45. Chapter 45
C rispin
Crispin had barely slept.
He had started calling two days ago-at first space apart, then frantic, overlapping, as if quantity could breach the silence. He'd left voicemails, sent messages, even tried email. Each time the line rang out or went dead, the trepidation surged deeper.
Had something happened to her?
Was she ignoring him?
Was she hurt?
He sat slumped on the edge of his bed, phone still in hand, eyes bloodshot. The daylight had turned amber, then grey, and still no word. Around four in the afternoon, the door creaked open.
"Crispin?" Dorian's voice was careful. "The front door was open."
Crispin looked up, wild-eyed, unshaven, the hollows beneath his cheekbones deeper than usual. He was stuffing clothes into a duffel bag with sharp, jerky movements.
"I'm going to Oxford," he muttered as if to himself. "I have to go. "
Dorian closed the door behind him and walked in without invitation. "Alright, alright. Sit. Sit the hell down before you pass out."
Crispin didn't protest, just sagged into the edge of the leather sofa like a deflated balloon. Dorian disappeared into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a chipped mug and a plate.
"Here," he said gruffly, handing over the tea. "Drink. Then eat."
Crispin took the mug and stared into the steam. "You think something's happened?"
"I think you look like shit," Dorian replied bluntly. He dropped onto the armchair opposite, crossing one long leg over the other. "When's the last time you ate?"
Crispin didn't answer.
Dorian shoved the plate into his lap. "Sandwich. Eat."
He sniffed at it and grimaced before taking a bite and chewing with visible reluctance after a long pause. "What the hell is this?"
"Random contents of your fridge," Dorian said lazily. "I think there's some sun-dried tomato in there, and...maybe anchovy? "
"Tastes like shit."
"I'm not your bloody chef."
Despite himself, a weak smile twitched at Crispin's mouth before fading.
Dorian sighed and reached into his coat for a pen and scrap of paper. "Right. Let's think logically. Her name?"
"Huh?"
"Aria's. What is her full name?"
"Aria Bektashi."
"Sister?"
"Lule. Same surname...I think."
"She's not married, right? "
Crispin shook his head.
"So, she lives in Oxford. One-bedroom apartment, right? You said she's got a boyfriend? "
Crispin's jaw tightened. "Indian origin chap. Very clever, I think. His name is Rahul. I don't know his last name. He has a start-up that is doing well. Some tech stuff."
"Start-up in what?"
"I think...cybersecurity."
"Right. Let's start there."
Dorian opened his laptop and began typing. "Cybersecurity startup, Oxford, founder Rahul..."
The screen lit up with smiling headshots. Crispin leaned forward, breath catching.
"That's him," he said hoarsely, pointing to an unsmiling, handsome face. "That's him."
Dorian leaned forward to peer at the screen, then gave Crispin a sidelong glance.
"You know," he said, not unkindly, "even if Aria does take you back, you might want to give her a warning first. You look like you crawled out of a ditch. She wouldn't recognise you."
Crispin didn't rise to the bait. He simply rubbed at his jaw, eyes still locked on the image .
Another search brought up Rahul's Facebook.
And there, Lule was tagged in the photos.
One of them showed her holding hands with Rahul, smiling.
Another post of two women standing on the steps of a modest apartment building.
One vaguely familiar, the other one beloved.
The street name was visible on a plaque right behind them.
"Bingo," Dorian murmured before pressing print.
Crispin was already on his feet, keys in hand. He tossed them to Dorian. "You're driving."
Dorian raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly is the plan when we get there?"
Crispin's voice was steel. "Find her."
Dorian raised his eyebrows. "You want me to come along? She may run screaming for the woods if she sees me."
Crispin was already shrugging his coat on. "You owe me. Besides, I am in no shape to drive."
Later, when they were speeding down the M40 at well above the speed limit, Dorian turned the music down. "Alright. Indulge me. What does it feel like? "
"What?" asked Crispin. Now that they had a good lead, he was already strategizing the next steps in his head.
"To feel like this," Dorian said quietly. "This desperation."
Crispin blinked, taken off guard. Dorian was one of the worst man-whores in existence.
He went through women like he changed his bespoke Oxford shirts.
For a moment, he looked like he might scoff, but something faltered in his expression.
He set the coffee down in the holder and loosely clasped his hands.
"It's not...dramatic," he said slowly. "It's more like swimming with the current.
It's like, when I am with her, I could leave all the chaos outside the door.
My shoulders didn't ache from holding myself up.
I could just...be. There were no games, no proving myself.
She didn't care who my father is or how much I was worth. "
Dorian was silent but he was listening.
"I thought at first," Crispin continued with a secret smile, "that she only wanted my body. Honestly, it was refreshing. Not to be wanted for what I could give, materially. For once, I was just...enough." His voice cracked slightly on the last word.
"She is the least judgemental person I know. She looked at me like I was a person, not a project or a target. Even when I was shit to her, she never hit back. "
Dorian scratched his jaw, digesting the confession as if Crispin spoke a strange language.
Then he gave a soft snort. "Yeah, no thanks. I'll stick to my situationships. No soul-baring, no heartbreak, no stalker-level googling. And why choose one, really? Rotation keeps things fresh."
Crispin let out a hollow laugh. "You're an idiot."
"An idiot who eats, sleeps, and doesn't cry over women at four a.m.," Dorian said, hand reaching to turn the music back up. "Come on, Romeo. Let's get you to Oxford before you start writing sonnets."
Crispin had thought that once they found the address, things would start getting better.
They did not.
They parked discreetly across the street, waiting. The afternoon stretched into early evening and still, there was no sign of her. The building was modest, an old terrace split into flats, ivy creeping along the stone, a cracked intercom hanging beside the door.
Then, finally Lule came around the corner, carrying a cloth tote and a paper bag, her dark braid swinging behind her. The moment she saw them approach, she stopped mid-stride. Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared. Her face turned crimson as recognition set in .
"Maybe you should go first," Dorian muttered warily, already slowing his steps.
Crispin moved forward.
Lule hesitated just a breath, spun on her heel, and began walking the other way at a furious pace.
"Lule... Lule, please," Crispin called out.
She turned so suddenly that Crispin nearly walked into her. Her fury made him take a step back.
"Oh, so you do know my name?" she snapped. "How fascinating. I didn't think I existed in your precious little world."
"I-"
"We've never met, have we?" Her voice was sharp, brittle with sarcasm. "Three years of you fucking my sister, and not once did you bother. Not for a coffee, not for a hello. Not even a 'hi, I'm the asshole who keeps breaking her heart.'"
"Don't talk about your sister like that-"
"Like what?" Lule shot back, stepping towards him, practically rolling up her sleeves. "Like a woman who deserved better than to be treated like a disposable fucktoy? Like she was gum you chewed up and spat out when the flavour faded? "
Crispin opened his mouth, tried to speak but no words came.
"I need to talk to her," he said finally, voice not quite steady.
Lule laughed-one of those dry, humourless laughs that made the hair in the nape of his neck stand up. "Oh, now you need to talk? What's the matter? Running low on girls you can control?"
Crispin flinched. "That's not fair."
She advanced on him again, fierce and unrelenting. "Are you here to invite her to your wedding?"
He froze. "What?"
He turned to Dorian, who shrugged and mouthed wedding ?
"Oh, don't play dumb," Lule hissed. "Doesn't matter.
She's sorted now. She doesn't need you. Oh ya, she deserves better than you.
And I swear to God, if you come near her again-" Her voice rose in pitch, trembled with rage.
"You pompous, entitled, emotionally-stunted bloody wanker!
May your balls shrivel and your ego rot! "
She spun on her heel, storming up the steps to the flat, still cursing his parentage, manhood, and the tragically limited size of his brain.
Dorian watched her go, impressed. "That was...poetic."
Crispin stood there, gutted. And then determination took over.
Dorian clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, that went about as well as expected."