Chapter 27 Henry
Twenty Seven
Henry
“Itold you I need the car for five p.m. sharp, I can’t be late,” I snap down the phone before immediately regretting the sharpness in my voice. I hate how I sound — cold, clipped — but the idea of leaving Matilda waiting outside the ceremony because my driver’s late is unbearable.
I’d offered to pick her up, of course, but she insisted we meet there. “Less like a date,” she’d said. I pretended it didn’t sting.
When Harrison finally pulls up, I slide into the back seat. “Sorry I was a dick on the phone,” I mumble. “Just a big night. Pressure’s getting to me.”
“No problem, sir,” he says kindly. “Not that you need it, but good luck tonight. You deserve it.”
His words hit deeper than I expect. “Thank you, Harrison.”
The drive takes twenty minutes, but it feels longer. My hands won’t stay still — straightening my cuff-links, fixing my bow tie, checking my reflection only to find the same nervous stranger looking back at me.
When we arrive, spotlights bathe the old stone of the building in gold. The crowd outside glitters with tuxedos and sequins. I take a long breath before stepping out of the car.
The moment the cold air hits my face, I glance around for her. No sign. I pull out my phone and see her message waiting:
Meet you inside. I have a surprise for you. x
My lips twitch into a smile before I can stop them. She has that effect on me — pulling light out of the dark corners I didn’t know were there.
Inside, the grand hall is alive with sound — laughter, glasses clinking, the soft sway of jazz beneath it all. The chandeliers catch the light like frozen fireworks.
And then I see her.
A vision in soft yellow, standing in the centre of the room like she owns the light. Her hair is swept into a loose bun, a few tendrils curling down her neck, and for a moment everything else fades to static. My pulse actually stutters.
I move before I even realise it, drawn to her like gravity.
Then I hear it — a laugh I’ve known my whole life. Familiar, warm, grounding.
My gaze shifts, and there he is.
My dad.
Standing tall — shaky but standing — one hand on his stick, the other looped through Matilda’s arm. His suit is sharp, his face clean-shaven. Pride radiates off him, and beside him, Matilda beams like she’s been holding this secret for days.
The breath catches painfully in my throat. My chest tightens. For a terrifying second I can’t move. He’s here. He’s really here.
And I know she’s the reason.
“Henry, my boy!” he calls, voice booming across the room. He starts toward me, unsteady but determined. I rush forward, meeting him halfway and pulling him into my arms.
“Dad, you’re here.” The words scrape out of me, broken and small.
“I am,” he says into my shoulder. “And you have this woman to thank for that.”
When I pull back, Matilda is standing a few steps away, hands twisted together, that nervous smile tugging at her lips. I reach for her instinctively, sliding my fingers between hers. She relaxes at my touch, and something inside me loosens too.
Her eyes flicker up to mine, a quiet you’re welcome shining through them. I can’t stop myself — I lean forward and press a kiss to her cheek. Her perfume hits me — warm, honeyed — and when she shivers, I almost forget where we are.
“Thank you,” I whisper against her skin.
She exhales, shaky, and smiles.
Before I can say any more, Dad taps his stick against the floor. “Shall we find our seats, young man?”
He hooks his arm through Matilda’s again and leads the way, pride straightening his spine. Watching them together — his fragile strength and her quiet warmth — does something to me I can’t explain.
At the table, I spot the name cards: Henry Chase, Matilda Green, James Chase. She must have called ahead to make sure he’d be beside me. My throat tightens again.
We sit. The hum of the room fills the gaps where my words should be. Normally, I thrive at events like this — confident, untouchable. But tonight, with both of them beside me, I feel strangely small. Not in a bad way. Just… human.
Dinner passes in a blur of conversation and laughter. Matilda charms everyone at the table — she always does. I catch myself just watching her, completely useless at hiding how she affects me. When she smiles, something heavy lifts off my shoulders.
I want to tell her everything. How grateful I am. How much she’s changed me. How much I—
But when I open my mouth, nothing comes out.
She notices me staring. “Are you nervous?” she asks softly.
“Yeah… a bit.” I rub my hands down my thighs, realising they’re damp with sweat. God, I’m pathetic.
She reaches over and covers my hand with hers. “You’ll be fine. You’ve got this. And if the judges are stupid and you don’t win, I’m still incredibly proud.”
“Really?” I ask, too quickly.
“Of course. Just being nominated is huge. You do amazing work, Henry. You should be proud of what you’ve achieved.”
Her hand squeezes mine gently. “Your mum would be proud too.”
The words hit harder than I expect. I swallow around the lump forming in my throat and look away, pretending to study the stage lights so she won’t see my eyes glossing over.
I hold her hand tighter, selfishly, grounding myself in her touch.
Then the microphone cracks to life, and the ceremony begins.
Dad pats my shoulder. “Here we go, son.”
I think about letting go of Matilda’s hand, but her grip tightens. So I don’t. I hold on — too long, probably — but I need it.
The presenter’s voice echoes through the hall, warm and theatrical. The screen behind him fills with images of architecture, innovation, design. Then my building — Fenbank House — flashes up, and my chest expands with pride.
As the speech goes on, Dad leans toward me. “Which award are you up for again?”
“RIBA Emerging Architect of the Year,” I whisper.
His eyes glisten. “I’m so proud of you, son.”
“I haven’t won anything yet.”
“You’ve already won, Henry. Recognition like this doesn’t come easy.”
I look away before I embarrass myself by tearing up.
“Did I hear you right?” Matilda whispers. “Emerging Architect of the Year?”
I grin. “Did I not tell you?”
“No, you bloody didn’t. Henry, that’s huge!”
“Yeah, well, no pressure,” I mutter, laughing softly. “I’m also up for the Stephen Lawrence Award — probably just an honourable mention.”
She turns toward me, smiling like I’ve just invented light itself.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I whisper.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re the most beautiful thing in here. It’s making this whole boss–assistant boundary impossible.”
Her breath catches, and a faint blush blooms on her cheeks. “If it helps,” she says quietly, “you in that tux aren’t exactly helping my restraint either.”
Before I can reply, she grins and nods toward the stage. “Shh. It’s starting.”
And for the first time in years, I sit there — heart thundering, hand still in hers — not as Henry Chase the architect, but as a man who’s finally realised what it feels like to want something real.