Chapter 8 #2
My stomach tightens. At the party, Mum will smile too brightly whenever Celeste is near. Dad will nod approvingly from the terrace if we dance again. And I would have to become the version of myself they all wanted. Polished, straight-backed, and uncomplicated.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and open Daniel’s email again.
It glows softly on the screen, San Francisco shimmering in my mind like a mirage.
But it wasn’t the business that caught me, though it mattered.
It was the idea of being somewhere no one called me Greggory in a clipped, aristocratic tone.
Somewhere no one would corner me between toasts and ask, “Dear boy, when will we hear an announcement about you and Celeste?”
Maybe, if luck dared to be kind, it would be a place where Cameron might be willing to see me again. Share a drink. Or maybe just talk, without the past hanging around us like fog.
And then there’s Kenneth. Regal Crown and Paris. A project of my own, to step out of Dad’s shadow. Something that would finally, undeniably, be mine.
I look around the room, at my carefully chosen linens, the pristine closet full of neutral-toned perfection, the polished life I wear like a second skin. For the first time, I wonder if all of it had been crafted not just for success but to keep anyone from ever seeing the real me.
I stand and walk toward the wardrobe. If I’m going to smile for the crowds at Ashcombe, navigate my father’s expectations, dance with Celeste, and pretend the version of myself I wear like armor was enough… then I needed to decide soon.
Will I keep playing the role?
Or will I finally step into a life waiting for me? With all the messiness and uncertainty.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. “Stop pretending,” I whisper, unsure whether I believe it.
But maybe, just maybe, I want to.
The sun had dipped low over Canary Wharf by the time I reached Julian’s flat, casting long shadows through his floor-to-ceiling windows.
From the twenty-third floor, the Thames shimmered like a ribbon of silk beneath the softening light.
It was a view that always made me pause, no matter how many times I’d been here.
I let myself into the living room and breathe in the familiar smell of incense that Julian insists on diffusing daily.
His place, as always, strikes me as the perfect balance of form and soul.
Cool grays and soft whites stretch across low-profile couches, sleek lines softened with plush cushions and layered textures.
A marble coffee table sits elegantly in the center of the room, its sharp angles tempered by the inviting curve of a ceramic fruit bowl and a few carefully arranged books on architecture and African design.
The walls, otherwise quiet, are alive because of him.
His art collection vibrates with colour and heritage.
Bold African prints burst in yellows, reds, and greens, framed beside black-and-white photographs from Nigeria.
A carved wooden sculpture of a woman’s silhouette stands gracefully near the bar, her shadow long and elegant in the dimming light.
“You always come overdressed,” Julian calls out from the corner, where he stands behind his pride and joy, his bar, pouring something golden into a lowball glass. “Is that a suit jacket or body armor?”
I smirk and shrug off my blazer, draping it over the back of a stool. “You know me. Corporate shield and all that.”
Julian moves across the room like he’d been born in a spread for a design magazine.
Barefoot with tailored trousers rolled at the ankle, shirt collar open just so, effortless charm personified.
From the moment I met him at Cambridge, he’d stood out.
Not just because he was tall or charismatic, but because he had this quiet intelligence, a magnetic ease about him.
We met in a seminar our first year at university, and something about his sharp wit and the way he saw straight through me, the image and obligation, all of it, made us connect instantly.
While I was tangled up in expectations and control, he simply was confidently self-aware, unapologetically stylish, and socially graceful.
Julian could host a cocktail night with the same energy he’d bring to a boardroom negotiation.
He slipped between worlds with a fluency I’ve always admired, between English and Hausa, between family tradition and London modernity, between playboy mischief and unwavering loyalty.
Effortlessly fluid, commanding yet disarmingly authentic.
And as he hands me a drink, his signature lopsided grin in place, I feel that familiar grounding presence, the one person who could push me, tease me, and still somehow make me feel like the most settled version of myself.
“Cognac, a touch of dry vermouth, splash of pear liqueur,” he says proudly as he hands me the glass. “Light enough for a night out, bold enough to make you talk.”
I smirk and take it from him. “I can always count on you to dose me with honesty.”
He drops into the low-slung couch across from me, swirling his own drink. “That’s what I’m here for. Now go on, start talking. You’re practically bursting at the seams. Is it about your project?”
I trace a finger along the curve of the glass. “No. Well… I do have news about that.”
“But?”
“But it’s not about the project.”
Julian lifts an eyebrow.
“It’s a person,” I admit. “His name is Cameron.”
“There it is!” He whoops, delightedly. “I knew that wasn’t real-estate tension. That’s boy-crush tension. Spill it, go on!”
I set my glass on the table and rub the back of my neck like an idiot confessing to a school prank. “Well, we met on the flight over. We literally bumped into each other. I spilled coffee all over him.”
“Scalding strangers. Not your usual tactic for meeting men.”
“It was iced, you prick.” I laugh. “But it wasn’t just that moment. There was something about him, quiet and thoughtful. It’s like he carries a storm behind his eyes, but it makes me want to know him more, not less.”
Julian gave a low whistle. “You’ve got it bad, mate.”
“I don’t know what I’ve got,” I mutter, rubbing my hands along the tops of my thighs before slumping deeper into the couch.
“Did you see him earlier? Or are you just hoping he shows up tonight?”
“We had tea in Kensington. Just the two of us.”
“And how did that go?”
“Well… I think?”
Julian snorts. “Mate, it either went well or it didn’t.”
“It went well,” I admit, though still a tad unsure. “We talked about our lives, places that make us feel at home. I told him about Lochaven. He mentioned Hilton Head.”
“South Carolina? Interesting. But he only mentioned it?” Julian asks perplexedly.
“It seemed like it stirred up something painful. So I didn’t press. But there was this warmth between us. Easy, but… he’s grieving something. I can see it. It’s like he’s holding on to something that’s slipping through his fingers, and the weight of it is dragging him.”
Julian nods, his expression soft. “And yet here you are, grinning like a schoolboy with a secret. So what is it you want from all this, Gregg?”
I exhale, swirling the liquid in my glass. “I just… want to know him. That’s it.”
Julian clinked his glass against mine. “I’ll drink to that, aboki.”
I always find it endearing being called ‘friend’ in his native tongue.
“And don’t overthink it,” he adds. “Just be the bloke who listens. And doesn’t spill any more coffee on him.”
I huff out a laugh. “Fair enough.”
Julian leans back with a knowing grin. “But if something does happen between you two? Embrace it.”
I swirl the drink again, watching the amber currents shift over ice.
“So,” Julian says, pivoting. “You said he’s coming tonight with some friends.”
“Mhm.” I shake my head as I take a sip.
“And these friends, are they hot?”
“Why? On the market tonight?” I tease.
“Just getting a lay of the land,” he snickers, hands lifting innocently.
“One of them is trouble,” I say. “Can’t quite figure him out. Weird vibes and all.”
“Oh, competition,” Julian declares dramatically. “The plot thickens.”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to be the judge of that.”
“You needn’t worry, mate. I’ll handle it.”
I laugh. “Thank you for the shameless plug. The other, his best friend, she’s all sass and sharp eyeliner.”
Julian perks up instantly. “Say no more. I may fall in love.”