Chapter 21
Theo
‘Partner! Your cake finally arrived.’ Charlie shoves a box into my hands. ‘I had them use the good photo. The one you actually smile in.’
It’s a Saturday, and we’re in the office because that’s where we belong. And because yesterday happened, and I can’t be in my flat with all that silence and Finn’s absence.
I tip the box open. It’s a proper cake. A full-on, marzipan-heavy, cream-filled monstrosity. And on top of it, printed on a sheet of edible paper, is my own face. Smiling. Professional. Unbothered.
Lies. All of it.
‘Oh. For me?’ I barely recognise my voice; it’s miles from how I feel.
‘Hell yeah for you!’ She’s radiating enough energy to power the entire building.
‘You did it, Theo. The firm’s yours as much as it is mine now.
The hours, your loyalty and brilliance… And what you pulled off with Finn…
’ She shakes her head, beaming. ‘You didn’t just rebrand him. You gave him the chance of a lifetime.’
‘Thanks, Charlie. It means a lot.’
It does. It truly, madly, deeply does. This was the dream and the whole bloody point. Proof that I could rebuild, that I’m worth more than my last colossal fuck-up. But right now, it feels like a consolation prize. A shiny distraction from the gaping hole Finn Lennox left.
She frowns as she reads my expression. ‘Marseille is a big deal. You know that, right?’
My stomach coils, and I set the cake on my desk with meticulous care, making sure it’s perfectly aligned with the edge. One small thing I can control in this swirling emotional apocalypse.
‘Aye, it’s a fantastic opportunity for him.’ I say the correct words, use the professional phrasing. And part of me means it. The other part wants to scream.
This is a massive win for her agency. Our agency, I mean.
‘Partners? I feel it requires a handshake.’ Charlie extends a hand, a wide smile lighting up her face.
I take it with a firm grip. ‘Partners,’ I repeat, the word echoing in the hush that follows.
It should feel like a victory. It should feel like everything I’ve been working towards.
‘Go on, Theo! Cut your cute face so we can eat it.’
The smiling sugar-woman on the cake looks so put-together and so pleased with herself. This is the win. This is everything I’ve worked for since London, the proof I’m more than a pushover and someone’s gullible lackey. It’s concrete and real and comes with a contract.
But all I see is the lift doors closing on Finn’s back. The rigid set of his shoulders and how he didn’t turn back, not even for a glimpse.
I did that. I let him think he was just a job. Because it was easier than admitting he had become everything else.
I couldn’t ask him to stay. If he’d said no, if I’d seen it in his face, I wouldn’t have recovered. So I told myself that he was always leaving.
But the truth is, I was terrified.
Terrified he’d look at me and hesitate. That I’d say Do you want to stay?, and he’d go anyway. That I’d splinter in front of him, and he’d watch it happen.
Or worse, that he’d stay only for my sake.
That he’d say no to Marseille and mean it at the time…
But then the resentment would creep in. Every time things got hard, he’d remember the offer he turned down.
And he’d blame me. I couldn’t risk that.
Never in a thousand years would I dream of standing in his way, of having him stay only to wish he hadn’t.
So I stayed silent and gave him the out.
My face stares back at me, a sugary caricature.
Icing Theo is far more composed than the real one currently trying not to crumble into a million tiny, heartbroken pieces.
Feels good, getting to stab her. I pick up the knife.
The plastic handle is cool and smooth in my palm as I press the blade into the corner of my own printed eye.
I hand Charlie a slice and take one for myself. My smile feels brittle.
‘Stop pulling that kicked-puppy face. You deserve it, and you know it,’ Charlie insists. ‘You went above and beyond. Even with the whole Finn situation. You handled that beautifully. A total pro.’
Yeah, if total pro means letting him eat me out like a trifle dish morning, noon, and night.
‘It was…a unique challenge.’ My tone is a little too tight. She has no idea what happened, and I intend to keep it that way.
‘Understatement of the century.’ She grabs a napkin to wipe a stray smudge of cake from her chin. ‘But seriously, Theo, you’ve been a rock. For me, for the agency, for everyone.’
I stare at the blinking cursor. A tiny, rhythmic, relentless pulse.
On. Off. On. Off.
Like a heart that beats mechanically, only because it has to. A pulse without a purpose.
My key sticks in the lock as it always does. I jiggle it twice, hard left, then gentle right. The door swings open.
‘Elvis, I’m home.’
I drop my purse on the floor. The thud echoes through the flat, too loud in the sudden silence. Even the air feels different, thinner somehow.
I step into the living room and freeze. His suitcase is gone, his hoodie is missing from the arm of the chair. The corner where his bag sat is just a corner again. The rugby boots, which had taken up permanent residence by the radiator, have disappeared.
It’s like he was never here at all.
His absence hits me physically, a sharp jab straight to my solar plexus. I press my palm against my sternum to ease the pressure.
Elvis appears from the bedroom, tail swishing with agitation. He yowls – a long, accusatory sound.
‘I know, he’s gone.’
My cat stalks toward me, eyes narrowed judgementally.
‘This was always going to happen.’
Elvis meows again, circling my ankles once before sitting directly in my path, demanding answers I don’t have.
‘It was a business arrangement that got complicated. He got a better offer, and he’s not one to turn that down. I’m not the one to stop him. It was just…bad timing. This happens quite often between can openers, you know?’
I move to the kitchen on autopilot, flicking on lights as I go. The brightness feels offensive, exposing Finn’s absence in my flat with merciless clarity.
There’s a note on the counter next to my spare set of keys, a single sheet of paper folded in half. I open it and recognise his handwriting. Blocky capitals, pressed hard into the page:
Thanks for everything. I mean it. F.
Six words is all I get. Six generic, meaningless words that could have been written to anyone – his physio, his taxi driver, his barber.
I read the words again, searching for a subtext that isn’t there.
It’s polite and final. He meant the successful rebrand, the damage control. Everything except me.
And Just ‘F’, not even a full ‘Finn’. An initial, a sign-off.
The end.
I crease the paper’s edge as I fold it again, smaller and smaller until it’s just a tight square of nothing. I yank open the drawer where I keep takeaway menus, batteries, and rubber bands, and tuck it inside.
This hurts so much more than Gil. That betrayal was a slow poison, a theft of my work and my trust, the gradual deconstruction of my confidence. Losing Finn is the brutal amputation of something much more vital, and I still feel the phantom limb of him everywhere.
‘He didn’t even say goodbye properly,’ I tell Elvis, who’s watching from his perch on the counter. ‘Just walked out of that lift.’
My cat yawns, unimpressed.
‘I’m fine,’ I insist, reaching for the kettle. ‘This is fine. It’s actually perfect. Clean break. No mess.’
The water splashes against the metal interior. I set it on its base with too much force and click the handle.
‘We made him marketable again. He got Marseille, and I got a partnership. Everybody wins.’
Except I’m the one standing in a too-quiet flat with a chest that won’t stop hurting, discussing my love life with my cat.
Elvis lets out another offended yowl, a sound with teeth in it.
‘What? It’s true.’ I grab a mug from the cupboard. The one with the glittery rainbow. The one Finn always used because he said it matched his ‘aesthetic’.
I shove it back and grab another.
‘Marseille is bigger than anything we could’ve possibly imagined when we started. It’s what he needs at this point in his career, and, as I said, I won’t get in his way.’ The words catch, but I push through.
We were a means to an end. A glorious, temporary, hot means to an end. I should be grateful for the memories, for the sex, for the way he made me laugh until my stomach ached. Made me scream until I had no air. Me. I’ve never screamed for anything in my life.
But gratitude feels like swallowing sand.
I can’t cope with the loss. The before-and-after of him splits my life into two unequal halves.
Before Finn, sex was fine. Enjoyable enough, in the way a holiday you can’t quite remember is still technically a holiday.
I’d been with a handful of men before, and none of them were cruel or careless.
They were decent and kind. Even Gil. But it always felt like something I had to manage.
My expectations, their egos, the disappointment when it didn’t really land. It was mostly fun, but also functional.
And then Finn turned everything on its head and changed the rules of the game for fucking ever.
He made sex feel like electricity and softness and something close to worship. I’d never been watched like that, never been handled like I was the whole point. He listened, adjusted, and watched me come apart with a quiet focus that made it impossible to hide. And I couldn’t get enough.
I’d never had sex that left me undone hours later. Never walked into a meeting still aching, still reeling, still clenching around the echo of him. He was possessive. Not in a way that claimed me, but in a way that asked if I knew I could be claimed. And I let him.
Elvis flicks his tail dismissively.
‘At least I’m not the one who spent a day sulking under the bed because he brought me the wrong flavour of Dreamies.’
The kettle clicks off. I pour water over a tea bag I don’t remember selecting. Watch as the colour bleeds outward, turning the water a deep amber.
My entire life feels wrong and there’s no scented candle to make it okay. It’s too quiet, clean, and empty. Too much like before, when I was licking my wounds – except much worse because now I know what I’m missing.
What I’ve been missing all my life.
I miss him. Not the sex or the banter. Him, in all his chaotic, unfiltered glory. He never tiptoed around my edges. He barged in, filled the place with life, and made it feel like a home instead of a hole to hide in. His presence made my tightly-wound world less controlled, but also less lonely.
Pressure builds behind my breastbone again, a knotted mass of unshed tears and unspoken words. It needs to go somewhere. I turn to the bookshelf, a chaotic jumble of genres and sizes. If I can’t fix the gaping wound in my heart, I can at least organise something.
I ditch the tea and move to the shelf instead.
‘Red goes here,’ I mutter, pulling books from shelves and stacking them on the floor. ‘Then orange, yellow, green…’
Elvis watches from the sofa as I sort novels by their spines. The mindless task is supposed to soothe me. I sit back on my heels, surrounded by piles of books that suddenly mean nothing to me.
‘What am I doing?’ I ask Elvis, who blinks once, deeply unfazed by the question and my general existence outside of serving him food and giving him belly rubs on demand.
I pick up my phone, Instagram is still open, and I’m greeted by a wall of red hearts.
Notifications I haven’t cleared. Comments.
Stories. A flood of hearts and fire emojis and little gifs of cartoon couples kissing.
One photo in particular – me in Finn’s lap, both of us in full, unguarded smiles– is still getting likes. Comments.
So cute!! Obsessed with these two. Can’t wait for the wedding!
The thought strikes without warning, a snap behind my eyes and the sick lurch of my stomach catching up a second later.
Fuck. Fuck!
Our fake relationship hasn’t ended.
Not publicly. Not for the cameras or the fans or the sponsors. As far as the world knows, Finlay Lennox and Theodora MacMickin are still very much together, still Edinburgh’s favourite sporty couple du jour.
The thought is a cruel joke. One last piece of shrapnel lodged deep where no one can see.
Our contract isn’t up, our story not over. I’m still his fake girlfriend. I should be drafting a press release, a gushing social media post about being a supportive partner in his move to France. Long distance love and all that bollocks.
My eyes settle on the riot of colour on my floor, the piles of red and orange and yellow.
An organised rainbow of my own making and a pathetic attempt to impose order on a feeling that has none.
I abandon the books, drift to the sofa, and sink into the cushions.
There’s a faint scent of his aftershave, a scent that clung to my sheets and my skin and now it’s fading.
I press my face into it like a goddamn junkie.
Finn didn’t just fill the space in my flat. He filled my silences and hollows. He saw the fault lines in my defences, and, instead of exploiting them, he settled in beside me and made it feel okay to not be perfect.
I’m a caretaker and project manager. I fixed his reputation. That was the job. But he saw me, not the schedule or the polish or the woman who always has a contingency plan. He caught the slack in my smile, clocked the tremors under the surface – and liked it.
My fingers find the remote. I flick through channels, the noise a meaningless blur.
A cooking show. A nature documentary. A game show where people are squealing with joy over a new washing machine.
I let the remote fall onto the cushion beside me.
Elvis hops onto my lap and nudges my chin with his head.
And that, for some reason, is the thing that finally breaks me. A deep, shuddering breath escapes me, a sound that is half sob, half gasp. I wrap my arms around my cat and nuzzle my face into his soft belly, letting the tears I’d been holding back fall. Silent, hot, and pointless.
The truth is: Finn didn’t leave. I pushed him out, I told him to take the offer, because I was too scared to say what I wanted:
Please stay.