Chapter 23
First, there’s regret about how I’ve managed the man sitting opposite me, totally intent on the tablet in his hand.
Last Friday, I thought future me would appreciate the seemingly impossible list of tasks I gave to Henry, my paralegal, to attack in my absence.
Today’s me is yelling, “What the fuck were you thinking?” while Henry proudly drones on and on, detailing how he’s completed every one of them.
“I’ve catalogued the Elliot discovery documents—eight-hundred and forty-seven emails—and found three inconsistencies in the defendant’s timeline,” he says, scrolling carefully.
He’s so damn meticulous and pedantic, earnest about his work—all good qualities in a paralegal—and incredibly fucking boring.
Not that boring is all bad. There’s no drama with Henry.
Turns up early each morning and reliably does his job, and does it extremely well.
Goes home to his mum and his cat, Toffee Pop, and turns up again the next day.
I think he’s had like one sick day in the three years he’s worked for me.
But right now, I wish he’d phoned to say Toffee had coughed up a fur ball or his mum needed to go to the podiatrist, or something, anything, so I could have a day’s peace.
“Rachel, are you okay?” I snap my head up and meet his concerned gaze. I hadn’t really noticed before, but Henry’s got nice eyes—soft, kind, and right now oozing empathy.
The realisation hits like a punch to the gut. Maybe it’s because my brain is now wired to notice that exact shade of brown. The same dark chocolate as a certain drummer boy who I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about at all.
That’s my other—and way bigger—regret this morning: pushing Teddy away.
He wanted more, and god knows I wanted it too, but common sense whispered no.
I’m not ready to gamble my heart on the hope that he’s changed, or that he could change for me.
I don’t trust myself to believe he’d fight for us when the shine wears off and things get hard.
He told me himself everything’s always come easily to him; he’s never had to prove he could stay when it mattered.
He doesn’t fix hard; he replaces the girl.
That’s what I’m scared of—being the girl he replaces when easy runs out.
Better to step back now, before I tumble further.
Still, every time I try to set him aside, a knot tightens at my temples, my body betraying what my mind insists is the wiser choice.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I shake my head and force a watery smile. “Just tired.”
Henry swipes at his tablet before laying it on the edge of the desk between us.
“We can leave this. I’m sure you’ve got enough to be going on with. And it’s all in the document I sent you.”
I nod. “Thanks Henry. You’re the best.” I mean it. Henry is the best, and I was damn lucky to have him reassigned to me when a partner retired.
“Let me get you a drink of water. Paracetamol. Coffee?”
“All of the above, please. Thank you Henry. And great work on the Elliot case, by the way. Appreciate that.”
His modest smile makes me ashamed of my less charitable thoughts about him moments earlier.
As Henry steps out, I catch a flash of colour amongst the crisp white-on-white decor of our offices. There’s someone standing in reception in a pink puffer jacket over a set of hospital blue scrubs. Even with her back to me, I recognise Sam’s familiar mop of dark curls restrained in a neat bun.
I quickly push my feet into the pair of heels under my desk and try to walk as fast as I can without drawing attention to myself. Luckily, there’s someone ahead of her occupying our receptionist.
“Ah, Samantha,” I say a little too loudly, giving her my best welcoming smile, as if she’s a client.
Not the best cover, since most of our clients turn up in suits.
“Thanks for calling in.” Before she can respond, I grab her by the elbow, steering her towards the nearest interview room.
Sam gives me a bemused smile but plays along with the charade, allowing me to bustle her along.
Inside the room, with the door firmly closed, she flops onto the small sofa, and I take the chair opposite.
“What’s with the big act?” she says, rolling her eyes at me.
“My boss is intolerant of personal interruptions in the office,” I sigh. “And while this has to be a first for me, I still can’t afford to appear anything but work-focused when there’s a vacant partner’s seat.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know how much that means to you. Don’t want to get you in trouble, but I had to come.”
“So, what are you doing here? I thought you’d be straight off the night shift and in bed asleep by now. God knows I wish I was.”
Sam reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper, holding it between two fingers like it might bite her.
“I shouldn’t be doing this.”
She thrusts it at me before she can change her mind.
“Thirty-five Pemberton Square. What is this?” I frown.
“Teddy’s address. In Belgravia.”
“How the hell do you have Teddy’s address? Hasn’t he just moved house to escape the paparazzi? God, you could sell this for a fortune.” I’m holding information those crazy fuckers would almost kill for.
“I went there about a month ago. With Ollie.”
“You’re telling me this now? That you’d already been hanging out with Teddy?”
Sam’s cheeks flush pink. “Look, it’s not what you think. Ollie wanted to see the place, and I was curious. We took an Uber—obviously he wasn’t going to park that bloody Porsche outside a secret address—so I still had it.”
I stare at her, trying to process this. “So you just...showed up?”
“He invited us over. I think he just wanted someone to share it with.” She shifts uncomfortably. “The place is gorgeous, by the way. All that old-money elegance you’d never expect from Teddy.”
“So, why are you giving this to me?”
“Because after yesterday morning, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Rachel, the only other time I’ve ever seen you this shaken was after—”
Pierre. She doesn’t need to say the name—but she’s wrong.
It’s crazy, but ending things with Teddy yesterday hurts far more than watching Pierre walk out.
When Pierre left, I felt a flicker of relief, as though he’d handed my life back to me.
With Teddy, I called time, so the ache is self-inflicted.
Every time I picture those bleak brown eyes behind his visor, a fresh wave of pain rolls over me.
“Anyway,” she says quietly. “Perhaps I’m an idiot who thinks maybe you should actually talk to him instead of shutting the door on this.”
“After yesterday, I doubt he wants to see me,” I say half-heartedly, though already a hopeful voice inside argues otherwise.
She gives me a hard stare.
“Okay, maybe it’s worth a try,” I concede, even as the coward in me hunts for excuses.
“I think seeing him is the only way you’ll sort this.”
“Thank you.” I stare at the blue swirl of the address. “I think.”
Sam stands, already backing towards the door, hands buried in her pockets. “I’d better get out of here. I need sleep.” She shifts uncomfortably, grimaces. “Fat chance of that happening now.”
“I mean it. Thank you,” I repeat.
“Look, don’t blame me if this goes to shit. But—” She gives her head a regretful shake. “I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Not when this is something that might actually be worth going for.”
Entering Pemberton Square is like walking into a Christmas episode of Bridgerton. It’s a perfect Georgian rectangle of cream stucco.
Elegant townhouses rise four storeys high, their large sash windows glowing with lamplight, as if every room is lit simply for effect. Evergreen swags and burgundy ribbons hang from the delicate first-floor balconettes and wreaths decorate front doors framed by fluted columns.
My heels echo off the cobblestones as I make my way past the central garden, sitting within original Georgian railings, their spear points softened by clusters of holly.
The magnificent plane tree in the centre twinkles, its bare branches strung with tiny lights that flicker like sparks carried on the cool breeze.
At six o’clock on a Monday night, there’s a hush settled across the square.
The temperature’s dropped in here, as if the buildings are holding the winter close.
I hug my coat tighter, my breath clouding in the night air.
I should hurry. In a few hundred yards, I’ll be standing at Teddy’s door, stepping inside, escaping this cold.
But my steps are slow and measured as I replay our final words to each other.
“This is over.”
“It might be for you.”
It was only yesterday, yet it seems like another lifetime.
It was—a life lived in the space of a week, inside a little snow globe where our normal life didn’t exist. Now we’re back in the real world, where he’s a rock star who churns through women like drumsticks and I’m a lawyer who should be focused on advancing my career and protecting my fragile heart.
But I’m not. I’m here, because that stubborn seed of hope refuses to die, pressing upward, waiting for the warmth of his smile and those brown eyes to coax it into bloom.
Number thirty-five is no different from any other house on the street.
Like its neighbours, it’s dressed in Christmas finery.
I hadn’t realised he was so committed to holiday traditions, though perhaps it’s simply neighbourhood expectation.
I suspect, given Teddy’s claims about his lack of decorating skills, it’s professionally done.
When I raise my eyes to the delicate string of lights following the roofline, I’m sure. No way Teddy would ever climb that high. I smile at the memory of him fixing our star to the stables, and the way he put aside his fear of heights to climb that shaky ladder for me.
I take a deep breath, the cold nipping at my lungs, and make my way towards the steps leading up to a glossy black door.
The scent of pine is strong, with a heavy Christmas wreath at eye level.
Its dark green needles are looped with burgundy ribbon and studded with small silver bells that catch the light spilling from a fanlight overhead.
I pause at the bottom of the steps, listening. The house is silent—no voices, no drumbeats, nothing. After summoning the courage to come here, the possibility that he might not be home never occurred to me.
My hand trembles as I reach for the heavy brass knocker, a lion’s head polished to mirror brightness.
Even through my gloves, the metal bites cold against my palm.
This is it. Three knocks, and either everything changes or I walk away knowing I tried.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I lift the knocker, the small silver bells on the wreath chiming softly in the breeze like a countdown.
What if he doesn’t want to see me? What if he does? I don’t know which terrifies me more.
There’s a sound of footsteps and I almost sigh with relief, before fear slaps at me again. This is it.
Nothing could have prepared me for what greets me when the door swings open. A petite woman with platinum blonde hair stands there, her green eyes widening as she takes me in. She’s wearing nothing but a silk dressing gown the colour of peonies. The sight hits me like ice water.
“Hello,” she says, her voice carefully polite. “Can I help you?”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. In the background, a television murmurs somewhere deep in the house. Behind her, there’s an expansive foyer decorated in hues of pink, and cream and gold; cosy, and unexpectedly feminine. For a moment I think I’m at the wrong house, but I push on.
“I…” I finally manage. “I’m looking for Teddy.” Her eyes narrow instantly, and I watch her whole demeanour shift from polite to predatory.
“Hey, love, who is it?” The voice carries from inside, easy and familiar. My stomach drops through the floor. After a week of that voice teasing me, arguing with me, whispering my name in the dark—I’d know it anywhere.
“No one important, Dory.” The casual nickname slices through me, intimate and possessive. She doesn’t look away as she adds, “Just someone collecting for charity. I’ll give them a tenner, yeah?”
His muffled agreement comes from deeper in the house. “Right then, Bee.”
Bee. B. Bianca.
She steps closer, her small frame somehow filling the doorway, her green eyes fixated on me like a snake about to strike.
Her voice drops to a whisper that cuts like glass. “I don’t know who you are or what you think you’re doing. But I can tell you, Teddy doesn’t need you here. He’s got me. Best you go now. And don’t come back.”
She grips the door frame, and I brace for it to slam in my face. Instead, she closes it with deliberate softness—a precise click that somehow feels more final.
I stand frozen on his doorstep as the truth crashes over me in waves. The lithe body scantily clad in silk, the nickname, the way he let her answer the door—each detail stacks like evidence, crushing me beneath its weight. He’s let me go, moved on without hesitation.
Yesterday I told myself I was right to push Teddy away. Today, I’ve proven it. Yet there’s no sense of victory in being right about this one, just a hollow ache that spreads through me, raw and merciless, as if I’m dying inside.
I stumble back to my car, the fairy lights in the trees a blur through my tears. Hot grief prickles at my throat as I mourn the loss of something I never even had.
My Mercedes lurches away from the kerb, and I’m grateful for its power to speed me away from this humiliation. But as the Georgian elegance of Pemberton Square disappears in my rearview mirror, I know the truth will follow me home. I was a fool to come here. And I was an even bigger fool to hope.