32. Chapter 32
A ria
Aria had a vague impression of shutting the door behind her.
She didn't remember descending the worn steps of the Lackenbys' porch or walking out into the late morning sun.
Her legs were moving, but her brain was locked in that dim study, in the nauseating odour, in the way Mr. Lackenby had said the words- support, someone powerful, regret.
She hadn't been in danger, not exactly. But she could have been, and no one would've known.
The air hit her like a slap, crisp and thick with the promise of London rain despite the bright sunshine beating down on her. Her heart pounded a staccato rhythm against her ribs, loud enough she swore people passing could hear it. She made it around the block before her knees gave out.
Aria crouched by the cold stone wall of an old building, her back pressed to it, bag slipping from her shoulder. Her breaths came too quick, too shallow. She placed her palm against her chest like she could hold her heart inside. In: one, two, three. Out: one, two, three.
And then something wet touched her shoulder.
She turned, startled, just in time for a large, fluffy muzzle thrust into her face .
"Hey-" she gasped, toppling sideways as the dog gave her a generous slurp across the cheek. It blinked at her, soulful brown eyes peering into hers as if they were besties.
She laughed. A breathy, shocked, unexpected thing that caught in her throat and unfurled something warm in her chest.
"Oso! Oso, come on!"
A teenager came jogging up, clearly mortified. "God, I'm sorry! He's...he's a bit too friendly. Are you alright?"
Aria reached for his outstretched hand and allowed him to help her up. "Yes," she said, brushing dust from her knees. "Actually...I think I needed that."
Oso wagged his tail proudly, as if he'd been on a mission of comfort.
"He's really friendly," Aria murmured, scratching behind his ear. "Good boy. Good puppy."
The teen looked unsure. "You sure you’re okay?"
"I am now," she said, smiling again. "You two have a good day."
"Yeah...you, too," he said, but still looked back twice as he led Oso away .
Alone again, Aria stood still. Just for a second.
Then, almost without thinking, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the crumpled card from the cleaning agency. She'd cancelled the interview, asked to reschedule it for tomorrow-she was too tired, too bruised-but now?
She called. Her voice shook at first, but steadied.
"Hi. This is Aria Bektashi. I know I rescheduled the interview for tomorrow, but is there any chance we could do it today?"
The woman at the other end hesitated, then asked her to hold. A few muffled voices. Then, "We'll call you back shortly."
Click.
She stared at the screen. Her stomach rumbled.
Right. Food.
She ducked into the first corner café she saw and scanned the menu board.
Normally, she'd have gone for something with chicken or lamb, but lately, even eggs had turned on her.
The last time she'd tried, she'd ended up crouched over the sink, mouth flooded with the bitter taste of blood though there hadn't been any .
"The vegetarian wrap, please," she told the man behind the counter. "No egg."
She sat by the window and waited, palms pressed to her thighs, feet twitching in her worn boots.
She was still shaky, still a little stunned, but her mouth curved into something close to a smile.
She had made it out.
And now, maybe, just maybe, she was about to start something new.
Aria took another bite of the wrap-cool avocado, the crunch of shredded carrot and cucumber, the burst of sweet roasted pepper, and the tang of tomato all coming together on a soft flatbread. It wasn't meat, so the baby didn't protest for once.
Her phone rang just as she was folding the last bit into her napkin.
"Miss Bektashi?"
"Yes, speaking."
"This is Linda from SwiftClean. I have good news. The family in Chelsea can see you today if you can get there in the next thirty minutes. "
"Yes," Aria said quickly, already grabbing her bag. "Yes, I'll be there."
"Perfect! Give me a moment and I shall text the address to this number, alright?"
She was out the door and down into the tube in record time, heart picking up pace again-this time from urgency, not panic. She found a seat and tried calling Lule, but the call rang out. She left a voice message anyway, low-voiced in the carriage hum.
"Hey. Got a last-minute interview. Private townhouse in Chelsea. Looks like regular hours, decent pay. I'm okay. I'll call you after."
Across from her on the tube, a couple nestled into each other.
They were probably in their early twenties-young, in love, and completely unaware of the world.
The woman's bump was unmistakable, her fingers tracing idle circles over the fabric of her dress.
Her partner had one arm around her and was reading from a bright yellow book with cartoonish lettering.
Aria squinted at the title, mouthing the words slowly, the way she always did with longer ones. The cheerful yellow cover was titled 'What to Expect When You're Expecting... He is not ready, either.'
Her mouth turned up at the edges in a wistful half smile. It was ridiculous and oddly sweet. She imagined browsing the baby aisle with Crispin, maybe debating between pastel blue or neutral green.
A twist of longing bloomed inside her chest .
She should tell Crispin. He was the father, and he deserved to know. But what then? What about his family, his mother? What about Helga, whose shadow seemed to hover over them like the forerunner of doom?
Aria looked at the floor, as if the answers might be there. Her hand settled low across her stomach in a protective gesture.
By the time she reached Chelsea, her thoughts had curled tight inside her again like a secret.
She reached Chelsea ten minutes ahead of schedule.
It was a slow walk through streets with perfect hedges and polished, imposing, glossy front doors.
She left another voice message for Lule, this time sharing the address.
It was a small ritual between them whenever either wandered into new parts of town or unfamiliar situations.
The townhouse stood at the end of a short row in a cul-de-sac with immaculate cream walls and gleaming windows. She reached for the bell, then paused.
The knocker caught her eye. It was a sculpted brass woodpecker, sleek and detailed, its head cocked to one side, as if in mid-peck. Aria's lips quirked and on impulse, she lifted it and knocked twice.
A few seconds passed. Then a minute, then another .
She stepped back, feeling the invisible eyes of a doorbell cam watching. Her hands fidgeted.
At last, the lock clicked and the door opened.
Standing there was a man in his early sixties, tall and trim, dressed casually but expensively. A head of thick grey hair and the kind of teeth only money or good genes could provide. His eyes were sharp, but not unkind.
"Mrs. Bektashi?"
"It's miss actually," Aria said, smoothing her jacket.
He extended a hand. "I'm Marcus. Thank you for coming on such short notice. Come in."
She stepped inside, uncertain of what awaited her, but grateful for the smile and the chance to begin again.
The sitting room smelled of lemon balm. Aria sat on the edge of a pale linen armchair, still clutching her shoulder bag like it might float away.
Marcus was surprisingly warm at first, charming in a well-worn, upper-class kind of way. He talked about the heat, how un-British it was for May, and how the Piccadilly Line upgrade had turned the whole area into a maze .
"You wouldn't believe the state of the platforms," he said, shaking his head. "Even the pigeons look lost."
Aria had chuckled politely. His voice was smooth and his words effortless, the kind of man who'd never had to repeat himself to be heard. He reminded her, oddly, of Ophelia-confident, courteous, a little removed. Someone who always seemed to know more than they said.
He offered her tea. "Earl Grey? Or something herbal, perhaps?" She declined, grateful, but still on edge. He explained that his wife would be joining them shortly, gestured casually to a hallway that led deeper into the townhouse.
"You might as well get a sense of the place," he said. "It's not terribly large, and it's well-kept. My wife's domain, really."
He led her through the pristine kitchen with pale granite counters into a dining room with French windows that looked out onto a perfectly clipped lawn. His manner was respectful. There were no lingering glances, no probing questions. She began to think maybe, just maybe, this could work.
It took her a second to register that he was moving again. "Come. Let me show you the upstairs."