Chapter Twenty-Six Imani
I’m late. Again.
It’s become something of a recurring theme in my life lately – running late, running away, running from things I don’t want to face. Mostly Asher.
I’ve become an expert at avoidance, perfecting the art of pretending I’m suddenly, tragically, extremely busy every time his name flashes across my phone screen.
It’s cowardly, I know, but I don’t know what else to do.
Because how do you go back to pretending to hate someone when you’ve had their mouth on your most intimate parts, and their voice in your ear whispering sweet nothings that made your heart forget how to function?
You don’t.
At least, not gracefully.
Sometimes, in my more delusional moments, I tell myself that I’m not avoiding him because I’m scared but because it’s practical.
Strategic, even. The @TrustFundTea crowd has certainly noticed our absence from the social scene these past two weeks, which makes it easier to pretend like avoiding Asher has some kind of ultimate purpose.
It’s not quite as socially devastating as having an argument in public, but it’s something and I’ll take what I can get right now.
My driver pulls to a stop and all thoughts of Asher evaporate from my mind, replaced with a slightly more pressing issue.
I used to look forward to meals with my parents.
That was back when dinner meant echoing laughter and real conversation.
Now, dinners with them feel like a performance review for a job I never even applied for, one where the promotion comes with a husband I didn’t choose and a future that doesn’t feel like mine.
Anxiety settles in the pit of my stomach as my driver opens the door.
It’s been two weeks since France and every time I’ve been in contact with my father since then, I’ve expected him to drop the bomb that he’s finally done it: told his board and investors all about his plans to merge with Vouvalis Resorts and that me and Asher will be marrying to sweeten the deal.
For some reason, he hasn’t yet and it means I’ve spent the last two weeks in a permanent state of anxiety-fuelled anticipation waiting for the ball to drop.
Surely this has to be it, I think to myself as I climb out of the car and walk towards the restaurant.
I’ve been summoned to No. 12 Blythe, the upper echelon’s current favourite restaurant of the month, under the guise of a simple family dinner.
The text message I received last night simply read It’s been too long followed by a calendar invite, but I know he must have an ulterior motive.
A hard lump lodges itself in my throat as a doorman pulls open the door.
He gives me a look of barely concealed alarm as I stride past him and I know the expression on my face must look like I’m walking to the gallows and not one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city.
I can’t be bothered to pull up the facade and fix a polite smile onto my face though.
This meal signals the beginning of the end for any kind of autonomy in my life, and I can’t bring myself to pretend otherwise.
The ma?tre d greets me with a polite smile and does a better job than the doorman at pretending I don’t look like I’m seconds aways from tears. ‘Ms Davies,’ he says smoothly. ‘Your parents are already seated. This way, please.’
I nod shakily and he leads me through the main dining room to a frosted glass door tucked away in the back, then scurries away.
A private room. Of course.
I swallow thickly, reach for the door handle, and then freeze. I can hear my mother’s soft murmur from here.
‘—can’t hide this from her forever.’
Eavesdropping on my parents feels like a cardinal sin, but I don’t move. Instead, I get a little closer to the door just in time to hear my father let out a heavy sigh.
‘And what would you have me tell her? That we’re one bad quarter from going under?’
My breath catches.
‘It can’t be that bad,’ my mother says.
‘It is,’ my father responds grimly. ‘We’re still haemorrhaging from the routes we had to cut during lockdowns and the investments I made during that period haven’t panned out like I’d hoped.’
‘What about the government loan?’ my mother asks. ‘When are we supposed to hear back on that?’
‘I heard back last week,’ my father says, his voice strained in a way I’ve never heard it before. ‘They aren’t going to go through with it.’
My mother draws in a quick breath.
‘If this merger doesn’t happen, Peregrine Airways won’t make it to the end of the fiscal year.’
For a second, I’m sure I’ve misheard him.
My father, the man who built Peregrine Airways out of nothing, who’s spent his whole life lecturing me about stability, about perception and control, is saying that the company is broke.
I press a hand against the wall to steady myself, but it’s no use. The world tilts.
‘That’s why you should tell her,’ my mother insists. ‘If she knew, she’d—’
My father lets out a brittle laugh. ‘I’m protecting her. The less she knows, the better.’
‘She’ll never agree to marry him if she doesn’t know why.’
‘She doesn’t need to know the truth,’ my father snaps. ‘She just needs to get it done.’
‘Malcolm—’
‘Don’t,’ he bites out. ‘Do you think I want this? You think I wanted to barter our daughter’s future like a corporate asset? But Peregrine is hanging by a thread. This merger is the only thing that keeps us in the air. Without it, we’re finished. She needs to do her part.’
I don’t remember backing away from the door, but suddenly I’m halfway down the corridor, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. The ma?tre d glances up as I pass, and I force my face into something neutral, nodding politely like my entire world hasn’t just shattered around me.
Once I’m outside, I stand on the kerb and try to breathe past the sting in my throat. I breathe in too fast and too hard, trying to keep the tears from spilling.
All this time, I thought I was being used just to help get a deal over the line, and that was bad enough on its own. But the truth is much, much worse.
My father isn’t just using me to strengthen a business alliance; he’s using me to save the company and he doesn’t even have the decency to tell me the truth. Every fight we’ve had since the day he demanded I marry Asher, every reminder of my ‘duty’ suddenly snaps into awful, perfect focus.
This is nothing but desperation. This is a man trying to keep his empire from crumbling, even if it means selling off his daughter like she’s an asset on a balance sheet.
A deranged laugh slips past my lips as I wrap my arms around myself and stare out at the street, headlights blurring through my tears.
I have no idea if I’m angry or heartbroken.
Maybe it’s both.