Chapter 31
First breath of the day and her scent’s still here—a decadent hit of jasmine and that deeper wisp of smokiness she swears is sandalwood. She’s never set a foot inside this room. But her fragrance has, stealing up the stairs, curling round the pillows, promising she’ll come back.
I roll onto the cold half of the bed and picture her sprawled across these sheets, hair a halo, lips parted, while I make myself slow. When she walks back through my door—and she will—I won’t rush a single inch of her until she’s certain the only thing I’m reaching for is her trust.
I stretch out an arm, grab my phone. Her voicemail glows on the screen, a clean stab, straight to the chest. But I don’t blame her for wanting out.
Bloody paparazzi. Frigging tabloids. Forty-eight hours and they’ve shredded the fortnight I spent proving I’m worth her risk.
But pause is not the end of the track. Not for us.
I scroll through a few texts, reply to none.
A few months back, in this situation, I’d be lying here, thumb hovering over half the alphabet, deciding which name got the invite.
Today, I flick over to my DMs and delete a dozen flirty messages without opening them.
Each disappears with a satisfying ‘whoosh’, like a cymbal hit, tight and final.
That’s about all I can think of to do. Live my life like the man I want to be, prove it to her in front of the cameras that dog my every step—and wait. I’m not one for playing the long game, but this time, I need to dig deep and keep the beat going for as long as it takes.
After a pummelling with scalding water in the shower, to try and clear my head, I make my way downstairs.
I flop on the couch in front of the tv with a bowl of Coco Pops drowning in milk, shovelling in mouthfuls between screaming laps around a racetrack in a virtual F1 car.
It keeps my mind from replaying the last week, trying to work out what I could have done differently.
By ten I’m at the studio, frustration turning into down-strokes. I snap the snare so tight the heads vibrate like they’re swearing back at me.
We cut some of ‘Deep End.’ The vocals come easy, my voice rough silk instead of the usual rasp. I leave just enough space in the mix, a place for her when she returns.
“You know she was the first set of ears on this?” I mutter as Garrett gives his amp dial a gentle nudge, listening for a tone only he seems to hear.
He grunts. “Figured. You don’t sing like a guy hiding behind cymbals anymore.”
From the control room, producer Dex Kincaid leans on the talkback toggle. “Harmonies. You want me ringing round, or waiting?”
I tap the talk-button, letting the silence ride the room. “Hold it for now. I have someone.”
Garrett just nods, eyes slicing sideways as he brushes a thumb across a bass string so it hums once. The others hear the warning, and nobody dares voice the question forming on their lips. I’m not afraid to answer it; she’ll be back.
Benji, the assistant engineer, swings in, balancing a tray of flat whites.
“Shot o’ caffeine, Teddy?”
My heel’s already jack-hammering 140 BPM into the floor. I wave him away.
“You sure, mate?” Benji grins, tray balanced on one palm. “You’ll need it out there.” He jerks a thumb toward the foyer. “There’s a bird waving a sign—Teddy, can I have your babies?”
Fucking groupies. I give him a half-hearted grin. Not his fault I’m not in the mood to joke about them today. Draining my water bottle, I clamp the cans on and double-down on tempo drills.
Late in the day with the studio empty, the foyer drained of even the most die-hard fans, I can finally breathe.
I lay down a stripped-back tenor groove, whispering “pa-rum-pum-pum-pum” into the overhead—just skeleton and heartbeat.
I tag the file Acoustic Hope Mix and slide it into a folder called For Her.
I’m not hitting share. Yet. Christmas miracles need timing.
Gavin drops me at Pemberton Place—no flashes, no fans, only the idle rumble of the exhaust. Quiet can be brutal. Inside, I thumb the battered copy of On the Road, and weigh up the inch of stale Malbec on the worktop.
My phone pings.
Ollie T: Basement bar, Shoreditch. Come numb your heart.
Classic Ollie—on the lash and it’s only Tuesday. Still, good of him to think I might need a diversion tonight. I tap out a reply.
Me: Can’t. Got plans.
The plans: throttle therapy. I swing a leg over the Triumph, slide my visor down.
Rain freckles the screen, while London glows neon behind it.
Through Chiltern Street, photographers lurk outside the Firehouse; none clock the anonymous bloke in black leathers, motorbike engine idling beneath him, its quiet mumble in the darkness.
A car door thuds. Flash-bulbs strobe. The couple barely glance up; pros at pretending the circus isn’t there. That’s where Rachel and I need to get to, but we’re miles off.
She’s like bloody Bodie, my little riding buddy—ninety-per-cent fearless, ten-per-cent landmine.
Most days she’d carry you through fireworks, but let a pigeon explode from a hedge and she’s rearing up, whites of her eyes flaring, hooves lashing in panic.
Rachel’s the same: all polish until a headline flutters out of nowhere.
Only it isn’t just the noise that spooks her—it’s the fallout.
Those cameras aren’t just intrusions; they’re evidence that could knock her out of the partner’s seat she’s fought tooth and nail for.
I twist the throttle, feel the bike settle beneath me. Maybe if I can keep the revs smooth—slow, patient—I can show her I’m the rider who stays seated, no matter what bolts out of the dark.
I hit Chelsea Bridge with the engine steady at four-k, exhaust note echoing off iron girders and black water below. By the time I land in the Embankment, the city is just a tail-light smear, the river’s damp breath swallowing me up and my head’s as close to clear as it gets.
I swing into the mews, kill the ignition; the engine clicks itself cool while rainwater spits off the pipes. Helmet on the hall table, boots off, I head upstairs and slide open the dresser drawer.
I reach for the set of cufflinks Dad gave me the night of my first ever gig with the band, some sweat-soaked Tuesday upstairs at the Dublin Castle in Camden. The silver is cool, familiar. I roll it against my thumb. Am I finally the bloke who deserves them—the one Rachel would bet on?
Wednesday, 6pm. The launch party for ‘December Promise’ looms. I’m scraping the barrel for enthusiasm, but it’s Christian and Haley’s night; the last thing they need is my rain cloud hovering over their fairy-light finale.
The songs he’s written for her loop in my head, every chord rubbing salt in my wounds.
I finally met a woman worth a full album, and she’s relegated me to the B-side.
Enough brooding. I dig to the wardrobe’s back rail and tug out the charcoal wool blazer Mum made me buy for Grandad’s funeral. Still on the hanger: a white shirt with French cuffs—perfect for Dad’s silver links.
Dress sharp, they’ll listen to the words. Grandad’s voice echoes, gravel-low. Maybe I’ll test that theory tonight.
I trade the ripped skinnies for dark jeans, pull on the white shirt and thread Dad’s silver links through the cuffs. The blazer settles on my shoulders next. Battered trainers off, black Chelsea boots on. The bloke staring back is still me, just tuned up a little.
Sharper jaw, posture squared. Maybe the kind of guy a top-flight lawyer would choose to stand beside.
Just not tonight. For now, Rachel’s chosen herself, and I’m not blaming her for it.
I want her to have what she’s fought for, what she deserves.
It’s not on her that she moves in a world of skewed priorities where image is everything; I get it—I live in one too.
So for now I let the space be hers. She’s walking the path she needs to in her world.
And I’ll be here, steady, trusting that when it’s time, she’ll choose to walk into mine.
“Sky looks biblical.” At the red light on Sloane Square, Gavin tilts his chin to the storm front—black anvil clouds rim-lit by a near-full moon.
“A night for miracles, maybe.” I thumb the silver cufflinks at my wrists, running through answers for when the cameras ask the only question they care about—where’s Rachel?
I swing out of the car; flashbulbs crackle, drizzle turning them into pavement starbursts. I tug the jacket straight—armour on—and stride past.
“No Rachel tonight, Teddy? Trouble in paradise?” a bloke shouts from behind a lens hood.
I don’t bite. Just duck through the double doors as they hiss open, and breathe easier in the lobby’s hush.
The press have got all they need to see from me—Teddy arriving alone.
Christian and Haley hover near the bar. I move towards them, safe territory, where there are no explanations required.
When Haley’s smile tilts, half-sorry, half ‘hang in there’, I know for sure Rachel’s talked to her.
I’m three strides from the bar when Zara Fielding—Entertainment Daily’s smooth-talking assassin—cuts me off. She’s armed with a phone already livestreaming. If I bolt now, tomorrow’s headline is ‘Teddy Storms Off.’
“Teddy, love—showing up stag tonight?” She tilts the phone, her smile sugar-coated cyanide. “Fans want to know: was the Wedding Whirl just a fourteen-day fling? Is high-flying Rachel MacDonald already yesterday’s headline?”
I square up, give her the half-smile I once saved for groupies, only sharper tonight. I finger a cufflink—my lucky charm, a promise she’s not really gone.
“Much as you’d like it to be true, Zara, that rumour’s about as real as reindeer in July, love. Rachel and I are still on the same track—just running our own schedules. Not every couple needs to turn up wearing matching Christmas jumpers, yeah?”
Under it, the quiet thought pricks: not first choice on her schedule. Not yet.
I drop a wink at the camera, slip past into the velvet-rope VIP section, and duck into an alcove.
I lean into a marble pillar, letting the breath leave my lungs.
Above the silent-auction table for Haley’s dog rescue, a wall-mounted TV loops the Livestream: my face set, cufflink catching the light like it’s flashing a message for me.
Dress sharp; they’ll listen to the words. Here’s hoping Grandad was right—and that Rachel’s hearing every one of them.