TWENTY-FIVE
Gigi
The fabric is itchy against my skin, and I can already sense the oncoming rash. I turn my body back and forth in the floor-length mirror, admiring the gown from all angles. It’s cute, elegant, and feminine, but it lacks that warm-belly feeling, and therefore it simply won’t do.
“You can do better,” Mia says when I catch her gaze in the reflection.
The two of us have been raiding high-street stores throughout Regent Street all day, hoping to pull off a blinder last-minute. But our hope is deteriorating as quickly as the sun is setting.
“It was so weird, Mia,” I say as she unzips the fabric down my spine. I hold the garment to my chest, concealing myself. “He said the guy wanted to see me. I just don’t understand …”
“Who cares? You get to dress up all fancy for one night! Who even gets to do shit like that anymore? I didn’t know galas actually existed outside of movies.”
I’m thankful for her quick rerouting of the conversation, having failed to tell her all those months ago about my run-in with Harry’s boss. It didn’t feel appropriate at the time to say a stranger saw me as payment for an overdue debt.
I can’t keep up with all the secrets I’m telling … How hypocritical of me.
“What did you tell work anyway?” she asks, searching through the rack of clothes behind her.
“Just said I had food poisoning.” I shrug. “They didn’t think to question it.”
Since I’m shopping in the exact city where I work, you’d think I’d be a little more secretive about my rendezvous. But trying to spot someone you know during London rush hour is near impossible.
“What about this one?” she asks, lifting a dress and interrupting my train of thought.
I shake my head, my nose crinkling at the bright pink number. With a huff, she places it back down and continues her search.
“Will you be seeing Andy tonight?” I pry, careful with my questioning.
“Nah, he said he’s got tied up with work. Whatever that means.”
While Mia fought to keep her relationship with Andy on the down-low during my heartbreak, it prevailed, and they’re still very much together. But with her lack of knowledge of his whereabouts this evening, I suspect he’s failed to tell her the details of his job. Harry hasn’t outright told me Andy will be attending this evening’s event, but their boss name-dropping him about his desperation to reach top rank hasn’t slipped my mind.
I watch Mia with sadness, knowing the secrets I’m keeping from her. But when she turns and holds up a dress with a mischievous glimmer in her eyes, I smile and say, “That’s definitely the one.”
When in doubt about where to find a formal dress at the last minute, you pray your local charity shop has an off-season slender mermaid gown that fits you like a glove .
The maroon dress features a square neckline and dips low at my lower back, the material’s ruching snapping my spine straight. My idea was that simplicity is key, but judging by the raw hunger radiating off Harry, “simplicity” seems to be the wrong word.
He steps out of the driver’s seat of a damn Bentley dressed in a suit, radiating masculinity. His tousled black hair is lightly gelled, the lone strand in the centre of his forehead perfectly distracting and aching to be touched. It’s strange to see Harry in anything other than leather jackets and black jeans, but witnessing this sight in front of me feels like I’ve just taken a peek at heaven’s gates … in a dark, unruly fantasy. It makes me want to switch out his wardrobe for black suits and crisp white shirts since that’s what he’s wearing right now. The first few buttons of the shirt are undone, and the suit is traditional, but he makes it look utterly unique.
His eyes roam over my body, and I fight a blush as he says, “Wow, princess. You look …”
“Harry St. James, are you about to call me pretty?” I tease, taking a step forwards.
He chuckles, his gaze locked on mine. “You don’t want to know what I think.”
“I bet I do.”
He takes a step closer, the tips of his loafers touching my heels. “I was going to say it’ll be tough not to gouge out the eyes of any man who looks at you.”
I blink, the statement sending my pulse spinning. It’s not fear but something else entirely.
“You ready to go?”
My cheeks warm, I nod. “Ready.”
Harry drives us in the Bentley through town. I watch him carefully, taking in the confidence with which he holds the wheel and the way he parts his legs to accommodate their large length in the footwell. He acts as a mental block on my surroundings, and I almost don’t recognise which part of the city we’re in until we pass the ballet studio my mother insisted I attend when I was younger. Dad would never show – he was never invested in mine and Jack’s childhood.
The car’s radio plays quietly in the background, adding background music to my haunting memories. As if Harry can read my thoughts, he clutches my knee softly.
“Is there anything I should know before we arrive?” I ask.
His hand flexes around the wheel. “You’re walking into the lion’s den.”
“Men and their egos.”
Huffing a laugh, he glances towards me and then back to the road. “You don’t want to go near Poppy Green. She’s a fiery little thing with no remorse.”
“Stay away from Poppy. Got it. ”
“She isn’t a big fan of newcomers … especially women.” He clears his throat. “She sees them as a threat. Not one she takes lightly.”
I nod slowly, processing his words. But as if my response hasn’t quite convinced Harry I’ve caught the extent of his warning, he stiffens ever so slightly in the driver’s seat.
“What is it?”
“She and Jack …” His voice trails off as he watches me sympathetically.
I blink, surprised. “They slept together?”
Harry’s only reaction is to grimace as if my question barely skims the surface.
I swallow uncomfortably, unsure of how to take this news in. How to process the idea my brother has slept with a woman who’s now not only looking for someone to blame for a messy break-up but also probably wants to kill me for stepping on her territory. Great first impression.
Harry purses his lips, eager to change topic. “Please be mindful when speaking with the Boss. I’ve protected you as much as I can until this point, but now my hands are tied. I have to trust you enough to make your own decisions. So be careful. ”
He holds my gaze for barely a second before focusing ahead, the peculiar look in his eyes causing my heart to race. Throughout our months apart, his fear of his boss hasn’t changed. That much I’m able to see.
When we arrive Harry acts like a true gentleman and walks around the vehicle to open the passenger door. He offers me a hand, and I grip the ends of his slender fingers as he chucks the keys to the valet.
I take in the venue, my mouth agape. This building has no right to be in London. It’s some peculiar cross between a manor house and a frickin’ resort hotel sitting atop marble steps. Pillars line the entryway, and a large elegant fountain sits in the middle of the courtyard, where people are purposely avoiding the spray.
Encouraging me to slip my arm through his locked elbow, Harry says, “People are staring.”
“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head to clear my senses.
“I wasn’t complaining, baby. Let them look.”
I link arms with him, my eyes scanning the dozens of men and women as we approach, all dressed in their best attire. There are a handful of men in identical formalwear to Harry’s black suit jacket, trousers, and white shirt, while others opt for choices far more extravagant. Women are dressed to the nines in ballgowns, stiletto heels that make my feet want to scream in agony, and jewellery so striking it looks like it’s worth thousands. It’s then I realise these attendees are using their outfits to portray their wealth. It makes me question why many people – like Harry – have dressed simply.
The air is polluted with the overwhelming stench of money and bad decisions, and I inhale through my nose, welcoming the feeling into my core.
“There’s so much you haven’t told me,” I whisper, still struggling to take in the sight before me.
“You have no idea,” he mumbles.
I imagine an exclusive event like this calls for the fancy kind of invitations that probably get hand-delivered to the attendees’ front doors, so it surprises me when the doormen and Harry exchange a simple nod and we flounce right through.
How much power does he even have in a place like this?
We walk deeper into the foyer, following the string of people while I gawk at the interior. Artwork lines the walls in golden frames, and the sweet strum of violin music fills my ears like the sound of angels.
When a waitress offers me a glass of champagne, I take it and bring it to my lips, welcoming the snapping fizz of bubbles on my tongue. Harry places his strong hand on my lower back, and I hum, naturally leaning into his touch.
“Hey, princess?”
“Yeah?”
“Look up.”
I tilt my head upwards and gasp. My arm slips from Harry’s, and I push the champagne flute to his chest as I turn around in a slow circle, staring up at the ceiling.
With all the new technology in the world, smartphones and damn AI, you forget that some of the most magnificent creations have been here the longest. This mansion must have been made centuries ago. The ceiling reminds me of the Sistine Chapel, decorated with murals that force me to blink at their similarity.
“Wow,” is all I say.
“Remind you of anywhere?” he asks, handing back my drink.
“Of course … but how?”
“This house belongs to a descendant of one of the biggest drug empires in Europe. The interior designer conspired with an artist who drew the entire thing from memory since there are no phones allowed in the Sistine Chapel.”
“Couldn’t they have just hacked into security footage somehow?”
“Even druglords know to appreciate the finer things in life … Sometimes you have to realise that the things most beautiful in life are the ones right in front of you.”
I don’t have to turn to feel his eyes on the side of my face. The weight of them does something peculiar to my insides.
I gnaw at my lower lip. “I didn’t know about any of that.”
“I’ll take you there one day to see it in person.”
“That sounds like a proper fairy tale.”
When I turn to him, his expression falters. He smiles despite it not quite reaching his eyes.
We arrive in the main room, which is swarming with guests. Floor-to-ceiling windows are draped with excessive curtains, the fabric lit by the ambient glow of chandeliers. My eyes land on a woman in the centre of the busy room. Her hair is striking, immediately gripping my attention. She appears to be about Harry’s age, and her hair is burnt orange, framing blue eyes that stare directly at us. Harry conveniently leads us the other way, but the woman’s gaze follows. I wonder if the look on her face is one of longing. If she wishes it was her that Harry had his arm around.
“Who’s that?” I whisper, facing forwards and putting the woman behind me.
“The girl with reddish hair?”
I nod.
“That’s Poppy. Stay away from her. You don’t want to get on the wrong end of her. Trust me.”
“Why?” I ask, his previous warning going amiss as something uncomfortable quickly rises to the surface. “Is she your ex-girlfriend or something?”
Please say no.
Please say no.
“Or something.”
I think I dislike that answer even more .
We approach the bar and stand alongside Andy. He’s leaning against the wood that decorates the entire width of the wall, which must reach at least a trillion feet in length. It’s classy, without a shadow of a doubt, with waiters and waitresses assigned to no less than a two-metre radius.
The reflection of the jewels from the chandeliers sparkles in Andy’s eyes as he pulls back from his hug with Harry. This fancy-ass setting has thrown me slightly off-kilter, and I lean forwards, kissing his cheek. The interaction seems natural enough until Harry fists the back of my dress tightly.
Whispering into the top of my head, the words smothered by my hair, he says, “Don’t ever do that again.”
A normal person wouldn’t be so intrigued by his possessiveness, but my interests never really were the norm. His actions give me the impression there’s potential for us to become something more, and I entertain the idea for a fleeting moment, enjoying the sense of power.
“Harry mentioned you bumped into one another,” Andy says. Turning back to the bar, he passes us both a drink – Harry an amber liquid in a shallow glass with ice, and another flute of champagne for me. “You were out with your …”
“Colleagues.”
He hikes his brow. “Mia said you were also out with Jamie Callahan.”
Bloody Mia.
Of course, she had told Andy about Jamie. She probably has his birth certificate on hand, his registration plate, and who knows what else.
“He tagged along.” I take hefty sip of my drink. “I ended things with him yesterday.”
Harry turns, looking at me with the recollection of a stranger.
“Why would you do that?” he asks.
Confused, I scan his expression, which seems full of disbelief. Is he conflicted about why I broke up with Jamie? Because the answer seems pretty straightforward in my head … if not completely obvious.
People walk by us, businessmen patting Harry’s shoulder, dropping a quick hello as they pass, but he has tunnel vision. I watch him over the rim of my glass, my throat scraping with the words, “I guess I was hung up on someone else.”
An unreadable expression crosses his face – a battle of emotions, perhaps. “He was perfect for you,” he says, voice raw. “He was good for you.”
Despite the good in his statement I feel physically wounded. “Who are you to say what’s good for me?”
His nostrils flare, and before we have a chance to hash out our differences, Andy’s spine snaps straight and he warns, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. We have company approaching. Ten o’clock.”
Maybe it’s the fiery redhead – the one who shot me daggers when I first walked in. But even if I wanted to look, I’m stuck in a stare-off with the beautiful fucking idiot in front of me.
“Harry,” Andy hisses.
But it’s too late.
“I was wondering when we’d meet again, Gigi. I’m so glad you could make it.”
I finally turn my head, spotting the older man – Harry’s boss – standing with one hand resting loosely in his trouser pocket, the other wrapped around a whiskey glass. His eyes dart between the two of us, and I realise he looks exactly the same as he did that night outside the nightclub, a white handkerchief in his breast pocket and gelled salt-and-pepper hair.
“It’s great to meet you again …” I say, struggling with what to call him.
“Most people refer to me as the Boss, but please, call me Richard.”
Andy leans back against the bar, using both elbows to support his weight. He seems reserved as he sips his drink, the worried expression he wore just seconds ago a distant memory .
“Walk with me,” Richard says, retreating a step.
I take a step towards him, and Harry follows simultaneously.
“Just the girl.”
Harry stiffens beside me.
Reassuring him with a smile, I say, “I’ll be fine.”
His eyes dart between the two of us with uncertainty, but before he can consider holding me back, I’m already walking by Richard’s side, trailing the edge of the room.
“I hope you’ll excuse me for not reaching out sooner, but I’m a big believer in fate, and I wanted to assure you our paths would cross again naturally. You may not know this, Miss Thomas, but I’m a man of loyalty, and my people watched you closely throughout those months to ensure you didn’t run your mouth about what you saw.”
My mind silences the strum of violins as I repeat his words.
My people watched you closely …
How did I not know I was being watched?
The realisation sends a cold rush through me, but it’s not fear. I feel … enthralled. Intrigued that someone holds so much power.
I sip my drink and say, “I hope you weren’t disappointed with your discovery.”
He grins, a swell of pride reaching his wrinkled cheeks, the kind of satisfied look you’d give to a child. My answer clearly pleased him.
Two security staff guarding two empty stools at the end of the bar allow us to pass and occupy the seats. Richard orders me another glass of champagne, and I make a mental note that this’ll be my last. I scan the room, feeling several sets of wandering eyes hovering in my direction, but only one stands out through the crowd. Harry watches me with unease, prepared to storm over here at a moment’s notice if something goes wrong.
I hold his gaze momentarily, trying to unveil his secrets .
If only I could discover why he’s so on edge around this man.
“My offer still stands,” Richard says, forcing my attention back to him. “We have an opening here with us.”
My eagerness is hard to contain. “I’d like that very much.”
I’ve spent several months hoping this possibility would arise. Sure, people may not be proud of me for entertaining the idea of being a criminal, but I’m tired of a dictatorship ruling my life. When someone offers you a free pass into the most notorious crime group in London, you take it by the horns and splinter your palms holding on tight.
“When can I start?”
He laughs, and my whole body stills at the sound. In my peripheral I catch Harry starting to make a move, but Andy catches him by the arm, holding him back.
“You really think it’s that simple?” Richard asks, composing himself. “Blimey, Miss Thomas, you have much to learn. The Circle is a cutthroat industry. We only allow the best candidates entry on the understanding that they abide by my most important rule … You think I’m willing to put our livelihood at risk by taking you at your word?”
Fearful I’ve made a mistake, and feeling the opportunity slipping through my fingers, I rush my words out. “What’s your most important rule?”
His smirk grows slowly. “That my recruits understand this is a life worth dying for. It’s kill or be killed after all.”
Before he can continue, the security guard with a bodybuilder’s torso, who’s been keeping a watchful eye on us, leans down and mutters in Richard’s ear. Schooling his features, Richard nods, dusting down his suit as he stands.
“Excuse me, but I have important business to attend to. We’ll continue this conversation another time.”
No matter how much I try to deny my disappointment at his departure, it’s evident in the way my shoulders sag and my eyes bore into the champagne like it’s the most foul-tasting thing in the world.
Despite Harry’s warnings about the society, I can’t ignore the gravitational pull I feel towards the Circle. This very well might be my only chance … and the opportunity is slipping away.
Screw this.
Dropping down from the bar-stool, I hike up the front of my dress, fisting the fabric as I dart out of the room unscathed. Dozens of people fill the entryway, pacing between the main ballroom and the billiard room. I walk down the hallway directly in front of me. It’s significantly darker than the adjacent rooms, all of which are well-lit with the sparkling jewels of chandeliers.
I pass a series of doors, but none of them pull my attention as I’d expect them to, until I hear, “… enough of you.”
A voice from one of the far rooms catches my attention, and I slow my footing, stepping closer to the door. It’s open by a hairline crack, but I can see Richard standing beside another man. His posture is rigid, and he exhales, his fingers twitching near his inner jacket.
“I’m done talking,” he says.
Reaching into his suit jacket with surprising quickness, Richard retrieves something silver and not much larger than his hand. It’s hard to decipher what it is until the deafening bang of a gun rings in my eardrums, chilling me to the bone.
I slap my palm over my mouth to silence my sudden scream.
The man before him slumps to the floor with a loud thud, tumbling like a rag doll, his body lifeless against the dark wooden floorboards. Trembling, I quickly retrace my steps, retreating down the hall to the entryway.
I just witnessed a murder.
I just witnessed another murder.
The sound of violins assaults my hearing, and I watch as people walk around completely unfazed by the occurrence .
Did they even hear it?
Of course they didn’t!
Head down, mind occupied, I stumble into someone else.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Harry’s voice calms my nerves with unnatural speed. He pulls me back from his chest, his hands gripping my hips to steady me.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
I clear my throat and nod. “I-I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” His eyes hover over my shoulder to the hallway I just departed, and I follow suit.
The two guards from earlier walk through the door, Richard bellowing his orders behind them, though the noise goes unnoticed beneath the ambience of the guests.
Harry’s eyes find mine, a dark cloud washing over them as he says, “I tried to warn you.”
“I didn’t say I was scared.”
And it’s true.
The bigger concern is that I’m not scared.
I’m intrigued.
Or, as Harry would say …
I’m not crazy. I’m fucking obsessed . There’s a difference.