27. Chapter 27
C rispin
A week.
He'd give her a week. A week to calm down. A week to reply to at least one of his messages.
There was no word for two days.
On the third day, he caved.
He went to her flat and knocked once. And then again, and waited. No one answered. He called. Left a message. Then another.
There was only radio silence from her end. At least she hadn't blocked him yet. His messages were left on read.
He tried Ophelia next. He had to call twice before she picked up.
Her voice, when it came through the line, was strained, her clipped tone one he had never heard from her before.
"I'm unwell, Crispin. I'm not receiving visitors."
There was none of the old affection in it. No gentle teasing and none of the warmth she used to reserve just for him and Dorian.
Not wanting to push, he almost hung up. But desperation in his frayed voice seemed to reach her.
After a pause, she added, "She'll stop working here by the end of the week. "
Then, just as he was about to thank her, she said one last thing.
"I suppose," she said, in that brittle, detached voice, "everyone gets their just desserts, eventually."
And then she hung up.
Chaos was his life.
Helga had been hounding him, flooding his phone with messages, one after the other.
We need to talk.
Your mother is asking questions.
I miss you.
We should just clarify things. Publicly. For both our sakes.
He stopped reading them after day four.
He had to tell his mother to back off, in those exact words.
She'd looked at him like he was a stranger who had taken control of her son's body.
"I need space," he'd said tightly, then turned to his father. "You don't get to steer me through this. Not this time."
They hadn't taken it well.
And then, there was Dorian.
They met at the boxing gym in Chelsea like they used to. They followed the familiar rhythm of their old routine.
But from the first punch, something was off. Crispin's jabs were sharper, Dorian's mouth looser .
By the third round, Dorian was bleeding from his nose, and Crispin's breathing had turned into a low, steady growl.
Then, between hits, Dorian had to run his mouth.
"I only said what she already knew, mate. Someone like her could've had any number of sugar daddies by now. Thought I'd offer early."
Rage raced through his veins in an unstoppable drift. The next punch caught Dorian hard in the jaw. He stumbled.
They were well matched, but this wasn't sparring anymore.
This was fury.
Crispin's fists moved on instinct-left, right, shoulder, jaw. Dorian landed a few solid counters, but it was no match for his fury.
Crispin drove him back, blow after blow, until Dorian hit the mat with a groan.
"You absolute bastard," Crispin panted, his gloves still raised.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" His voice cracked. "I thought you were my friend."
Dorian, dazed and winded, blinked up at him from the floor. "You've been with dozens of women. I didn't think she was any different."
Crispin stood over him, chest heaving. "No different? No different? They were all a smokescreen...nothing," he shouted, his voice rising. "Every last one of them."
He pulled his gloves off slowly. The sound of the Velcro tearing was loud in the silent room.
"I love her so much... I can't breathe without her."
Dorian didn't answer. He just sat on the mat, rubbing his jaw. His eyes gave nothing away .
Crispin looked down at him, a shine in his eyes over a friendship that had run its course.
"I thought you were my friend," he repeated softly.
Dorian stayed silent, wiping a line of blood from his mouth.
Crispin's voice dropped, low and shaking with fury. "In my mind, she's my wife. The mother of my children. Is this how you'd treat the other half of my soul?"
The gym was still around them.
Then he turned, climbed out of the ring, and didn't look back.
He tried The Crusty Loaf . He hated the place.
It wasn't the smell of oil, or the sticky tables, or even the clatter of cutlery and squeak of worn chairs.
It was the quiet man in the corner who watched Aria with hopeful eyes that made his hackles rise. And worse, that she smiled back-and not the distracted, mechanical smile she gave customers or colleagues.
With him, Crispin felt her whole demeanour had changed. The indifference dropped away and her shoulders softened. He imagined her tone warmer, lighter. There was something in the way she leaned in to hear him speak.
It was the softness that Crispin had once believed belonged exclusively to him.
The intimacy of the way she placed a cup near his hand. The gentle touch on his arm when she passed by.
Those touches are mine.
He went twice.
Ordered things he didn't eat .
Then he sat at the back, watching her from across the room.
And stared down the competition.
She looked tired, hollow-eyed and thinner.
Was she eating enough?
She didn't so much as glance in his direction.
He needed to talk to her, but he couldn't do it in public. She deserved more than to be cornered in her workplace.
But how was he supposed to speak to her if she was ghosting him?
And then, two weeks after everything had crumbled, he caught her going home.
She was walking with her head low and her coat zipped to her chin. It was dusk, and her hair was damp from the drizzle. He crossed the road in a rush, calling her name. "Aria...wait!"
She turned.
The look she gave him stopped him mid-step.
There was a coldness to it which he had never seen before. Giving her time was a mistake.
She looked at him like he was something unpleasant that had attached itself to the bottom of her shoe.
"Can we talk?" he asked, his voice low, gentle.
She didn't answer immediately. He saw the flicker of discomfort flash across her face.
Then something shifted. She glanced over his shoulder.
Someone was approaching from behind-an elderly man, his beard long and white, a soft wool skullcap on his head. His steps were slow, steady .
Crispin watched as Aria offered him one of her special smiles, one which made the dimple in her left cheek pop. Her posture softened and she stepped closer to him, her tone respectful and low.
He caught fragments.
"...lost..."
"...asking for directions..."
"...it's not far..."
Then they laughed together, quiet and easy.
The man laid a hand on her arm. She placed hers gently over his.
Something about the exchange struck Crispin in the chest with a force he didn't expect.
This wasn't just a stranger.
This was someone important, someone she respected.
And she didn't want to be seen with him .
After the man walked away, she turned back to him, her face composed. Her voice was cool, like she was talking to a stranger. "Come up in ten minutes."
Then she walked away.
He stood there, hands in his pockets, watching the way she disappeared into the stairwell-calm, decisive, unshaken.
And that's when it hit him.
She'd never introduced him to anyone important. Never talked about her sister beyond the vague outlines. Never brought him into her world.
Just like he kept her separate from his.
She'd guarded her dear ones fiercely, like a dragon curled around its gold.
And for the first time, Crispin understood something so sharp and ugly it made his chest ache.
That's how she must've felt.
Like a secret.
Like an embarrassment.
Small.
Unwanted.
He had done that to her.
And now she was doing it to him.