Chapter 15
Fifteen
Matilda
There’s only so much damage control a girl can do.
The dark circles under my eyes are still visible despite three layers of concealer and the prayer I whispered to my foundation brush this morning. My hair is clean at least — no longer smelling like a bar floor — and scraped into a tight bun because I couldn’t face the battle of curls today.
I’ve gone for light grey trousers and a simple white blouse.
Practical. Forgettable. I even toyed with the idea of wearing flats — but at the last second, I slipped into my black glossy heels.
My “serious” heels. The kind I reserve for interviews, funerals, or any day that requires emotional armour.
Today, I need all the armour I can get.
When I arrive at the office, Henry’s office is empty. Thank God. My stomach still isn’t stable enough to face him. He should’ve finished his 8:30 meeting by now, so at least I can hide behind my desk until further notice.
I boot up my computer and find an unread email from him waiting in my inbox.
From: henrychase@
To: matildagreen@
Subject: Out of the office
Matilda,
There’s been a problem at Park Lane, so I’ve headed down there. Signal’s rubbish, so you might not hear from me until later. Can you organise my files for this week’s meeting?
See you later for our meeting.
Henry
Henry Chase
CEO, Chase Architects
Relief floods through me like caffeine. I’ve bought myself a few more hours before our conversation. Enough time to get my head straight, prepare my project notes, and convince him I’m not a total liability.
I’ve barely been working five minutes when the office phone rings.
“Good morning, Chase Architects, Matilda speaking.”
“Matilda, darling! It’s James. How are you this morning?”
Henry’s dad. My face breaks into a smile before I can stop it. “James! It’s so good to hear from you. How are you feeling?”
“Ah, better now, my dear. You know what these doctors are like — worrying over nothing.”
“Isn’t it usually the other way around?” I tease. “Doctors don’t keep you in for fun.”
He chuckles warmly down the line. “You young people fuss over every paper cut. Back in my day, we just got on with it. None of this sepsis nonsense and flashing blue lights. Too much drama.”
I bite back a laugh. “I’m just glad you’re feeling better, James.”
“Anyway,” he says, cheerfully changing the subject, “tell me, darling, what fabulous heels are you wearing today?”
He asks me that every time we talk. Normally, it makes me smile. But not today.
My shoes have always been my mood board.
Red means confident. Pink means cute. Purple — sassy.
Blue means I’m feeling quiet or a bit low.
But black… black means serious. Black means damage control.
Black means I tried to kiss my boss, got drunk enough to need rescuing, and woke up to find said boss asleep in my armchair.
“Just plain black today,” I admit.
“What? Plain black? Are you feeling alright, dear?”
I could unpack that question, but I don’t have the energy — so I just murmur, “Yes, I’m fine.”
He hums softly, not convinced, but thankfully moves on. “Anyway, where’s that marvellous son of mine? I need a quick word.”
“Oh! Right, he’s out on-site this morning,” I say quickly. “Signal’s bad, but I can try him for you. Is everything okay?”
“All fine, my dear. The doctors say I’m good to go home.”
“That’s wonderful! Are you ready to leave now?”
“Ready and packed.”
“Alright, I’ll try calling Henry and ring you back once I get through.”
“You’re lovely, you know that.”
I grin. “And you’re a terrible flirt, you know that?”
There’s a beat of silence — then a burst of laughter fills my ear, rich and genuine.
“Speak to you soon, Matty.”
The name makes me pause. Only my sister calls me Matty, but somehow it feels natural coming from him. Comforting.
I try Henry’s mobile three times, and every call goes straight to voicemail. He really has no signal. I stare at the phone, imagining James sitting alone in a hospital bed, waiting.
Nope. Not happening.
“Right,” I mutter to myself, pulling up the Uber app. “We’re doing this.”
I call James back to tell him I’m on my way.
Nearly an hour later, James and I are in the back of a taxi heading to his house.
The nurses looked mildly disappointed when they realised it was me collecting him and not Henry, but James seemed thrilled. He’d hugged me so tightly when I arrived that I thought my ribs might crack — but honestly, I didn’t mind. It felt… warm. Familiar.
He spent the drive complaining about hospital food, telling me stories that had me laughing so hard I almost forgot I was supposed to be hungover.
When we pull up outside his townhouse in North London, I can’t help but be impressed.
The street is beautiful — quiet, well-kept, the kind of place untouched by London grime.
“James? Are you okay?” I ask when he freezes halfway out of the car.
“Yes, dear,” he says sheepishly. “Legs are still a bit weak. Would you be a dear and fetch my wheelchair from inside?”
“Of course.”
He hands me his keys and points me in the right direction. The lock clicks open easily, and I step into a wave of scents — spices, lavender, and something warm and familiar. Sandalwood. Henry.
The house is beautiful. Elegant but lived-in, with black and white marble floors and soft amber walls. My heels click along the hallway as I find the chair by the living room door, just where James said it would be.
“James, your home is gorgeous,” I say as I wheel him inside. “Have you lived here long?”
“Nearly forty years,” he says proudly. “Mary and I bought it before the boys were born. She took one look around and said, ‘This is it.’”
He smiles at the walls as if they still hold her. My chest tightens.
Henry never talks about his mum, and I’ve never asked. I’ve seen her photo behind his desk — a beautiful woman with the same emerald eyes — but I didn’t know the story. Until now. The look on longing tells me everything I need to know.
“Would you be a doll and make some tea?” James asks, his eyes kind. “Unless you need to rush back to the office?”
I smile. “No, I can stay for a bit. Milk, sugar?”
He waves a hand. “Two sugars. And don’t be shy — I want to hear about how my son has been treating you.”
I laugh, try to hide the choke that nearly escapes, and heading for the kitchen. “Perfect. I’ll make tea. Then I want embarrassing childhood stories.”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty. You’ll be here all day,” he calls back, chuckling.
And he’s not wrong.
The day slips by faster than I expect. We talk for hours, refilling cups of tea and making our way through two packets of biscuits.
James tells me about Henry’s childhood — how close he was to his brother, how he could spend hours building intricate Lego cities, determined to make every detail perfect.
Then, more softly, he tells me about Henry’s mum. The car accident. The drunk driver. The loss that changed everything.
My chest aches as he speaks, tears silently streaking down my cheeks. He tells me how Henry withdrew after that, spending hours alone building things — the one space where he could control the outcome, where nothing broke unless he chose to take it apart.
He talks about his pride, too. How Henry grew into the man he always hoped he’d be — determined, loyal, endlessly driven.
By the time I finally look at the clock, the sun is already dipping behind the rooftops.
The man James describes doesn’t sound like the boss I’ve worked for these last four years. But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe the man I know — the guarded, brooding version — is what’s left after the world breaks you.
And maybe, just maybe, the man James remembers is still there, waiting to be seen.