Chapter 7 Ben
Ben
Lila.
Challenging me with every sarcastic smile, every sharp remark. Grounded. Stubborn. Impossible to ignore.
“Happily married.”
The words keep echoing in my head, sharp and jarring, like a punch to the gut I didn’t see coming.
My hand grips the steering wheel tighter as I drive back to the hotel. She said it so easily, too easily, like she’s been waiting for this moment to throw it in my face. I pride myself on keeping calm under pressure, but hearing her say those two words made my chest feel like it was caving in.
Why does it bother me so much? It’s been fifteen years.
I step into the penthouse suite at the Kingsley Hotel, tossing my jacket onto the chair by the window. The skyline stretches out before me, glittering and cold.
Nottingham isn’t my city anymore. It’s a relic of a past I left behind, a place filled with memories I’ve spent years burying. London is my empire now—bigger, faster, richer. Everything I’ve built is there, every move carefully calculated, every piece of my life exactly where it belongs.
Lila would never fit into that world. She’s too rooted, preferring flour-dusted counters and well-worn books over sleek offices and rooftop bars. What the hell am I doing picturing that? She’s married, for God’s sake.
I head straight to the drinks cabinet, grabbing the bottle of whisky without thinking.
The familiar clink of glass against glass follows as I pour a double, just enough to take the edge off.
I knock it back in one go. It burns all the way down, but not enough.
Not nearly enough. My fingers curl around the empty glass, jaw tightening at the thought of some faceless man waiting for her at home, living the life I walked away from. A life that should’ve been mine.
I shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t matter.
I glance around the penthouse, trying to ground myself in anything but the spiral in my head. It’s a stunning space. Sleek lines, polished surfaces, the kind of luxury most people spend their lives chasing. Every inch screams wealth and taste.
Well… almost every inch.
My eyes catch on a peculiar object perched on a side console near the fireplace, a ceramic duck.
Hand-painted, antique, and completely out of place amid all the modern opulence.
I frown, stepping closer. It’s got this oddly judgmental look on its face, like it’s silently appraising me. Or mocking me.
Weird choice. Hotel designer’s idea of eclectic charm? Or maybe the owner’s got a strange sense of humour.
I snort under my breath.
“Ey up, me duck.” Fitting, I suppose. Welcome back to Nottingham.
But even that ridiculous bird can’t distract me for long. The thought still gnaws at me, sharp and relentless.
I pace toward the window, my pulse thrumming in my ears. Lila. She was mine once. Every laugh, every late-night conversation, every quiet moment under the stars. Mine.
I was her first.
Her first kiss. Her first everything. I was the one who made her blush, who held her when she was scared, who kissed her until she forgot how to breathe.
Now she’s his.
The thought of him, whoever the hell he is, having any part of her makes my stomach twist. Did he whisper promises to her the way I did? Did she believe him like she believed me?
Some spineless bastard who lets her family run a cafe and florist alone while he coasts through life? She’s breaking her back, and he just stands by?
My jaw tightens, rage simmering. He should be supporting her, not watching her struggle.
Does he even see her? The way she straightens when she’s tired, still smiling through it all because she’s too proud to ask for help?
If it were me, she wouldn’t lift a finger unless she wanted to. No rent, no stress. I’d give her everything.
Everything.
My fists clench, nails biting into my palms. Fuck that.
I pull out my phone and scroll to Shaw’s number, the best private investigator money can buy. I haven’t needed him in a while, but tonight, I want answers.
He picks up on the second ring. “Ashcroft.”
“I need a job done,” I say, my voice flat. “I want everything you can find on Lila Ng’s husband.”
There’s a pause. “Her husband?”
“Yes. Name, occupation, income, criminal record. If he’s ever gotten a parking ticket, I want to know. Every last detail and I want it fast.”
“I’ll get started right away.”
“You’ve got twenty-four hours. Sooner, if you’re smart.”
“I understand.”
I hang up without another word and toss the phone on the table. This isn’t curiosity anymore, it’s strategy and if her husband’s even half the man he should be…
I’ll find out soon enough.
I shouldn’t be this worked up. This was supposed to be simple. Hear them out. Offer money. Close the deal.
Not… this.
The tension coils tighter in my chest, sharp and unrelenting. I scrub a hand over my face and head toward the bathroom, stripping off my shirt on the way. Maybe a cold shower will cut through this knot in my gut, shake off the heat crawling beneath my skin.
The water hits like ice. Bracing, punishing, but it still doesn’t chase her from my mind.
I brace a hand against the tiled wall, exhaling hard. It’s been a while since I’ve been with anyone. Maybe that’s all this is, too long without a distraction, without someone in my bed. Maybe that’s why the sight of her—those eyes, that mouth, that voice, hits like a wrecking ball.
Still, it doesn’t explain the way her voice loops in my head. Or the way her fake smile cut sharper than anything else today.
I stay under the water longer than I should, hoping to feel clean, clear, composed.
But when I step out and dry off, the knot’s still there. Tight. Twisting.
The email from Shaw comes in just as I’m pouring another drink. My laptop pings, and I cross the room, ice clinking in the glass as I lean over to read it.
The subject line: Lila Ng.
My pulse kicks up as I open it.
The cafe, the florist, the flat above it. Tight margins. Her mum’s health, hospital visits, prescriptions. But one line stands out like a beacon—no marriage certificate. No divorce records.
She lied.
I reread it. Twice.
Relief hits first. Then something darker. Why lie? To push me away? Test me? Or just to see how I’d react?
My fingers tighten around the glass, the sharp scent of whiskey cutting through the air as my chest loosens. I pace back toward the window, the city lights below glinting like broken glass. Lila was always good at keeping me on my toes.
But this? This was a calculated move.
If she wants to play games, I’ll play along.
I down the rest of my drink, my thoughts swirling, half-formed plans already taking shape in my mind.
I grab my phone and dial Claire. She answers on the first ring.
“Mr Ashcroft?”
“I need a delivery sent to Lila Ng at the cafe,” I say, my voice calm, deliberate. “A gift set. Two coffee mugs, Mr and Mrs”
Claire pauses. “Would you like a note attached?”
A slow smile spreads across my face. Perfect.
“‘For you and …him. I hope he likes matcha.’”
“Understood. I’ll arrange it for tomorrow.”
“Good, Claire?” I pause, my grip tightening on the phone. “Increase the offer by 10%. I want it on her desk by noon.”
“Yes, sir.”
I hang up, slipping the phone back into my pocket as a slow smile spreads across my face.
She thinks she’s in control. But I always win.
Still… a flicker of doubt creeps in, sharp and unwelcome.
What if she doesn’t bite?
What if she sees right through it and walks away for good?
I shove the thought aside. No. She won’t. She’s too proud, too stubborn, too curious not to react and maybe that’s the point.
Maybe I want her to react.
I glance at the window again, watching the city lights blur into amber smears against the glass. Whatever this is between us, it’s not over. Not even close.
Tomorrow, the game changes.
***
I go back to the cafe again.
Twice in one day. Pathetic, really.
But it’s not about the cafe anymore. It’s about her. The scent hit me the second I walked through the door, sweet, warm, familiar. Sticky rice, caramelised sugar. For a split second, I’m sixteen again, sitting on that sun-warmed bench while she shares her lunch with me.
Warm nian gao, nervous eyes, soft smiles.
She made me feel seen, like I wasn’t just some invisible kid from the wrong side of town. The cake was good. But she was better.
That’s what the nian gao is, a piece of her. A piece of us. A life I haven’t let myself think about in years and now I’m standing here, watching her across the counter, trying to buy it off her like some rich prick.
￡50 then ￡100, ￡200.
Everyone in my world has a price. Everyone. Deals, negotiations, contracts, it’s just a matter of numbers. But her?
She didn’t budge.
Maybe a part of me wanted her to. Wanted her to be like everyone else, just so I could stop feeling like she’s the only person I can’t get under control.
But she’s not like them.
That’s what makes me want her more than anything.