Chapter 29 Violet
Chapter twenty-nine
Violet
“Nag’s Head tonight, Violet?”
“Who’s head?” I stare at my co-worker Rory blankly. I’ve been doing that a lot lately.
“You know, that old boozer in Shoreditch.”
“Oh sure,” I say, still no idea what I’m letting myself in for.
“How about you, Sally?” He quirks a brow at my new desk buddy, Sally, who rolls her eyes in her usual fashion.
“Sorry, no can do. I’m saving up for a lobotomy.” She flashes him a sarcastic smile, which is like water off a duck’s back for Rory.
“That’s a shame, Sally,” Rory fires back. “But I thought you already had one years ago.”
When I first met Sally, I wasn’t sure what to make of her.
But I quickly discovered that sarcasm is her love language.
She’s perfected the art of being a bitch with a polite smile on her face — but she’s far from it.
Since I moved to London, she’s taken me under her wing and shown me all the corners of the city I’m beginning to Love.
Portobello Road market. The trendy bars in Shoreditch. Sunset on Primrose Hill.
Another misconception was that Rory and Sally hated each other.
But now I think they secretly want to hump the hell out of each other.
Apparently, constant roasting equals the highest level of affection.
I’m beginning to think that the receptionist, Susie, who always delivers me the politest hello, must hate my guts.
“Well,” Rory sighs, all faux disappointment, “I guess you’ll have to miss out on one of Martin’s expense blowouts.”
He strolls off, but the smug curve of his mouth deepens when Sally calls after him.
“Wait! Did you just utter the words expenses blowout?”
“I did.” He glances back, smirking.
“What’s the occasion?” Sally says carefully, as if this is one big elaborate ruse.
“Fuck knows, he’s been in a good mood all week. Going off all those closed-door meetings, my guess is he’s lining up a new deal.”
“Okay, we’re in — as in, me and Violet.”
“She already said she was coming. What are you, her mum or something?”
Sally’s eyes stay fixed on Rory as he disappears back to his desk to grab his jacket. Yep, she’s got it bad.
“Come on then,” Sally says, turning to me, eyes bright with enthusiasm. “Let’s go get rat-arsed, then hit a club. It’s the weekend, after all.”
“Rat-arsed?” I blink. “Should I be worried about that?”
“Yes, you should be.” Rory’s laugh floats over from the other side of the office. “Especially when Sally’s involved.”
I snicker as Sally jumps to her feet, pulling on her coat. I follow her lead—the thought of unwinding after a week trapped in endless software revisions is too tempting.
“Hey, wait for me,” Rory huffs out as he jogs up behind us.
Passing through reception, Rory pauses, flashing his signature charm at Susie. I don’t miss the faint clench of Sally’s fist. But my attention shifts when something else catches my eye—a copy of Forbes sitting crookedly atop the waiting area’s glass table.
My lungs stutter.
There he is. Chase. Staring out from the glossy cover with that same arrogant, maddeningly gorgeous face. Eyes so piercing it almost seems like he’s right here, watching me, reminding me there’s nowhere to hide.
Coming to London helped me shut everything Chase-related out. Helped me breathe again. Heal. But even this small reminder seems like the universe is playing a cruel joke. A warning that no matter how far I run, I might never really be free of him.
Most days, I’m fine. I tell myself I’m fine. But it’s at night, lying in bed with silence pressing in, that I miss him most. His touch. His scent. The way he’d hold me like he couldn’t bear to let go.
Sally smirks when she catches me gawping. “Yep, he’s hot as fuck, but I bet he’s a real ruthless bastard.”
“Oh, he is,” I say, the bitterness coming through a tad too much. She glances at me, puzzled, but lets it go, grabbing my hand instead.
“Come on, let’s flag a cab; we can expense it.”
As we step outside, the chill hits me, and I tug my jacket tighter around me.
As fall folds into winter, the evenings are pulling in fast, the sky already sliding toward that deep navy blue that comes right before dark.
The lights from the office buildings stretch across the River Thames, the reflection of twinkling glass smudged by the ripple of the river.
Canary Wharf has its own kind of rhythm at this hour.
The streets are dotted with office workers spilling out into the night.
Conversations drift past — laughter, tired goodbyes, loose weekend plans as business shifts to pleasure.
The towers loom overhead, their lights glittering against the inky surface of the docks below.
I glance toward the water, my thoughts drifting home. Thanksgiving isn’t far away. Gracie’s hoping to visit, and I’ve promised to cover her airfare.
A black cab glides to the curb, its headlights slicing through the dusk. Rory steps back, letting Sally and me climb in first.
As the cab pulls away, the polished steel and modern sprawl of Canary Wharf fade behind us, replaced by London’s older heart — brick buildings, warm pub windows, a few cobbled streets dotted here and there. Gracie is going to love it.
Sally leans forward in her seat, peering out the window like a kid on a school trip.
“God, I needed this,” she says. “Let’s drink vodka tonight. Less of a hangover.”
Rory snorts. “That’s a lie, and you know it.”
“No, it’s true,” I insist. “I saw it on YouTube.”
“Oh, it must be true then,” Rory says, tone laced with his usual sarcasm.
The pub isn’t one of the modern ones—this place has old timber beams, low ceilings, and windows etched with grime and history. The air’s thick with the smell of warm beer and the buzz of bodies crammed shoulder to shoulder.
We’ve only just wedged ourselves around a high table before Martin shows up, a pint of beer in hand, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. His cheeks are a little pink, tie loosened, sleeves rolled.
Sally leans over to whisper in my ear. “Not sure what’s got into him. Maybe he got his yearly shag.”
I snort into my vodka glass, stifling a laugh.
“Right,” Martin says, waiting for us to crowd around. “I suppose you’re wondering why I said you could expense everything.” His mouth twitches like he’s holding back a grin. “I wanted to tell you before the rest of the office hears on Monday.”
Rory raises an eyebrow. “Spit it out, then.”
“The predictive analytics platform you’ve been working so hard on, Knightwell, is interested. They want to meet the design team and to discuss it at their head office in New York.”
The world doesn’t tilt—not exactly—but the sound around me dulls like someone’s pressed their hands over my ears.
Knightwell.
Chase.
Knightwell doesn’t knock on doors like ours without a reason.
A billion-dollar powerhouse chasing down a London start-up?
It only makes sense if they want the software.
The predictive analytics platform we’ve spent weeks building shouldn’t even be on their radar unless Chase put it there. Unless this is personal.
The table erupts. Cheers, laughter, Rory swearing, Sally clapping her hands like it’s Christmas morning. I drain my drink in one go, the burn doing nothing to numb the coil of fear tightening in my chest.
I stare into the bottom of my empty glass. Of all the companies, it had to be his. It doesn’t make sense — our company’s barely a blip in the ocean compared to them. Unless this isn’t about the company at all. Unless it’s about me.
The thought chews away at me as the night stretches on. Another drink, another toast. The heat, the press of bodies, the scratch of old rock tracks crackling out of the speakers. My laughter seems wrong every time it leaves my mouth, like it belongs to someone else.
Why would they want our software? Why now?
The drinks don’t stop, and I let them keep coming, the vodka numbing the edges enough to get me through the motions. Laughter starts sounding the same. My cheeks hurt from smiling. My head buzzes and blurs until the pub doors swing open again, and someone’s already calling another cab.
The club we land in is wall-to-wall bodies. Traders and tech boys throwing drinks around like the city’s their playground. Someone hands me another drink. I take it. Sip. Swallow. Smile. Pretend.
The room blurs a little more each time.
The bass is so deep, it vibrates through my chest. The club’s exactly the kind of place Sally loves: thudding bass, neon lights smearing across dark walls, the air thick with the scent of bad decisions.
I stick to the edge, pressed against a pillar, vodka in hand, head spinning.
I’d spent weeks worrying that Knightwell might tell my new company about what happened. The day I got the job, the relief had been enough to push it all down — but now it claws its way back. Why now? Why them?
A man’s voice cuts through the thud of techno, too close to my ear. “You here alone, darling? Are you looking for some company?” I blink, turning to face him. He’s older, expensive suit, wedding ring. His mouth hovers near my cheek, close enough to touch.
I tilt my head away, stepping back, mumbling something, and push past him, weaving through the crowd toward the bathroom. I jostle through bodies and slip into the bathroom, locking myself inside a stall.
I thumb through my contacts. There’s only one person I need to speak to now.
Seb picks up on the second ring.
His face lights the screen, hoodie pulled up, controller still in hand, his room behind him glowing faint blue from his monitors.
“Violet?” His eyes narrow. “What’s up? Is that a bathroom?”
The bass from the club rumbles through the walls, thumping against the silence of his room. I sink back against the cool tiles, exhaling a breathy laugh.
“Apparently, I’m getting rat-arsed.”
He breaks into laughter; the sound filling my chest with warmth. His brow arches. “Anyone breakdancing yet?”
That drags a real laugh out of me, shaky and warm. “Not tonight.”
He squints at the screen, catching the wobble in my voice, the flush in my cheeks. “What’s going on? Why are you calling me when you should be getting rat-faced or whatever you said?” He grins.
I press the heel of my hand to my eye, but it doesn’t help. “I have to come back to New York, Seb. Knightwell’s lining up a deal with my new company. Then they’re going to find out what happened, and I’ll probably get fired... again.”
Seb looks away for a second, exhaling through his nose like he’s bracing for something. When he meets my eyes again, his tone is softer.
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
I stare at him, stomach lurching. “Why?”
“It was Millie,” he breathes out fast, as if the speed will soften the blow. “Everyone knows now. Chase made sure of it.” He runs his hand over his jaw.
The air leaves my lungs. I sit there, staring at the phone like it might tell me what to do next. My voice barely works. “It was Millie?”
“Yes, I just found out. I was trying to find the right time to tell you. Believe me, I was as shocked as you.”
“But why?”
“I guess only Millie can answer that.”
My throat constricts as a memory hits me like a heavy blow.
How it was Millie I was supposed to meet when Elliot showed.
How, like an idiot, I often let her use my laptop.
The document they found hidden in my desk must have been her.
She would easily have been able to hang around my desk without suspicion.
We were friends, after all, or so I thought.
“Hey,” Seb says softly, his voice a reassuring anchor pulling me back. “You’re okay now, I promise.”
But the ache in my chest says otherwise.
“Millie?” I repeat, voice breaking. “You’re sure?”
Seb nods once. “They’ve got proof. It’s not on you, Vi. It never was.”
I sink my head into my hands, pulse thudding in my ears. Relief punches through me, but it’s tangled with something else. Hurt. Betrayal.
Millie, of all people. I knew she’d been stretched thin—always chasing a lifestyle she couldn’t afford. But this?
The bass outside rattles the walls, dragging me back. I run my fingers through my hair.
“I’ve gotta go,” I mumble.
Seb watches me for a second. “You okay?”
No. Not even close.
But I lie. “Yeah.”
I hang up before I change my mind. Slip the phone into my bag. And breathe.
Not deep. Not steady. But enough.
Then I straighten, fix my lipstick, walk back out into the noise, and join Sally and Rory at the center of the dance floor. I’ve spent too long being anxious. Too long blaming myself for all my imagined failures.
Because no matter how much the betrayal stings, I can walk through Knighwell’s door with my head held high.
But if there’s one thing I know about Chase.
This isn’t over yet.