.”
I nod slowly, taking a moment to think the plan over.
Poppy starts tripping over her words.
“They had to make sure someone got her home from Paris in time,” she rushes out. “I said I wouldn’t go, but Richard isn’t giving recruits a choice. Press will be there. Harry, you can’t—”
But I’ve already left.
The door slams shut as I mount the bike, kicking off the stabiliser.
The helmet does little to contain the whip of wind as I race down the streets, forced to squint behind the visor.
I’m not thinking rationally, missing a traffic light as it changes from yellow to red and blasting across the junction.
A horn blares, tyres screeching on the pavement in a desperate attempt to avoid a collision.
Fuck.
I right the bike, tightening my grip on the handlebars as I race ahead, the sharp scent of burnt rubber following behind me.
I narrow my eyes, the fog on the inside of the visor obstructing my view. I throw it up, scanning the upcoming streets, certain I need to make the next turn. There’s a white van ahead, waiting for a woman to clear the crossing.
I give the bike gas.
The van is midway through turning as I pull up on its inside. The tyres squeal as it swerves to the right to avoid me, the woman jumping onto the pavement. Curses follow. My bike wobbles momentarily before regaining its balance.
I grip the handles tighter, pushing the bike to its limit, the world a streak of colours as it whizzes past.
A car brakes suddenly as I swerve into its lane, narrowly missing the Harley. The driver loses grip of the wheel, ploughing into the intersection with an explosive bang. I dart a look over my shoulder, watching as the driver wrestles with the airbag.
A few minutes later, a piercing siren races closer. Flickers of flashing blue and white lights creep up in my peripheral, a police car hot on my tail.
“FUCK!” I yell.
I turn back ahead …
I slam the brakes, almost ramming into a security barrier blocking the main road into Westminster. My body nearly goes over the handlebars as the bike comes to a stop.
I see the cathedral in the far distance, its spire piercing the clouds.
I twist the handlebar straight and skid off. The rear tyre leaves a black stain the shape of a semicircle as the bike spins round.
Doubt rushes through me as I race down the narrow London streets, trying to find an entry point. What if I don’t make it on time? What if she’s already said her vows? I have to make it. I have to.
The whole road is shut with barricades, hundreds of people hovering round the “road closed” signs. They mill about outside, dressed in their finest, paparazzi swarming like vultures.
I skid to a stop on a street opposite, leaving the engine running as I dismount. I pull the helmet off my head as I shove through the crowd, weaving between strangers.
An echo of gasps has me whipping my head up, tucking the helmet underneath my arm.
The cathedral sits above a cascade of steps, draped in white flowers. The large oak doors, flanked by security guards, open, sparking a flurry of activity.
My heart stumbles as Gigi appears in the entryway.
She looks exactly like she’s supposed to.
The dress is white, sleek, and cruelly perfect. Her hair’s pinned up in soft waves, diamonds sparkling round her throat. Her veil is pinned on her head, cascading behind her.
There’s a dull ringing in my skull with each step she takes—
Wait. It’s a chime.
Wedding bells.
Her eyes flick to the crowd as she descends the stairs slowly. She spots me through the chaos, and her fingers tighten round her bouquet, dipping half an inch. Her lips part, just barely.
She takes a single half-step, as if—
Jamie cups the back of her neck and pulls her to him, his other hand touching her hip. Her eyes never leave mine. For a heartbeat, she doesn’t close them.
But then he kisses her.
And she lets him.
I feel something twist inside me. Not jealousy. Not even heartbreak.
It’s betrayal.
She married him.
Then, like a tidal wave of violence, the back of my skull screeches with the sound of wedding bells, shattering something within me. The woman I’ve loved in secret since I was a teenager, the one who’s haunted me and driven me to the edge, has just promised her forever to someone else.
I fight the urge to storm over there and rip her away to confess it all again – how I ache for her; how I’d burn the world down if it meant keeping her safe; how she’s wasting herself on him.
The flashes keep going until it’s just white noise. Gigi breaks the kiss first. Her eyes are still on me, wide and unblinking.
She doesn’t move.
For a brief moment in time, she seems to forget where she is. It’s a fraction of a second, like she’s stepped out of herself before snapping back in.
And I swear – I fucking swear – she looks like she’s drowning.
GIGI
I thought I’d have an entire vocabulary of words to describe my wedding day, but there’s only one that stands out above all else.
Cunt.
I thought I’d seen the worst of Jamie, but this sickly act he’s putting on for the cameras is pathetic. He’s as ugly as they come. Let him run off with Richard’s money – God knows he’s earned it with this facade.
The declarations of his love at the altar as he took my hands knowing I had no other choice … I kept my face neutral, serene, as he expected from his bride. But under the veil, under this skin, I was boiling.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear the dress to shreds with my bare hands and set the altar on fire with all these fucking candles. Above all else, I wanted to spit in Jamie’s face.
He stood there as if he were God’s gift to the world, the gold ring on his left hand glinting in the light, but he looked at me with the primal stare of ownership, as if my silence were consent.
When the officiant asked if I’d take Jamie to be my husband, every fibre of me screamed no – and yet I stood there, my voice calm, looked him in the eye, and said, “I do.”
Because I won’t run. I won’t cry.
I’ll survive this – and then I’ll ruin him.
He and Richard are both here now, watching, celebrating the life I’m shackled to.