Chapter 8 London Ghosts
The Message
The morning after the almost-kiss felt strangely unbearable.
Oliver spent most of breakfast pretending nothing had happened.
Apparently, Ethan had reached the same conclusion.
Their interaction remained polite.
Professional.
Careful.
Far too careful.
Every word seemed measured.
Every glance shortened.
Every silence heavier than before.
It was exhausting.
Not because either man had done anything wrong.
Because both of them knew exactly what had almost happened.
The memory lingered between them like a secret neither wanted to acknowledge.
Oliver hated it.
He hated how aware he suddenly felt whenever Ethan entered a room.
He hated how disappointed he'd been when Ethan stepped away.
Most of all, he hated how much he'd wanted Ethan not to pull away.
That realization followed him throughout the day.
By lunch, he was annoyed with himself.
By dinner, he was annoyed with Ethan.
By bedtime, he was annoyed with both of them.
Unfortunately, irritation didn't make attraction disappear.
If anything, it made him think about it more.
The next several days passed in a similar haze.
Work continued normally.
Meals were served.
Schedules were maintained.
Conversations happened.
Yet something had changed.
A new awareness existed beneath everything.
An invisible current neither seemed willing to address.
Oliver found himself replaying the moment repeatedly.
The look in Ethan's eyes.
The way neither of them had moved.
The way his pulse had practically exploded inside his chest.
Then the inevitable ending.
Distance.
Retreat.
Goodnight.
The memory frustrated him every single time.
By Thursday afternoon, he desperately needed a distraction.
The universe apparently decided to provide one.
Unfortunately, it was the last distraction he wanted.
Oliver stood inside the kitchen reviewing inventory orders when his phone vibrated.
The sound immediately caught his attention.
Most people contacting him these days were family, former colleagues, or delivery services.
Nothing particularly exciting.
Without thinking, he reached for the device.
Then froze.
His stomach dropped instantly.
Marcus.
The name stared back from the screen.
For a moment, Oliver genuinely wondered if he was hallucinating.
Marcus Reed.
The man he hadn't spoken to in nearly nine months.
The man who walked away when everything fell apart.
The man who somehow still occupied painful corners of his memory.
His pulse accelerated.
Not because he missed Marcus.
Because he didn't.
At least he didn't think he did.
The reaction came from surprise.
Pure surprise.
Marcus had vanished after the breakup.
Completely.
No calls.
No messages.
No attempts at friendship.
Nothing.
The silence had been devastating at first.
Then comforting.
Eventually necessary.
Now suddenly his name appeared on Oliver's screen like a ghost rising from a grave.
The message remained unopened.
Oliver stared at it.
Part of him wanted to delete it immediately.
Another part needed to know why.
Curiosity won.
Unfortunately.
He opened the message.
Hi, Ollie.
The nickname alone made his jaw tighten.
Marcus was the only person who had ever called him that.
The familiarity felt unwelcome now.
I know you're probably surprised to hear from me.
Understatement of the century.
Oliver continued reading.
I wasn't sure if you'd answer. Honestly, I wouldn't blame you if you didn't.
A bitter laugh escaped him.
At least Marcus understood that much.
The next line erased any remaining amusement.
I've been thinking about you a lot lately.
Oliver immediately wanted to throw his phone into the Hudson River.
People always thought statements like that sounded romantic.
They rarely did.
Especially when coming from someone who abandoned you during the worst period of your life.
His thumb hovered over the delete button.
Then another message appeared.
Can we talk?
The simplicity of it somehow felt worse.
Talk.
As though nine months of silence could be solved with a conversation.
As though heartbreak came with a reset button.
Oliver locked the screen.
Then immediately unlocked it again.
Then locked it once more.
The internal debate lasted several minutes.
Eventually, irritation won.
He typed a response.
Why?
The answer arrived less than a minute later.
Apparently Marcus had been waiting.
Because I owe you an apology.
Oliver stared at the screen.
The words should have felt satisfying.
Vindicating.
Instead, they mostly felt late.
Painfully late.
Nine months too late.
Where had that apology been when debt collectors called daily?
Where had it been when Oliver packed up his apartment alone?
Where had it been when he closed the restaurant?
The questions arrived instantly.
The answers didn't.
Another message appeared.
I handled everything badly.
A third followed.
Really badly.
Oliver rubbed his forehead.
Marcus always knew exactly what to say.
That had been part of the problem.
The man possessed effortless charm.
Natural confidence.
The ability to make almost anything sound reasonable.
For years, Oliver loved that about him.
Toward the end, he'd learned to fear it.
Because charming people often talked their way out of consequences.
His phone vibrated again.
Can we please talk?
The request sat there.
Waiting.
Oliver looked away.
The kitchen suddenly felt too warm.
Too small.
Too full of memories he'd spent months trying to bury.
Against his will, images resurfaced.
Marcus standing beside him during opening night.
Marcus celebrating positive reviews.
Marcus discussing future expansion plans.
Marcus slipping a ring onto his finger.
Marcus promising forever.
The memories shifted.
Darkened.
Arguments.
Stress.
Financial pressure.
Growing distance.
Growing frustration.
Then the final conversation.
The packed suitcase.
The exhausted expression.
The words Oliver would never fully forget.
I'm tired of watching everything fall apart.
At the time, Oliver thought Marcus meant the restaurant.
Later, he realized Marcus meant him.
The memory still hurt.
Not as sharply as before.
But enough.
Definitely enough.
A voice interrupted his thoughts.
"You okay?"
Oliver nearly jumped.
Helen stood nearby.
Concern visible on her face.
He quickly locked his phone.
"Fine."
She immediately looked unconvinced.
"That answer usually means the opposite."
Oliver forced a smile.
"Just distracted."
Helen studied him for a moment.
Thankfully, she didn't push further.
The conversation ended there.
Mostly.
The distraction remained.
The rest of the afternoon passed painfully slowly.
Every spare moment brought new messages.
Not many.
Just enough.
Marcus apparently understood boundaries better through text than he ever had in relationships.
Each message remained polite.
Careful.
Regretful.
The pattern somehow made everything worse.
By evening, Oliver felt exhausted.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
The past had a way of draining energy.
Especially when it arrived uninvited.
Dinner preparations offered temporary relief.
Cooking always did.
The familiar rhythm helped.
Ingredients.
Techniques.
Timing.
Simple things.
Manageable things.
Unlike complicated emotions.
Unfortunately, his phone vibrated again shortly before seven.
This time, the message changed everything.
Oliver opened it automatically.
Then froze.
I'm in New York.
The words hit harder than expected.
He reread them twice.
Then a third time.
Still there.
Still real.
His stomach tightened.
Marcus wasn't messaging from London.
Wasn't reaching out from another continent.
He was here.
Somewhere in the same city.
The realization immediately felt intrusive.
Uncomfortable.
Dangerous.
Another message followed.
I've been here three days.
Three days.
Marcus had been in New York for three days before reaching out.
Oliver wasn't sure whether that made things better or worse.
Then came the final message.
The one that truly shattered any remaining peace.
I want to see you.
The kitchen suddenly seemed very quiet.
Outside the windows, Manhattan continued moving.
Traffic flowed.
People hurried through streets.
Life carried on.
Meanwhile, Oliver stared at a screen as the past crashed directly into his present.
A memory surfaced unexpectedly.
The first night he'd arrived in New York.
Alone.
Heartbroken.
Terrified.
Marcus hadn't been there.
Marcus hadn't called.
Marcus hadn't cared.
Now suddenly he wanted a meeting.
An apology.
Another chance.
The timing felt suspicious.
Or perhaps simply unfair.
Oliver lowered the phone.
His chest felt tight.
Conflicted.
Angry.
Curious.
The emotions tangled together until separating them became impossible.
He didn't want Marcus back.
That much felt clear.
At least he thought it did.
Yet unanswered questions remained.
Wounds remained.
Closure remained.
The possibility unsettled him.
A soft knock sounded against the kitchen doorway.
Oliver looked up.
Ethan stood there.
His expression immediately shifted.
Concern.
Subtle but visible.
"What happened?"
The question caught him off guard.
For a moment, he considered lying.
Pretending everything was fine.
Instead, he simply looked down at the phone still clutched in his hand.
The screen remained illuminated.
Marcus's message visible.
Waiting.
Ethan's gaze followed.
Though from where he stood, the billionaire couldn't possibly read it.
Still, something in Oliver's expression must have revealed enough.
Because concern deepened.
"What is it?"
Oliver swallowed.
The answer felt heavier than it should.
"My ex."
The words hung between them.
Unexpected.
Unwelcome.
Real.
Ethan's expression became unreadable immediately.
The shift happened so quickly Oliver almost missed it.
"What about him?"
Oliver stared at the message one final time.
Then slowly exhaled.
"He's in New York."
Silence followed.
Heavy silence.
The kind that changed things.