Chapter 43
Forty-Three
Eighteen Months Earlier
EMILY
The bathroom mirror is edged in gold leaf and throws my reflection back at me in a flattering light.
Too flattering, maybe. The woman staring back looks calm, capable, dressed for success in a black silk slip dress that skims my slim silhouette.
Minimum jewellery and designer handbag and shoes .
. . I look like someone who belongs here.
I press my palms briefly to the cool marble basin and breathe. It’s going to be OK. It always is.
Out there, the hum of conversation rises and falls like a tide.
Laughter, the clink of glasses, the soft slide of shoes across original polished floorboards.
This private members’ club is housed in a converted Georgian townhouse off Grosvenor Square, all discreet brass plaques and blacked-out windows.
You don’t come here unless you’re invited.
Or unless you know exactly how to act like you were.
Oliver is already working the room. His hand resting lightly at the small of my back as we were ushered in, his charismatic smile as bright as ever. Attracting the money and power like moths.
He’s in his element tonight. The slightly apprehensive man of years ago is gone and this Oliver has taken his place.
He’s dressed in an Alexander McQueen dark jacket, an open-collared white shirt and his burgeoning confidence is worn like an accessory.
He’s been like this more and more lately; not playing at it any longer but inhabiting it completely.
I tell myself it’s very attractive. That I’m proud of him. We have thousands in the bank, we’re madly in love, and Oliver—at least—feels invincible.
When I rejoin the room he glances over immediately, eyes flicking to my bare shoulder and the shoestring silk strap, the line of my collarbone. I see approval and desire flashing there, and I like it.
Our target is already here. Marcus Hart. He is in his early fifties and has made a name for himself in venture capital, although he’s been quiet of late. He’s the kind of man who makes a show of not making a show of things.
No ostentatious watch on display, no obvious labels, and yet everything about him whispers money. He’s leaning against the bar, one hand wrapped loosely around a tumbler, listening as two younger men compete for his attention.
Oliver steers us closer, close enough to be noticed but not intrusive. We wait. Chat about where our next holiday might be. He’s learned that part—patience.
I feel the familiar fizz in my blood, the low thrum of anticipation. It used to be a game we were good at, a kind of lucrative private joke between us. But it’s a lot more than that now.
Marcus Hart’s gaze lands on me first, and there’s a moment of assessment and calculation before his mouth curves into a smile. He excuses himself smoothly and steps towards us.
‘Evening,’ he says, looking at Oliver now. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’
‘Oliver Sutton,’ he says, offering his hand and giving no further details. ‘And this is my wife, Emily.’
His grip is firm, lingering just a beat too long on my hand.
‘We were just admiring the turnout. It’s busier than usual.’ It’s the first time we’ve been here, but Oliver has done his homework.
‘That’s because everyone’s chasing the same thing,’ Marcus says lightly. ‘Access to me.’
I laugh, as if he’s made a joke. ‘And are you granting it?’
‘Sometimes.’ His gaze flicks back to me. ‘If I’m persuaded.’
The three of us talk. About nothing. About everything.
The art on the walls, the state of the markets, how London feels smaller than it used to.
Oliver lets me take the lead. I ask questions and listen carefully, tilt my head at the right moments.
Marcus warms and loosens. He orders another round and insists we join him at his table, where he introduces us to a few people.
The champagne is cold and sharp, bubbles racing up the glass. I take a sip and let myself enjoy it. I belong here.
For a while, it is enjoyable. Easy. Until it isn’t.
Marcus leans closer as Oliver is momentarily drawn into conversation with one of the younger men. His hand comes to rest at my elbow, casual enough to be innocent, but then his thumb presses in slightly.
‘You’re wasted on him,’ he says quietly, breath warm against my ear. ‘He’s trying hard, but I can see he’s just another wannabe who’ll amount to nothing.’
I stiffen, just a fraction. ‘Excuse me?’
He smiles, as if I’ve misunderstood something that was meant to be charming. ‘I’m just saying—you could do very well for yourself.’
I extract my arm gently. ‘I do just fine.’
‘Of course you do.’ His eyes linger. ‘But you could do better.’
There it is. The assumption I’m looking for a man to help me ‘do better’ in life. The entitlement wrapped in flattery. I’ve dealt with it a thousand times behind bars and restaurant counters, and in big business, too. But here it feels different. More dangerous, somehow.
Marcus Hart thinks I’m a pussy cat. Someone he might spend an entertaining few hours with by dangling a golden carrot. Little does he know what I’m capable of.
I glance towards Oliver. He’s watching us now, his expression unreadable.
Marcus’s hand drops, but his gaze doesn’t. ‘No offence meant,’ he adds insincerely.
‘None taken,’ I lie.
Oliver rejoins us smoothly, slipping an arm around my waist. ‘Everything all right here?’
‘Perfect,’ Marcus says, before I can answer. ‘We were just talking about opportunities.’
Oliver’s mouth twitches. ‘Were you?’
‘I like people who know how to read a room,’ Marcus continues. ‘And I hear you’re very good with numbers.’
Oliver shrugs, modest. ‘I’ve had some practice.’
The conversation shifts, as it always does. Early-stage placements. Quiet money. Short windows of return. Oliver is careful and measured. He doesn’t promise anything. He never does.
Marcus is intrigued. I can see it in the way his attention sharpens, how he leans in now, not just towards me but towards us. Towards Oliver, who he is starting to think he’s underestimated.
We sit at a small table in the corner, champagne replaced by whisky.
Time slips while the laughter rises and falls.
Marcus tells stories about exits and risks, about backing the wrong horse and winning anyway.
Oliver listens, nodding at the right moments, occasionally offering a comment that lands just where it needs to.
I should feel satisfied we’re on track. Instead, something inside me has gone tight.
When Marcus excuses himself to take a call, I lean closer to Oliver. ‘I don’t like him,’ I murmur.
Oliver doesn’t look at me. ‘You don’t have to.’
‘He crossed a line.’
‘Did he?’
I stare at him. ‘Yes. I think we should go.’
Oliver turns to me, his gaze steady. ‘We’re nearly there, Em. This could be a really big one.’
I watch from the sidelines after that, a strange hollowness opening in my chest.
This is what champagne nights are now. Not a treat. Not a choice.
Just something cold and artificial to take the edge off.
Outside, the night air is cool, the city humming around us. We walk in silence for a block before I stop.
‘That was too much.’
Oliver turns, surprised. ‘What?’
‘You saw the way he spoke to me.’
‘He was testing the waters.’
‘He was flirting.’
‘And you handled it.’ Oliver steps closer, hands sliding to my waist. ‘You always do.’
I pull back. ‘You didn’t stop it.’
His expression shifts, irritation flashing briefly. ‘I didn’t think I needed to.’
My voice wobbles, just slightly. ‘You let him think I was part of the deal.’
Oliver exhales. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘This was supposed to be simple and controlled, like the others. We said we wouldn’t let it get messy.’
‘It isn’t messy.’
‘It felt messy. It felt like you’d stopped playing by our rules.’
A beat. Then Oliver says, carefully, ‘I didn’t tell you everything.’
My stomach drops. ‘What do you mean?’
He hesitates. Just long enough.
‘I upped the figure.’
‘You what?’
‘He was ready.’ Oliver’s voice is calm, persuasive. ‘It made sense.’
‘How much?’
‘High six figures.’
The word hangs between us, heavy and suffocating.
‘That’s not what we agreed,’ I whisper.
‘I know. But this changes things.’
‘It changes everything.’
Oliver’s eyes gleam. ‘Exactly.’
I step back, suddenly cold. ‘You went behind my back.’
It hits me then: we’re not doing this thing together any more. I’m just part of the story he needs.
‘I trusted my judgement,’ he says.
‘You didn’t trust me.’
Silence stretches.
‘This is the biggest yet, Em.’ Oliver’s voice softens, takes on that familiar, coaxing tone. ‘We take the money and do what we said we’d do. Settle down, enjoy our life together.’
I search his face, looking for doubt. I don’t find it.
‘And if it goes wrong?’
‘It won’t.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘I do.’ He reaches for my hands. ‘Together, we’re so good at this. You knew it before I did.’
The words sting, because they’re true. I started it. I opened Pandora’s box.
There’s a future I sometimes allow myself to imagine. In it is a house that stays ours. A life that doesn’t require lies and double-dealing. Maybe even a baby. Something rooted and real and nothing to do with accruing more funds.
I look at Oliver—at this brilliant, charming man who is increasingly ambitious and unafraid.
‘After this one, I want to stop,’ I say quietly. ‘I mean it.’
He smiles, relief flooding his features. ‘Of course.’
He pulls me into an embrace, and for a moment I let myself believe him. I rest my cheeks against his broad chest, breathe in his familiar scent while the city rushes past around us.
Still, as his arms tighten, the anxieties start to twist and burn.
What if he doesn’t want to stop?
What if I’ve already helped him become someone who can’t walk away?