CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Brad

I had ordered a hit on Italian blood, friends and family members plucked off alternately to counterbalance Warren’s life imprisonment.

I killed Saverio Bosqui’s daughter, Gia Bosqui, to lure the craven coward out of the shadows. He never took the bait, though. The death of his principessa did not provoke moral outrage.

I had soldiers burn every establishment-within the vicinity of London, tied to Ignazio Corrazzo’s biddable henchmen-to the ground.

In return, The Don made a personal attack on the syndicate’s resources and disassociated business partners to accomplish the demise of Warren’s empire.

The Grape and Vine suffered.

Street trade is more or less non-existent.

Club 11 is sure to be next.

Time is of the essence but launching a counterattack has yet to come to fruition. Not when I have been pulled from pillar to post, juggling multiple tasks and quandaries.

Christina Moschini, who will be held hostage until Ignazio reveals himself, only came to light during this week’s closed-door conclave, thanks to Josh, the diligent and zealous investigator.

Eli, Cole and Eddie had to catch a flight to Sicily in the morning to bring the unsuspecting Italian women to the underworld.

That’s if they survive tonight’s cannonade of bullets.

I will be shocked if any of us make it out of this situation alive.

Eight black vehicles beleaguered the syndicate in a desperate act of revenge. Black-clad masked gunmen rolled down the windows, halfway for predatory eyes to lock on targets, and lined loaded machine guns.

Feeling a light spatter of rain on my face, I broke into action. “Everyone get down!”

The Italians opened fire.

Heavy-footed brothers, unready for combat, blustered into action, brandishing semi-automatic firearms with frantic footfalls, hiding behind other people’s cars to shield themselves, but nothing could have prepared them for the Italian’s rapid succession of fired bullets. They came to deliver a cold-blooded massacre.

Innocent people, walking in the wrong place at the wrong time, screamed with inconsolable fear and existential dread, shoving and tripping over each other as they scampered to nearby buildings to evade the mass shooting.

Alexa’s knees crashed to the floor on instinct, her one arm locked around her middle section, protecting the baby, her other hand grappling at the concrete to balance her weighty movements.

Belts of gunfire shrilled into the once quiet street, shrapnel pinging off everything in sight: vehicles, concrete, lampposts and buildings. Helpless civilians. The men.

I had no time to think, to take action. Alexa was compromised and left out in the open. An easy target. Her personal bodyguard is caught in the crossfire, fighting alongside the brothers. Assisting them was not an option. I had to get her out of here.

Alexa’s knees took the brunt of hastiness, the chipped concrete grazing her flesh. She crawled behind a Roman pillar, threw herself into safety, with hair in disarray, and reached for the gold desert eagle strapped to her thigh.

Rushing past the pillars in what felt like slow motion as bullets whirled past my head and drilled through the casino’s exterior, I dropped to one knee by her side, ensuring her safety. The baby’s safety. “No,” I ordered, refusing to see her fight whilst pregnant with Warren’s child. “Put the gun down.”

“I will not be defenceless and imperilled.” A violent tremor rippled through her body. “I have to do something!”

“Alexa.” Seizing her jaw, I forced her to look at me. “Consider the baby.”

“What do you think I am doing?” Her sad yet fierce voice was an imploration, a plea for help. “I won’t let them take him from me.”

I held her eyes for an intense minute. Then, with a meaningful kiss on her cheek, I fisted the hair at the nape of her neck. “I will die before I let anything happen to you. Got it?”

Her breaths came in short bursts. I almost stood when her hand gripped mine, a silent order for me to stay. “Do not leave me.”

“I would never.”

For a long moment, with one hand on the Glock, I kneeled in the juxtaposition of deadly combativeness and a fusillade of gunfire, watching in devastation as bullets ripped through the air and tore through the flesh of brothers as they fought courageously for survival.

It was a vicious, unforgiving attack on the Italians’ part. The men, Warren’s loyal soldiers, vulnerable and ill-equipped, did not stand a chance against the onrush of rapidly fired shots.

Closing one eye, I aimed the Glock at the closest black vehicle, right at the driver, and pulled the trigger. I caught him clean in the side of the head. His body flopped heavily, the life he once knew taking flight, the force of hefty limbs pressurising the accelerator.

The car began to roll forward as other passengers wrestled to get behind the steering wheel.

One man swung the driver’s side door open to toss the dead guy onto the street, which gave the brothers an opportunity to shoot with full-throttled alacrity.

Muttering indistinctly to herself, Alexa held onto my forearm for support, her eyes closed in reverie, her lips moving in prayer.

At that moment, I noticed the severity of mass extermination. The wet, slippery floor was scattered distortedly with dead bodies and ensanguined with the crimson blood of our men.

Tasting rainwater on my lips, I pointed the gun at another vehicle, hoping to take out the other driver, when stealth movement to my right twitched my trigger finger: six shadowy figures.

The real reason for the Italians’ appearance tonight dawned on me. Sure, they wanted to annihilate as many brothers as humanly possible, but the boss’s wife was the ultimate goal.

His unborn son.

Enraged with immediate defensiveness, I pushed myself up from behind the Roman pillar and stood in front of Alexa like a shield.

I had a Glock and a round of ammunition, but I was outnumbered and out-weaponed.

Still, I pointed and vacillated the gun. The men, with masked identities, well-stocked muscles and black attire, prowled closer.

“Hand her over,” the guy holding a knife demanded, the world around me greying. “Adesso!”

A bead of sweat trickled down my back. I can shoot, take out three of these fuckers before they know what’s hit them, but weakening their defences will not guarantee Alexa’s safety. One impromptu move against foes, and I am an instance target board, the centre of multitudinous shots.

The Italians spared no room for decisions. An iron fist struck me right across the jaw, knocking the wind right out of me.

I went down like a sack of shit, the Glock clattering across the floor, out of my reach.

Pain detonated stars. I groaned, teeth clenching as I rolled onto my side.

Yeah, that might have hurt.

My unfocused eyes squinted to clear the fog, to regain vision.

Alexa’s high-pitched scream ripped me out of semi-unconsciousness.

Unable to tame vexation, I forced myself to climb onto my feet, body swaying slightly from aftershocks.

Her shoes are on the floor.

Her crouched down position by the pillar is not.

Skidding across the rain-splattered concrete with jittery limbs, I reclaimed the Glock and broke into a fast-paced sprint down the side of the Casino.

Everything is hazy, blurry and pixelated. My jaw is not broken. At least, I hope it’s not. But I found blood-pocketed punctures on my cheek when I investigated with trembling fingers. The son of a bitch had cracked me with knuckle dusters.

Rounding the sharp corner in time to see the men dragging Alexa toward a black vehicle, I homed in on the heavy-handed handler, shaking her vigorously, inhaled, exhaled, and aimed to kill.

He never saw me coming. Idiot. I might be the jokester of the syndicate, but I have been in the game for a long time. When I am pissed, I dissociate. No holds barred.

The gun jerked in my hand, the bullet escaping the chamber, whistling through the air and penetrating his skull. A clean, fatal shot. His blood, thick red, spattered Alexa’s face. If it bothered her, she never showed it. I think she is used to death and bloodshed by now

The stern, portly man drained of vitality and sagged to the cold depths. His body thundered forward, the impactful waves rippling along the floor.

Knowing she had the upper hand, Alexa brought her arm back and elbowed the other guy in the face, striking him in the nose.

The loud crack of his bone structure took him off-guard. His hold on her only strengthened, though. He is not releasing her without a fight. It’s not worth his while.

Ducking the swinging arms of Italian accomplices, I jawed a man with ring-adorned knuckles, punching with every ounce of energy I had.

I can fight. That’s not the issue. But I am one man against many. I needed assistance and fast.

“Vincent!” I yelled, listening to Alexa’s angered voice in the background. “Vince-”

A fist stuck me in the centre of the face. I staggered backwards but never went down this time.

Multiple hands attacked my shirt and jacket, limiting my movements. Then, before I could throw another punch, I was pinned to the car. My cheek was glued to the rain-dewed window, arms wrenched behind my back, the gun in my hand stolen from me.

“Perhaps I should make you watch,” the strongest man breathed in my ear, his palm on my head urging me to look at Alexa.

Eyes wide, glassy and defeated, she gazed at me, her back to someone’s chest, her arms hanging lifelessly at her sides. A thick, meaty hand held a razor-sharp knife to her neck, teasing her skin with threatening patterns.

My heart fell to my feet.

The man’s hot breath, stale from excessive cigarettes, warmed my cheek. “Watch her bleed to death.”

“Kill me instead,” I said, and a chorus of loud, mocking laughter reverberated down the street. “You are angry with me, not her. I am the one who ordered the hits. Let her go.”

“No.” His lips made contact with my earlobe. “Warren will feel the pain of Ignazio’s wrath.”

Heart beating ferociously in my chest, teeth-gritting madly, I thrashed against his inescapable hold. More laughter crescendoed. In their defence, I’d have laughed, too, if I had the upper hand.

All is not done yet, though.

Every leader had a right-hand man.

Mine is the silent but deadly type. A cold, sadistic killer. A necessary evil. And his lurking presence washed over me in sweet doses of reassurance.

In an unexpected twist of fate, Alexa’s corpulent handler gasped in stark horror, his round, bulbous eyes slowly raising to mine, seeking answers for unanticipated discomfort.

I don’t know why he is looking at me. My hands are behind my back, tinglingly numb and out of action.

Maybe it’s the smile on my face.

The weapon in his hand slipped through his fingers and clattered on the floor. His body, heavy in weight, nearly crushed Alexa. Her low groan insinuated weariness as she side-stepped, letting him crumple to the ground with a long-handled knife in his back.

Confused faces stared at one another ashush-hushsilence lengthened. Their eyes, dancing frantically, darted to buildings, entryways, windows and side streets.

“Qualcuno è qui.” The scrawniest geezer accentuated. He snatched Alexa’s elbow with unnecessary force, hauling her to his side, and she winced, holding her stomach. “La ucciderò-” His head snapped back beautifully when a bullet flew through his forehead. His back hit the floor first, followed by the thunderous thump of his head.

Alexa jerked in bewilderment, her bare feet slithering in filthy puddles. Her eyes volleyed in search of the mystery shooter.

“Reveal yourself!” The guy’s fingers wrenched my hair as he glanced around, head whipping from side to side. When no one stepped forward, he became increasingly anxious. “Get her in the car.”

A bullet pierced the pot-bellied sycophant’s chest before he could grab Alexa. He, too, dropped to the floor, dead.

“Che cazzo?” The man hellbent on breaking my wrists is frightened. Good. “I said, reveal yourself!”

Minutes ticked.

Alexa watched me.

I watched her.

Suddenly, I am free from restraint and can breathe without suffocating weight on my back because the man pinning me to the car is thrown into the road like a weightless rag-doll. He crumpled like a cheap suit, bellowing out in pain. His shoulder is disjointedly out of place.

Vincent, better late than never, revealed himself. He heaved for breath, chest rising and falling. He circled the man crying helplessly on the floor. “Now that you have me, what will you do to me?” His head cocked thought. “Or rather, what shall I do to you?” In decided brusqueness, he stomped on the man’s dislocated shoulder, prolonging the pain and suffering. He never heard the screams, the crushed bones. He was too angry. “Pitiful.”

Alexa is next to me now, rubbing the abrasions on my wrists. Arms numb but working, I raised a hand and caught the airborne Beretta, courtesy of the younger Warren brother, braced myself for another shoot-out and sought out my next kill.

It’s not over yet, not by a long shot.

Italians spawned like clockwork.

Locked and loaded, I zoomed in on targets and fired bullets in succession while simultaneously moving Alexa behind me-behind us.

Vincent took the men on the left; I took the men on the right. We aimed first, shot first, killed first.

Still, black masks crept out of the shadows to get their hands on Warren’s son. It’s all they wanted, to bring the pregnant wife to Ignazio, to inflict permanent pain on the boss.

Tyres hissed at the end of the street. A familiar Q7 turned the corner on two wheels, gliding along the road, kicking up murky rainwater.

Headlights shone like beacons to blind everyone momentarily, the ominous thrum of the engine throwing the Italians off balance.

The driver revved tempestuously, slammed a foot down on the accelerator and drove full speed toward adversaries.

Bodies lunged in multiple directions to escape collision, rolling across soaked pavements and landing in hard-packed gutters.

The car braked abruptly in the middle of the road. Then, the door flying open, Nate’s heavy-duty black boots dropped into rain-filled potholes

When I espied the PKM strapped across his chest, I turned to Alexa-whose slickly pale face raised alarm bells-crushed her head to my chest and covered her ears with my hands.

“You want a bit of this?” Nate’s feverish voice boomed into the night. “Let’s fucking go!” His sturdy arms, holding the machine gun we’d swiped from under Flamur Bajramovic’s nose tight to his chest, unleashed Hell on earth, sweeping bullets through bodies like a knife to butter. “Who’s the tough guy now, huh?”

The Italians’ automatic guns were second-class to the PKM’s heavy suppressive fire. We might be outnumbered. But we had military defences. And that’s why they started to surrender, dispersing through the streets, leaving dead and injured men behind.

Listening to the gun’s ejector spit casings in a repetitive loop, I held onto the boss’s wife, breathing heavily in her ear.

I had never been so grateful to see Nate, to have him with us, brothers in arms. I don’t know why he is here. Josh might have sent an SOS message.

Details are irrelevant.

He heard our cries.

He delivered.

Nate is panting for breath. When the coast was clear, he used the back of his hand to mop sweat on his brow and lowered the weapon.

“Brad…” Alexa’s blue-tinted lips chattered as she peered up at me. “It is no use.” Sheets of rain swept across her face, the scraggly ends of her hair submerged in God’s wrath. “We lost!”

Pulse thumping in my ears, I shook my head in denial. The pungency of death permeated the air. Italians lay dead on the ground. “No.”

Alexa glanced at something behind me.

When Vincent followed her line of vision, I glimpsed over my shoulder and felt the colour drain from my face, the blood evaporating from my body.

Through blurry, rain-beaten eyes, I watched petrol-bombs spear through the air like stardust, shattering the casino’s windows in punishing detonation.

Nate stepped over dead bodies, the machine gun hanging loosely to one side. He belatedly noticed the casino, violent red and burnt orange flames licking the windowless framework, thick, uncontrollable black smoke clambering heavenward.

“No!” Alexa’s bare feet slipped along the floor as she rushed toward the burning building. “Brad, do something!”

My arms wrapped around the meagre gap between her breasts and pregnant bump, lifting her feet off the floor before she could move any closer.

“No, Brad! We have to stop the fire. Liam,” she cried, her body sagging in my arms in defeat. “It’s for Liam.”

Rain pounded on the top of my head. The fire’s heat warmed my face. I kept an arm across Alexa’s chest, feeling silent sobs wrack through her body.

The casino groaned painfully, the fire spreading rapidly up the building, claiming the floors, old brickwork and crumbling archway. Not even Heaven’s tears are powerful enough to prevent the conflagration.

“No,” Alexa whispered, her hands squeezing my forearm as I coaxed her along the pavement on the other side of the road. “Brad…”

Everyone stood back as Warren’s casino went up in smoke. It hurt to see the man’s organisation crumble. He started from the bottom, working so hard to build the institution.

For the first time since Warren’s brutal sentencing, I am glad he is not here. I could not bear it, the sadness in his eyes, the disappointment on his face. He might be a tough one to crack, but there is a man with feelings buried under all that hard-wearing exterior.

An explosion collapsed the front of the building with an ear-splitting bang. Debris, glass and embers blew heavenward, and black smoke clambered to the night sky.

On the verge of hyperventilating, Alexa ran her fingers through her messy hair, looking down the street despairingly. “Where is Josh?”

Her question straightened my spine.

Joshy Boy.

Thrusting past Nate and Vincent, I ran full-pelt across the pavement, the fire’s uncontrollable flames fading into the background.

It became an afterthought, the casino’s ruination. I had to find Josh. I will never forgive myself if something bad happens to him. I am his mentor. His friend. His brother. He had to see it through until the very end. Grow old together and all that malarkey.

“Sailor?” Panic falling on deaf ears, I sprinted near the front of the casino, or rather, what was left of it. “Sailor…” A sea of dead bodies knocked me for six. They were everywhere, left on the floor, motionless and abandoned. “Christ…”

Some older than me.

Some younger than me.

The majority are syndicate soldiers.

The minority belonged to Ignazio.

Nausea rolled in my stomach, and acidic bile reached my throat. I felt sick, overcome with shame and guilt.

Men died in honour of The Brotherhood. Normally, I collected military chains and replaced soldiers without losing sleep, but I will never forget this night or the remorse I will carry to my grave.

Eli, covered in blood and ash, is next to his brother, Cole, the pair smoking cigarettes with their new friend Donny Stevens.

“Where is he?” I asked, and the men shrugged in unison. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Grabbing Eli by the front of the shirt with brute force, I put our faces inches apart. I am not in the mood for insubordination. I will quite literally have a heart attack if I lose him, too. “Where is Josh?”

“I’m right behind you,” the lad said, and I swear, the indescribable rush I felt had my legs wobbling. “Hey, it’s not like I am pushover-” He never finished his sentence because I spun around and swaddled him, chest to chest, arms on arms. My curled-up fists latched onto the back of his shirt, hugging him like a true brother. “Alexa?”

“All good,” I said, breathless yet revitalised. “Christ, Sailor. I thought I might lose you.” Kissing his begrimed cheek, I tapped his back comfortingly. “Don’t wander off next time. It’s not funny.” It was only then, when stepping back, I spotted a lifeless body in the rubble. “Is that…?”

My heart stopped.

Alfie’s sad yet unblinking eyes locked on the miserable skies. His tall frame, thrown in dirt and detritus, lay to rest in unpeaceful despair. His neck, where a tattoo once branded his skin, is hacked in fleshy, bloody chunks.

“Christ.” Someone had violently extracted the man’s ink. “Get him out of here before Alexa sees him.”

“See what?” Alexa asked from behind me, and I never had the guts to face her. I knew she’d be heartbroken. Alfie was not just the woman’s bodyguard. He was a friend, someone she loved and admired. “Josh, I am glad you are okay…” Her sentence drifted into oblivion. And I waited for it, her anguish, her melancholy. “Alfie…”

Having lost my voice, I studied the leather shoes on my feet.

Alexa’s hand grazed the top of my back as she inserted herself into the huddle.

I chanced to look at her, witnessing the moment her life tipped on its axis, the floor beneath her bare feet crumbling.

Wet hair sticking to her pallid face, she opened and closed her mouth, biting her bottom lip to suppress quivers. “No.”

Vincent’s arm shot out to grab Alexa, to comfort her, but she was already dashing to Alife’s side.

Struggling to draw a breath, she went to her knees, touching the man’s blood-soaked shirt with shaky hands.

“Alfie?” Her croaked voice broke the silence. “Oh, God. What have they done to you?”

Everyone stood vigil, not knowing what to say, do or act. Well, I knew what to do. I had to take Alfie’s body with us, bury him somewhere, document his death and place his tags in the safe…That’s if the office sustains the fire.

Donny called the fire brigade. He owned a badge. He will explain tonight’s catastrophe to officials and hand the syndicate a get-out-of-jail-free card. The Italians attacked and turned on each other. We are victims who got caught in the crossfire, ran and ducked for cover. We don’t even own any weapons. It’s as simple as that.

Alexa let out a heartbroken cry. Head buried on Alfie’s chest, her knuckle-white grip on his shoulders wracked his body as if she thought her vigour might bring him back to life.

Seconds blurred into minutes.

A stream of tears, blood and rain coursed down Alexa’s cheeks. Her bloodied fingers brushed over Alfie’s eyes, closing his lids. Then, holding onto Donny’s hand for support, she rose to her feet, brushing dirt off her skirt.

I thought she’d walk right past me to get to Vincent, but her body came into my arms for an unexpected hug. Her tears soaked my neck. “Don’t throw him with the others,” she whispered, and I understood the assignment. “I loved him.”

My lips, gentle to her skin, kissed her cheek. “Anything for you.”

“Animals,” she said quietly, anger replacing the sorrow in her watery eyes. “They skinned him.”

Not knowing how to respond, I rubbed rain down my face.

Alexa looked upon Nate, his back leaning on the Audi Q7 across the street. I am not sure if he understood the unspoken threat in her hard eyes. But I did. “When this baby is born,” she vowed in a low, baleful voice. “I will no longer be the weak link. The next time a masked man comes for me, I will rip his fucking heart out.”

I believed her.

Although sorrowful, her promise painted a promising future for Warren Enterprise. It’s what the brothers needed, her strength and determination. Herleadership. “I am Liam Warren’s wife. I will not bow to inferiority.”

“I never doubted you,” I replied, remembering how the boss used the exact line to encourage her during dark moments.

A grateful smile smoothed out her lips. That’s all she needed, small yet significant reminders of the man she fell in love with.

Eli and Cole lifted Alfie’s dead body off the ground and carried him to the Audi with cautious footsteps. Nate had the boot popped open, ready.

Alexa had to look away. It was hard enough, knowing he was gone and never coming back.

Josh stood with arms akimbo. “We should get the Bentley vehicles out of the underground before the entire building collapses.”

Exhausted, I gave everyone a nod of approval to salvage the vehicles.

Without a word, the men jogged toward the locked gates leading underground and, one by one, reversed cars into the street.

“You have to get out of here,” Donny advised, the piercing sound of wailing sirens closing in on us. “I can handle the Met.” Then, he spoke directly to Vincent. “Where will you go?”

Vincent stared at me, long and pointed. “The Italians will target the club. That’s if they haven’t already.”

Yes, I had thought as much. “Eli,” I called, and the man’s steely gaze swung to me. “Get on the flight tonight. I want Christina Moschini in London by tomorrow afternoon. Her presence may forestall impending disasters.” If the Italian woman is held in high regard, Ignazio might think twice about bombarding the club. It will give us more time to locate his hideout, if nothing else. “Meanwhile, I want The Grape and Vine and Club 11 shut down temporarily.”

“Why?” Alexa frowned, wiping tears on her cheeks, smearing Alfie’s blood on her skin. “I thought the syndicate was incapable of handling any more financial setbacks.”

“I hate to break it to you, Sugar Tits, but we just lost millions.” Gesturing to the scorching inferno behind us, I tampered down indignation. “All your hard work? Ashes to the wind. I cannot prevent unforeseeable destruction. I do not have a crystal ball to see the future. So, I am shutting the doors, protecting employees and figuring out how to stop this man from tearing down everything Warren has built.”

Alexa respired shakily, her stare revisiting Nate’s Audi. “I will put in an insurance claim.” Her words were clipped and bitter. “It won’t cover what’s lost, but it’s better than nothing.”

“I want the elite at the Warren Manor tomorrow morning for another meeting.” Tonight’s attack changed the course of direction. “I know it’s inconvenient, but we need to regroup.”

“I concur.” Vincent’s eyebrows knit together. “What of the rest of this tremendous evening?”

“Oh, I have a date with Alice Montgomery.” Alexa is eager to swing by the estate. “Do not argue with me. I am hurt, sad and angry. I have to take it out on someone.”

I should mention takeaway cuisine, as everyone hadn’t eaten since this afternoon, but I don’t think I can stomach it.

That’s a testament to how shit I felt.

I never turned down food.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Bleu

Precipitation overspread the moss-topped cobblestone path as I walked barefoot past acres of flat graves and granite headstones.

Heeled shoes with intricate rhinestones were dangling from my fingertips. The little black dress, leaving nothing to the imagination, is a regrettable choice of well-dressed fashion.

It seemed like a good idea when I imagined myself wearing it, looking beautiful, glamorous and desirable.

Now, in the frigid depths of the deathly quiet cemetery, with winter’s ice-cold chill and light rain on my bare skin, I could not help but question rationality.

Only self-appointed, pretentious imbeciles undertook frostbite, profound hypothermia and graveyard shifts: thrill seekers, adrenaline junkies and paranormal investigators, not normal people with mundane lives.

I should be at home, freshly showered, with a mug of hot chocolate dredged in cocoa powder and mini marshmallows. New pyjamas, perhaps. One of Mabel’s famous shortbread cookies.

Heedless of miserable weather and spine-tingling locations, I am glad I executed tonight’s plan to claw under Emma’s skin. It was the least I could do to the woman sleeping with my baby’s father.

Yes, I know of the inarticulacy shameless affair. I saw them together, Bradley and Emma. I had popped toHush Mayfairto meet Elijah for a noisome beetroot, goat cheese and balsamic glaze salad when the invidious pair strolled into the ground floor brasserie with luxury ribbon-tied gift bags of expensive purchases and asked for a quiet table.

If Bradley weren’t so infatuated with Emma, he’d have noticed me at the back of the restaurant, watching them interact like fools in love.

I hated seeing them together, or rather, him fawning over another woman. He behaved like a true gentleman, removing her coat and handing it to the conciliatory waiter, pulling the chair back for her to become seated, and ordering a bottle of white wine, even though he preferred whiskey.

Emma is a natural conversationalist. Throughout the entire lunch date, she talked enough for the two of them. Not that he seemed to mind her enthusiastic loquaciousness. If anything, he quite enjoyed the sound of her irritating voice, the way her eyes brightened when she smiled at him and how her cheeks flushed when he kissed her shoulder.

He looked at her as though no other woman mattered.

No. I stand corrected.

He looked at her like a man in love.

And I was sick with jealousy.

Bradley visited Emma’s place most nights after work. The Bentley is parked in the street, where it stayed until the next morning. He sleeps there, inherflat, inherbedroom and inherbed.

Having tried the stolen key to gain access to Emma’s flat multiple times (when she left for work with the burly bodyguard in tow) and to no avail, I somehow developed an obsession. I wanted to understand why Emma took precedence over the man’s growing family. He had a pregnant woman at home. A baby is on the way. Dominic is on standby. Yet he choseherin the mornings,herin the nights.

It sickened me to the core.

What else did I have to do bar trail the woman on her daily ventures?

Absolutely nothing.

It’s not like the garrisoned flat is easily accessible.

Whatever possessed her to change the lock?

Emma is completely clueless when it comes to other people. The egotist barely looked up when jogging on the wet pavements of London. She never made eye contact with customers when taking orders at the restaurant. Her blank stare revealed dozy distractedness when co-workers engaged.

No one existed between the hours of dawn and dusk unless your name was Bradley Jones. She made an exception for him.

What’s worse is that Bradley occasionally left baby Dominic in Emma’s care. Alone. Just the two of them. Making memories together. Bathing and dressing him in the morning, taking him to the park to feed ducks in the afternoon and tucking him into bed at night.

You’d think she’d concentrate on finding her own son instead of mothering someone else’s little boy. Her forgetfulness is borderline callous.

What good mother goes about her day when the child she claimed to love is rotting in a ditch somewhere?

Lord, I hate her. I hate her with a passion, with every fibre of my being. Her existence made my life miserable, soured my mood and turned my heart black. In an ideal world, she’d die a painful death and transcend to the afterlife in a reptilian form.

“What took you so long?” Lynette stepped out from behind the old sycamore tree, the gnarly branches withered and leafless. “You called over an hour ago. I have been standing in this godforsaken graveyard ever since.” Her white blouse hung loosely on her shoulders. “Oh, great. You are drunk, aren’t you? I knew I should have stayed in bed.”

After Emma’s friend, Hugo, became opposingly defensive about his love interest-yes, I perceived the flashing hearts in his eyes when she rudely interrupted our conversation this evening-and showed me the door with an ungentle nudge, I called upon Lynette for an emergency meeting, disturbing her restful slumber.

I had caught a taxi to Hamlets Way, where Lynette resided in the high-rise block of flats. I thought she’d have the decency to invite me inside for a sweet cup of tea or a shot of tequila. I am not one to make a fuss. A beverage is a beverage. But she texted to meet her at the large burial ground as an alternative. Apparently, I am not welcome inside her humble abode.

“Well?” Lynette’s crystal blue eyes glittered like rare diamonds. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I don’t drink alcohol anymore.” My warm breath expelled a cloud of mist. “Am I right to assume you are angry with me?”

“Angry doesn’t even begin to cut it.” Her ash blonde hair is damp from the rain. “You forgot about me.”

I could never forget such an incredible woman. “I did not.”

“You returned to the Jones’ Estate and never looked back. I have called, texted and emailed. Still, you have not responded or been in touch. I have been worried to death, thinking something awful happened to you.” Wet leaves, having fallen from weakened branches, sloshed under her footsteps, her small black ankle boots sinking in the mud. “I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks. You could have been dead, killed by the man you fear yet admire. Why this whole facade is preposterous.”

If Bradley wanted to hurt me, he’d have done it by now. “I have given him no reason to distrust me.” It’s true. The man hardly acknowledged me. I am just the harmless ex-employee taking up residence on the right side of the annexe building. In his eyes, I am an innocent, unassuming damsel in distress. “He doesn’t see me. I am not sure if he has received the paternity test results.”

The curve of her mouth deepened. “Oh, he has received them, alright.”

“I am not convinced.” My voice was scarcely above a whisper. “Surely, he would have come to me by now.”

“Not necessarily.” She winced at the frostiness in my eyes. “You are not in a relationship with each other. He never signed up to have another baby, especially with a one-night stand. Allow the man some time to reach acceptance.”

Heat crawled to my face as unease set bone-deep. “I will never be someone’s one-night stand.”

“I fear that’s all you might ever be to a man like Brad Jones,” she said, straight to the point. “Are you troubled?”

“Yes.” If I fail to get Mr Jones’ attention, love and affection, I have no other purpose in this world. Bradley, Dominic and the baby are my final shot at happiness-at redemption. “I think he is in love with another woman.”

Her fine-boned face and sympathetic eyes did nothing to mollify me. “How can you be so sure?”

“He behaves like a completely different person around her.” Bradley smiled more when Emma stood beside him. He is calmer, less combative and more approachable. He moved about with a sense of magical peacefulness, strength, confidence and hope. “But don’t worry. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve. I will not let that unscrupulous homewrecker ruin everything I have worked so hard for.”

“What will you do?” She bestrewed dead twigs on someone’s grave. “Throw her in the woods with the real Alice Montgomery?”

Yes, I killed the only person on this planet capable of exposing me. Just imagine how the real Alice might have behaved if she found out the truth behind her stolen identity. She’d have contacted the police and had me thrown behind bars. Or worse, she’d have knocked on Bradley’s door and destroyed everything I had built.

Alice was easy to track down. I did a quick internet search, made a note of her home address and drove Elijah’s car to her house.

Lynette came along for the ride. Well, she had to, really. It was her suggestion to tie up loose ends.

I don’t know what came over me that night. Too much alcohol, maybe. A dangerous concoction of drugs. But when I stood over Alice’s bed-where she slept peacefully with a half-naked man curled up beside her-with a kitchen knife in hand, reconnecting with the demons of my past, I lost rational thought and let emotions get the better of me.

Intoxicated by substance abuse, I acted without ethics, morals or humanity to achieve a life of prosperity and love. I utilised power and privileges to my advantage, stabbing her repeatedly and viciously whilst Lynette took care of her lover.

Blood is all I remember of that tragic night-so much blood. I was painted in it, drowned in sin, deadly decadence and dark deception.

I must have stolen her purse, identity cards, bank cards and birth certificate whilst I visited because I found all her documents in my handbag the following morning.

“I won’t kill Emma.” At least, not yet. I did not want a grieving, miserable man to contend with. Bradley will only mope around if his dearly beloved is pushing up the daisies. No, I had to play smart, think outside the box and turn Emma against him. “She did not know about the baby. The news broke her heart. I very much doubt that she will hang around to watch his family unfold.”

Lynette exhaled noisily. “You are positively evil, Bleu Murphy.”

I gave her a wicked smile.

That’s what my mother used to say.

***

It was three o’clock in the morning when I returned to the Jones’ Estate. I had this wonderful idea of luxuriating in the bath, with bubbles galore and essential oils, but when I drifted down the dimly lit hall and heard floorboards creaking in my bedroom, I knew self-care would have to go amiss for one night.

Peering around the ajar door, I see Edith, the old, meddlesome cow, in a hideous floor-length nightgown and moccasin slippers, rummaging through my drawers with frantic hands.

“What are you looking for?” I asked, and she jumped out of her skin, knocking a bowl of potpourri all over the floor. “You do not have the permission or the authority to be in here.”

“Alice…” Her sunken eyes, marred with wrinkles and crow’s feet, crashed into me as I pushed the door open fully to reveal myself. “I lost my towels.” The lie stuttered out of her like a chugging train. “I thought that perhaps you might have misplaced them in your drawer.”

“Why would Istealyour towels?” My feet carried me across the room to where the preserved garden of fragrant flower petals, herbs and spices sprinkled the rug. “Your towels are old and riddled with bacteria. I’d rather air dry.”

With watchful eyes on me, I glanced at the small, leather-worn notebook sticking out from beneath the pillow on the single bed. I had penned notes this morning before I went to the kitchen to eat scrambled eggs on toast with Jonah. I never kept it in plain sight. Yet, there it is, on full display. The meddlesome halfwit disdainfully transgressed the privacy of other housemates.

With a modicum of irritability, I gave her a condemnatory glance. “Did you find anything interesting whilst searching through my things?”

“I never found the towels…” Although the recalcitrant harridan held my stare with unfaltering immovability, I detected an undercurrent of uneasiness in her throaty voice. “I shall ask Jonah instead.”

I stared at her swarthy face. “I asked you a question.”

“And I have responded.” She inhaled a long, slow breath. “You simply do not like the answer.”

“But you lied,” I said, and she paled in complexion. “You were not in here looking for towels. You were going through my belongings to find dirt on me. So, I will ask you again. Did you find anything interesting?”

Her stare flickered to the notebook, then back to me. It was a quick, almost regretful glance. If I hadn’t been watching her so closely, I’d have missed it.

“I do not like you,” she said with unregretful harshness. “There is something unusual, not quite right. I feel it whenever I am forced to be in the same room as you.”

I never batted an eyelid. Even when Edith yawned, her mouth widening in a dramatic circle, I remained expressionlessly unruffled. It seemed to bother her when I revealed nothing. I was like a code she wanted to crack.

“I knew it,” she whispered to herself, her movements jumpy and fidgety. “You do not react.” Her round eyes, imbued with twinkling glee, looked me up and down. “You have no emotional connection with others.”

“That sounds about right.” Pretending to understand the old mare’s logic, I picked up the potpourri she so rudely left on the floor and placed the bowl back on the bedside table. “You can get out now.”

She bristled at the sharpness in my tone of voice.

“I better not catch you in my room again.” My body collapsed on the bed, the frame’s metal hinges squeaking beneath my weight. “You won’t like the consequences of your actions if I do.”

“Do not threaten me, child.” She hesitated with her hand on the door handle. “I might be old in the tooth, but I am highly respected, preternaturally wise and all-seeing. I know a villain when it’s glaring back at me.” She stared down her nose at me with overt contempt. “Your presence on the estate does not bother me in the slightest. You, however, might want to watch your back. I got my eye on you.”

Edith left the room, slamming the door behind her.

I studied the place where Edith once stood, long and reflective. I knew she’d be a problem for me. I sensed as much the first night I entered the annexe. She was sitting in the kitchen with the identical brunettes, enjoying a cup of hot chocolate and a slice of baked fruit cake. When I walked in, she never welcomed me back with open arms or even feigned politeness. She got up from the chair, shouldered right past me and went about her life as though I did not exist.

Grabbing the notepad under the pillow, I read the latest entry.

Mr Jones has not come to see me since the hospital visit. I worry that he might know about the switched blood samples. If he is aware of the little stunt I pulled, will he show mercy? Or will he throw me off the nearest cliff?

I am not bothered either way.

Without him, I have nothing.

But then, what if he has the results and everything has gone according to plan? He is confirmed to be the father of my unborn child, and he is struggling to accept it. Oh, well. He will have to get over it, eventually. I am not going anywhere, and neither is the baby.

Our baby.

Our family.

I can hardly contain myself.

If the manager of household affairs snooped through the notepad, she’d have read everything. And I meaneverything. All of my past transgressions. All of my future manifestations. Goals and ambitions and plans.

Edith will bear the brunt of the ramifications.

I have to silence her.

***

Reading four-thirty-five a.m. on the wall-mounted clock, I changed into comfortable clothes (an oversize lounge set) and headed to the kitchen for late-night snacks. Early morning breakfast sounded more appropriate.

Jonah is alive and kicking, wandering around the kitchen in low-hanging sweatpants. I had front-row seats to the man’s glorious V-line.

“Why are you up so early?” He popped two slices of bread into the toaster. “I am starting to wonder if you ever sleep.”

I am too anxious to rest. “Edith hates me.”

“Edith doesn’t hate you.” He placed a tub of butter and a jar of Marmite on the counter. “You worry too much.”

And you are delusional, I thought. “I found her in my bedroom earlier going through my drawers.”

Jonah popped the kettle on to boil. “That’s odd.”

“Right?” Folding into the wooden chair by the table, I tucked my feet under my crossed legs. “She had no right to infringe on my privacy.”

His arms, thick and bulging, crossed over his chest. “Did you confront Edith about it?”

“No.” My voice was low and subdued. “I mean, she is too old for confrontation. I don’t want to give the poor sod a heart attack. Besides, I don’t have anything interesting for her to find. I figured I should act clueless.”

“That’s probably for the best.” He slathered Marmite on buttery toast, then cut them into triangles. “As I said before, Edith is harmless. She was probably bored.”

I made a non-committal sound in the back of my throat.

“Do you want some?” He pointed to the plated toast, and I grunted in distaste. “Let me guess. You are a hater of Marmite.”

“Marmite should have been abolished in the war days,” I said, recalling when my father made me try it. I threw up yeasty, soy sauce-esque sludge for a week. “You can sit at the end of the table. I don’t want that disgusting crap anywhere near me.”

“It does have an acquired taste.” To annoy me, he sat right next to me with the plate of Marmite-infested toast, the toxic odour wafting up my nose. “I love it. It is my go-to snack.”

“You grew up acclimatised to it.” Normal people do not eat yeast-extract-based spreads. “Jam is acceptable.”

“Boring,” he said with a mouthful of food. “You continue to disappoint me, Montgomery.” When he winked at me, I smiled a little. “What?”

“Nothing.” The kettle clicked, indicating the water’s boiled. I stood to make us tea. “Why do you walk around half-naked?”

“Half-naked?” His brows furrowed as he admired the muscular planes of his chiselled chest. He reminded me of Greek sculpture, so godly and heroic. “It’s not unusual for a guy to be topless. You act like glowing in your own skin is considered disreputable.”

No, I love a confident man. Jonah is not muscular like Bradley. However, he is lean, ripped, eye-catching and art worthy. I struggled to look elsewhere whenever he was around. “Did you want tea?”

“Sure.” His interest diverted to the wall when the sound of footsteps echoed. “Did you hear something?”

I bet Edith is back in my bedroom.

Slamming the sugar canister down on the counter, I marched past the kitchen table, ready to unleash my tongue on the overbearing bitch, when Alexa Warren appeared in the doorway.

I never had the chance to speak or judge the filth on her clothes. Her hand struck my cheek hard, loud and punishing, leaving a scorching ache in my jaw.

Almost losing my footing, I stumbled back, hearing Jonah’s sharp intake of breath behind me.

Without a shred of clemency, Alexa snatched my hair roughly around her fist and smashed my cheek against the wall, holding me in place with overpowering strength. “There is only room for one bitch around here.” Her mouth gritted angrily against my ear. “I already claimed the fucking title.”

Hands pinned to the wall, I side-eyed her, then I glanced at the doorway, where Bradley lingered. He, too, modelled filthy, blood-covered fabrics and an aura of strident, self-important arrogance.

I felt embarrassingly small in their presence. “I am pregnant.”

“Not in the face,” Alexa spat, her cruelty emphasising the pain in my cheek as her fingers yanked my hair by the root. “Let’s get a few things straightened out. You are back in Brad’s life because of thebaby. You are free to roam his estate because of thebaby. You are living and breathing because of thebaby.”

Nodding, I swallowed audibly.

“You are not prowling the streets of London for any other purpose.” Ripping me away from the wall, she wrestled me into a chair, spun me around to face her and slammed two hands on the armrests. “Do not confuse the man’s kindness and hospitality for anything other than obligation. You do not own him. You do not have any rights to him. You do not, under any circumstances, involve yourself in his personal affairs.”

Breathing rapidly to calm my irregular heartbeat, I eased back in the chair to generate a safe distance between us. Plus, the sweet, odoriferous perfume on her blood-spattered skin is eye-watering. I might choke. “What did I do?”

“You stepped over the line.” Her stern, authoritative voice is like shards of glass to my skin. “And you know it.” When I glimpsed over her shoulder to see the man in question, she snatched my jaw, denting my cheek with manicured fingernails. “Do not look at him for guidance. He is not here to helpyou. He is here to make sureIdo not get carried away.”

This tyrannical woman just made an enemy out of me. She has no idea who she is messing with.

“Here is a secret for you, Alice.” Her lips teased the shell of my ear. “I have killed a pregnant woman before. I am not opposed to doing it again.”

And what if I killed her first? I suppose the baby will survive. Not that I cared. It’s not my little bundle of joy cooking in her stomach.

As I wanted Bradley to fall in love with me, I refrained from behaving recklessly. Harming his precious Alexa will only certify my death. Heaven forbid anyone challenged the undeserving princess. They might be thrown into sharks infested waters to be mauled to death.

“I apologise for upsetting everyone,” I said with bogus earnestness. “I am still not sure what I did to make you so angry, but I will make a conscious effort not to do it again.”

“You cornered Emma.” Her response was expected. “I am not stupid. You can act naive and ingenious, but I know you deliberately went to the restaurant tonight to cause a scene.”

Yes, I did. I regretted nothing.

“What’s the matter? Is Brad not giving you enough attention?” Her mouth curled up at the corner. “Do you really think that coming between him and his girlfriend will make room for you?”

Girlfriend? It’s official. They are an item. Emma is a problem.

When such wild allegations came to light, I had to up the ante. “Is that what you think? That I want to be in a relationship with my ex-boss.” Tears pricked the back of my eyes. “Oh, Mrs Warren. You have got it all wrong. I am not even attracted to him.” The lie rolled off my tongue seamlessly. “To be honest, I kinda have a thing for Jonah.”

“What?” The slice of toast in Jonah’s hand fell on the plate. “That’s news to me…” His mouth stuttered as he looked from me to Bradley. “Sir, I am not abusing my position at the estate. Sure, I like Alice as a friend, but I would not risk my job for a summer fling.”

It’s winter, you idiot.

Alexa stood taller, her shadow falling over me. “She is a pest,” the insulting woman talked about me as though I was not in the room. “Give her enough rope,” she added en route to the door, “and she will hang herself.”

Mrs Warren left the kitchen.

I was unworthy of any more time.

Bradley lingered for a moment, only to glare at me. I think he had something to say but decided against it. Instead, he burst out laughing, loud and thunderous, as if this was all but entertainment for him.

My face grew increasingly hot.

Giving Jonah a two-finger salute, he saw himself out. “Good luck with that one.”

I had never been more humiliated in my life.

I did not matter to him.

I did not matter to any of them.

“Holy shit.” Jonah thrust a hand through his hair. “Not trying to be insensitive, but fuck me. Mrs Warren is hot.”

“You just found out that I like you.” My heart thudded loudly in my ears. “And that’s your response. Telling me another woman-someone who just bitch slapped me across the kitchen and threatened to kill my unborn baby-is hot.”

The incorrigible man pushed his Marmite-smeared lips into a sulky pout.

“Nice, Jonah.” My sarcasm is more than warranted. “Real smooth.”

Hearing the main door slam on its hinges behind Bradley and Alexa, I lunged to my feet, unable to meet Jonah’s worried gaze, and stormed down the hallway. I wanted to hit something or someone. Do anything but focus on the rejection I felt.

Mumbled voices had my ears twitching. By the old, church-style front door, I placed my ear to the varnished wood and tapped into their conversation.

“How are you feeling?” Bradley asked, and I held my breath to listen. “I know this is hard on you.”

“I am sad,” Alexa responded, her throat scratchy. “I wish I could go back in time and ask him to stay by my side. He walked on with the brothers to give us privacy. He should have been with me, Brad.”

My eyes rolled.

This woman is such a martyr.

There was an intense pause. “Do you want a funeral?”

“What?” She sounded like an impressionable teenager that lacked common sense. “Is that allowed?”

“You are the boss’s wife,” he said, leaving the floor open for her. “You tell me.”

A whimpered snivel. “Yes.”

“Then it’s done,” he promised, and I wished I could see how close they stood. “Do you want me to break the news to Jax?”

“No, I should do it.” A tired sigh. “I need to shower. I look like death.”

I concurred.

Who waltzed around barefoot and covered in dry blood?

To think, she is the face of Warren Enterprise.

Her husband must be so proud.

“Stay here for the night,” Bradley offered, and thoughts of them in bed together, skin on skin, hot and sweaty, sinfully erotic, played like an unceasing nightmare. “You can sleep in my bed.”

Another pause. “Where will you sleep?”

“In my bed,” he countered, and they both chuckled. “I promise to keep my hands to myself.”

You better, I thought.

“Okay,” she agreed, their footsteps fading. “If I can shower first…”

I never caught the end of that sentence. They had moved away from the door.

An unexpected shiver ran down my spine. When I looked up, I saw Edith at the top of the stairs. Her judgmental, all-knowing eyes burnt holes in the side of my head. Of course, she had been snooping again. She promised as much.

Whistling in sinistrous thought, I stepped away from the door and ascended the narrow stairs.

Edith’s presence is becoming unwelcomely suffocating. If I were her, I’d have stayed in bed, nice and safe. But she cannot help herself. She had something to prove: I am untrustworthy and deserving of reprimand.

Racing to the top of the landing, I paused for a hot minute. “You must be a glutton for punishment.”

“You were earwigging,” the hypocrite dared to raise her voice at me. “I think the boss will disprove. In actual fact, I think he deserves to know what’s written in that disgusting diary of yours.” Grappling the bottom of the hideous, lace-trimmed nightgown, she deliberately rammed her bony shoulder into mine as she stormed full-speed ahead. “If you will excuse me. I have an office door to knock on.”

When Edith’s back turned and dismissed me, I saw only one colour: red. My hands shot out and thrust her between her shoulder blades, sending her face-first down the stairs in a remorseless pursuit of silence. Her body missed every step, gliding through the air like a dying bird. Arms and legs wildly flailing, she braced herself for the low-level fall, the scream of dread trapped in her windpipe.

Unfortunately for Edith, the force was too sudden and too quick for a promising outcome. Landing on the ground with a heavy thump, she cracked her head, a stream of blood trickling out of her ear. Her dull, unresponsive eyes signified death.

Brushing off my hands, I spun on my heel and headed for bed.

It has been a long yet rewarding day.

I deserved undisturbed tranquillity.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Emma

Andy Williams declared that Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year. People enjoyed festive music and cheesy movies, modelled ostentatious jumpers and overindulged inedible fruit puddings. Homes are enlivened with embellishments aplenty. Families and friends hosted lavish dinner parties and exchanged seasonable gifts.

’Tis the season to be jolly!

Festive stress is more like it.

How is hustle-and-bustle considered fun and joyous?

Stores are jam-packed with hardcore shopaholics, clamorous cash registers are undermanned and queues of immobilised customers are ten miles long. Just the other day, I had to wait in line for fifty-seven minutes to buy a Wüsthof knife set for Benjamin.

The inclement weather is miserable and gloomy. Caliginous skies, steely grey clouds and torrential downpours had a negative effect on my emotions. Heavy rain precipitated discontentment and unhappiness. I could wake up in the best of moods, with a spring in my step and positive vibes to attract good energy, but when I opened the curtains to unveil the dark, merciless world, contemplative melancholia returned tenfold.

Christmas music is annoying and unpleasant. It’s a never-ending loop of overplayed cheesiness and foreboding harmonies. Repetitive lyrics and tintinnabulate bells have been omnipresent in every high-street store and shopping centre in a bid to entice serial spendthrifts. I would happily wipe tedious melodies off the face of the earth to have All I Want For Christmas Is You evicted from my head forevermore.

The restaurant is double-booked, overcrowded, relentless and demanding. Employee burnout among employees and managers is inescapable. I am exhausted in the workplace, the job being monotonous and chaotic.

Too much activity had a significant impact on my business performance and reduced productivity. I am ashamed to admit that I hide in the public restroom to avoid customer demand more often than not.

At this rate, with tardiness and fatigue heavily influenced by a lack of passion, I am surprised Laurence hasn’t summoned me to his office to throw the rule book at my head. Or, better yet, with deep regret, he terminated my job for poor work performance.

Commuter stress is prevalent in central London this time of year. Just ask anyone travelling from home to work during the winter months. You have to plan transport in advance to dodge congested roads and traffic jams. It’s considered a lucky day to nab a seat on the bus or the train. If public transport has reached its full capacity, standing is the only alternative. Sandwiched between bristled people alike is more apt.

I never used to be a bah humbug. I loved Christmas with the best of them. It’s a time to dream and create good memories and timeless traditions. But what’s a good holiday season without the people you love? Lonesomeness, isolation and melancholy wrapped in a tightly restricted black bow that disintegrated into dust and ash if you touched it.

I might be depressed and nostalgic about the past. I see memories in the third person perspective so vividly, as if watching scenes unfold outside my physical body.

“Mum!” Carter appeared in the dark, jumped on top of me and shook my shoulders in a challenge to get me out of bed. “We have to get up. He’s been.”

Groaning groggily, I rolled onto my back, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Whose been?”

“Father Christmas! I heard footsteps in the living room. I tried to stay in bed for longer. I swear I did. I promise.” His small hands cupped my cheeks as he forced my eyes to him. He really is a beautiful soul. “But I had to use the bathroom. I never meant to look inside the stocking. It was an accident.”

“An accident?” Amused by the little white lie he told, I suppressed a dry chuckle. “Is your stocking full, Baby?”

“I think so…” My son’s lips pursed guiltily. “I definitely saw candy canes poking out. And an action figure. I don’t know why Santa got me a Superman. I don’t even like Superman all that much. I like Batman.” His eyebrows shot up in wonder. “Do you think he got me the Batmobile?”

“Well, I don’t know.” Pretending to think about his question, I tapped my chin. “Did you ask for a Batmobile?”

“Yes.” He sat crossed-legged on the bed, with tartan-clad arms crossed. He looked adorable in plaid pyjamas, not that he’d agree. I had to convince him to wear something traditional for Christmas Eve. A late-night movie and hot chocolate worked. “I asked for two, just in case he forgot the first one.”

Santa never forgot.

“It would suck if he did.” Checking the time on my phone, I see six thirty a.m. “Is Uncle Ben awake?”

“No. I checked already. He snores really loud.” He tousled his dark, messy bed hair. “Maybe I should get him up.”

“You should.” Chucking the blanket off my body, I pulled myself to the edge of the bed. “Go ahead. I will be out in a minute.”

Carter’s feet barely touched the floor as he dashed down the hall to lunge on Benjamin’s bed. A door crashes into the wall, and I hear my brother groan in dissatisfaction, telling his nephew to give him five more minutes.

In Ben’s defence, he stayed up late last night, bringing all the presents down from the attic. It’s where we stored them until Christmas morning to make sure Carter never pried and spoiled surprises.

A pitstop to the bathroom later, teeth brushed and bladder relieved, I headed to the kitchen to pop the kettle on and prepare two mugs of steamy coffee. A caffeine boost is a must amongst tired adults. Increased energy levels to get me through the day? Sign me up.

In the living room, I placed both mugs on the coffee table and kneeled on the fringed rug, ready to watch my son’s reaction. It’s my favourite part of Christmas morning, the jubilance in his eyes, the exhilaration in his voice. It made the stress of running around ragged to buy and wrap presents worthwhile.

I only had two sips of the java-laced beverage when Carter reappeared. His eyes doubled in size when he saw the adorned presents beneath the six-foot tree.

Yes, Baby Boy. It’s all for you.

Ben is two steps behind him, half-dressed in red, navy and white chequered pyjama bottoms and dishevelled hair. “Morning.” His voice was thick and gruff, honed with extreme tiredness and yawns of sleep deprivation. “Carter snooped.”

“I did not!” Carter’s red face gave him away. “I don’t even know what’s in the stocking. I never looked. I swear I didn’t do it.”

“He is a liar.” Ben leaned down to plant a kiss on my forehead, and then the mug of coffee became his sole focus. He sipped avidly, the hot liquid easing the ruggedness in his throat. “I smelt peppermint on his breath. I know he ate those damn candy canes.”

“No, I never. My breath smells of peppermint because I brushed my teeth.” Carter’s hands shot under the tree, grabbing a medium-sized present. “It’s a board game. I just know it.”

It’s a National Geographic mega fossil dig kit, actually.

“Cool.” Throwing a ball of wrapping paper over one shoulder, he read the toy’s description label. “These fossils are millions of years old.” He was awe-struck. “I better find a T-Rex.”

“Get real.” Benjamin scratched his bare chest. “It’s impossible to fit a T-Rex in that box.”

“Maybe a tooth, then.” Carter was in the process of unpackaging another gift. “I know! We should buy terrapins!”

Okay, that was random. “I am not buying terrapins.”

“Why not?” He had a set of walkie-talkies. “They are only small. You won’t even know I got them. I promise to feed them once a week.”

My brother’s jaw slackened. “Once a week?”

“Every day,” I corrected, not wanting to buy pets, especially yellow-bellied sliders. “You’d get bored within a month.”

“That’s true.” He never argued the matter. “Maybe I can have a dog instead. If you let me have a pet, I will name him Balto, like the wolf-dog in the movie. You remember that movie, don’t you, Uncle Ben? He saved all those children in the snow.”

“I remember.” Benjamin went to one knee by the tree and took out a present hidden at the back. “Let’s talk about puppies later. You had to sort this one, right?”

“Oh?” Carter unsubtly winked as he accepted the parcel. “Hey, look. It’s for you, Mum.”

“For me?” Leaving the mug on the coffee table, I crawled toward the tree and plonked into position next to my son. “You didn’t have to buy me anything, Baby.” Reading the label, I let out a breathy sigh. “I love you, all of the planets in the sky.” My heart swelled. “Love, Carter.”

“I didn’t have any money.” He itched the nape of his neck. “Uncle Ben paid for everything.”

“Yeah, but he picked it.” Benjamin is quick to give Carter all of the credit. “And he wrapped it by himself. I only helped with the Sellotape.”

“That’s true.” Carter is keen to witness my reaction to the present, so his bundle of gifts beneath the tree goes unnoticed. “Go on. Open it. You will love it.”

Nibbling the bottom of my lip, I ripped through the messily wrapped parcel. A white and red box labelled Canon awaited. Tears formed in my eyes, and I sucked in a sharp breath.

“It’s refurbished.” Benjamin sat on the coffee table, the mug grasped between long, rigid fingers. “But I can get you a better one in the future. I just need some time to add to our savings.”

“You can sell this one to raise more money.” Carter brandished the second-hand Nikoncamera I once used. “Maybe I can get a job. I can work with you at the supermarket, Uncle Ben.”

“Don’t be worrying about money.” Benjamin’s stentorian voice and pointed finger meant business. “You keep your head down and concentrate on school. I got everything covered.”

“I don’t need a better one,” I tell them, unboxing the camera to look at the settings. “This is the best present ever. I can’t believe you guys did this for me.”

Carter’s arm slid across my shoulders. “Now you can take more pictures of yourself.”

“Or, I can take more pictures of you.” Turning on the camera, I adjusted the lens and zoomed in on his smiling face, snapping images as he hauled himself across the living room. “Isn’t he the most handsome boy you have ever seen?”

Benjamin smiled proudly. “Damn right.”

“You have to say that.” My son wrestled three stockings off the fireplace, the contents spilling onto the floor. “I am your nephew.”

“It’s true, though.” Benjamin thanked Carter for the stocking, then dumped three tons of chocolate and novelty gifts onto the coffee table. “What the hell?” He held up a see-through plastic package. “A blow-up girlfriend? Seriously, Em?”

I thought it was funny. “You said you wanted a girlfriend!”

My brother is speechless.

“What is an inflatable Brittney doll?” Carter took the package off Benjamin. “She is cute, curvy and never complains. A cheap date and a great bedmate.” His nose wrinkled. “What’s a bedmate?”

“You don’t want to know.” Benjamin stuffed the inflatable doll into the stocking. “Shit, I don’t want to know, either. She is going in the bin.”

I sipped coffee. “You can’t put your girlfriend in the bin.”

“That’s exactly where she is going.” My brother watched Carter hurl small presents over his shoulder with frantic hands. “What are you looking for?”

“A Batmobile. I know it’s here somewhere.” Carter, not finishing the rest of the unpacking, discarded the stocking and made a beeline for the tree. He selected gifts based on size, shaking the larger boxes by his ear and listening for moving objects. Then, his fingers splayed across snowflake-patterned wrapping paper, the silver bow rippling in disarray. “I think this is the one.”

Carter’s right. The gift-wrapped Batmobile is in his hands. So, he is either a psychic or a sneaky little shit. My guess is the latter. He probably tampered with the presents earlier.

“See?” Carter threw shreds of wrapper in the air as he took the box apart. “A Batmobile! I knew Santa wouldn’t let me down!”

Benjamin became increasingly puzzled by his nephew’s extrasensory perception. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.” Carter shrugged indifferently, then spun his new wheels across the hardwood floor. “Hey, Uncle Ben. Did you get a present?”

My brother frowned, looking intently at the twinkling fairy lights draped along the tree’s evergreen branches. “No-”

“Yes,” I interjected with a slight smile on my lips. “He has that thing, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. That thing.” Carter lost interest in the Batmobile, lunging to his feet and sprinting down the hall to his bedroom. “I got it somewhere!”

Ben polished off remnants of coffee, the mug left on a coaster until I offered another refill. “This better not be a blow-up boyfriend.”

Placing the camera back in the box, I imagined him in bed with an inflatable bloke sleeping beside him and chuckled. “I mean, if you swing that way…”

“I do not…I am not having this conversation. It’s ludicrous. I will never understand your sense of humour.” He was too distraught to consider the possibility of him and a fake boyfriend. “What’s taking him so long?”

My son had to crawl beneath the bed to find Benjamin’s present. He put it somewhere safe and out of sight so that his uncle never found it during monthly cleaning sprees. Don’t get the wrong idea, though. I am the primary housekeeper: cooking, cleaning and laundry. But he contributed to household chores, upkeep and maintenance. That’s when bedrooms are rearranged for artistry and comfort.

Carter’s feather-light footsteps drifted along the floor. He paused by the living room door with a white carrier bag, inhaling big breaths. “I got it. You have to shut your eyes. It’s a surprise.”

“Do you want to open it for me?” Ben let his eyelashes fall to his cheeks, not entirely hiding his smile. “I bet I can guess what it is.”

“No way.” Carter emptied the carrier onto the floor and a small leather box popped out. “Okay. I need your hand. No peeking.”

Benjamin extended an arm. “I am not peeking.”

“You can never be too sure.” Carter studied his uncle’s tight facial features. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I will ever be.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am positively sure.”

My son smiled at his uncle. “I will read the card first.”

“Oh, I get a card?” Ben’s cheek muscle twitched in amusement. “This should be good.”

Carter’s feet shifted from left to right as he summoned the courage to share some of his thoughts. “I never got to choose my dad.” The moment he spoke, Ben’s eyes, with narrowed intrigue, fluttered open, and the two of them stared at each other with the type of intensity that warmed my chest. “And I know this is weird because you are my uncle and my mum’s brother, but if I did get a choice, I’d have picked you.” He put a neatly braided woven double leather bracelet on Ben’s palm. “You are cool and super awesome. When I grow up, I want to be just like you.”

Ben’s Adam’s apple went into convulsion.

“It says, ‘remember, I love you.’” Carter pointed to the engraved bracelet. “Mum paid the guy to sign it for you.”

My brother sat in wordless contemplation.

“What’s the matter?” Carter’s voice quivered as he spoke. “You don’t like it?” His eyes sought mine for a brief moment to ask me what to do. “I can get you a different one. You don’t have to keep it, Uncle Ben.”

After a few seconds of silence, Benjamin smiled at him. “It was the best day of my life.” He fastened the bracelet on his wrist. “When you come home with us. I loved you just as much then as I do right now.” He squeezed his nephew’s shoulders. “I love the bracelet. It’s the best present ever. The absolute best.”

Carter sighed in relief.

“I know it sucks, not knowing your real dad. But hey, I will always be that guy for you. You won’t miss out on anything with me around. I am here for it all, buddy.” Benjamin put a curled-up fist between them. “Got it?”

“Got it.” Carter bumped his uncle’s fist. When he noticed the phone in my hand, his eyes rolled. “Are you recording us again?”

I wiped a tear across my cheek. “Yes.”

He groaned, slapping a hand to his forehead. “And she’s crying.”

“I am not crying,” I lied, overwhelmed by the love they shared. “I have something in my eye.”

“Remember that one time when Carter was sick? He puked all over the flat.” Benjamin’s lips formed a tight line. “He ruined Christmas.”

“He did ruin Christmas,” I agreed, and my boy scoffed. “There was vomit on the floor and diarrhoea on the walls.”

“I don’t believe you.” Carter rested on his haunches, fumbling with a packet of sweets. “I would never, ever poop on the walls.”

Benjamin’s forehead creased into a frown. “Oh, but projectile vomit on the floor is believable?”

“Yeah.” He tossed a handful of skittles in his mouth. “I puke like a demon. It comes out of my mouth, nose and ears. It’s messy. Isn’t that right, Mum?”

I nodded.

Carter looked into space, his mind a million miles away. “Did I really poop all around the flat?”

“No.” Benjamin stole a tube of Smarties out of Carter’s stocking. “You were sick, though. It was Christmas Eve. I had work. Your mum hadn’t slept for twenty-four hours.”

“You were only fifteen months old,” I told him, and he listened with a fascinated expression. “And you were overtired, but you refused to go to bed without Uncle Ben. I tried everything: kisses, cuddles, rocking and singing.”

“That’s why I couldn’t sleep.” Carter gave me an incredulous snort. “Your singing is terrible.”

“Hey!” I half-scolded, lobbing a decorative cushion at him. “I am not that bad.”

“You are the worst,” he said with an overdramatic chuckle. “But it’s okay.” He came to my side, wrapped his arms around my middle section and puckered his lips for a kiss. “I forgive you.”

My lips smothered his face in kisses: forehead, nose, chin and cheeks. “I love you.”

“I love you more.” His gaze flicked to my brother. “Hey, Uncle Ben. What’s for dinner?”

“You haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“I just got to know.”

“Traditional Christmas dinner: turkey with stuffing, roast potatoes, decent vegetables and homemade gravy. I made a strawberry gateaux from scratch, too.” Benjamin’s enthusiasm heightened whenever the topic of food came into the conversation. “If your mum’s lucky, I will cut fresh strawberries.”

I love fresh strawberries. “You still have presents under the tree.”

“I had so many this year.” Carter ripped into a gift that I assume Benjamin had bought him. “Cool. I got my very own boxing gloves!”

“Nice.” Benjamin nodded in approval. “Santa must have won the lottery to get his hands on those bad boys.”

My frown sharpened. “I thought you bought the gloves.”

“No.” He strapped the black and gold pro boxing gloves on Carter’s fists. “Why would I buy boxing gear?”

“Who is Tommy?” Carter asked, and the two of us shot him a worried look. “He left a note in the box. Here, you can read it.”

I accepted the handwritten note.

Merry Christmas, Soldier.

Love, Tommy.

Turbulent panic flatlined my heart in a nanosecond. Tommy O’Shea is back. He is not supposed to know our home address. “There must have been a mix-up in deliveries.” I scrunched up the note, ready for the bin. “Take off the gloves. I will send them back.”

“What?” Carter’s face dropped alongside his gloved hands. “But I want them so badly.”

“No, don’t do that.” Benjamin held a cushion for Carter to use as a punching bag. “Let him keep them.” His concern mirrored my own. “No harm, no foul.”

The unexpected gift resulted in another moonlight flit to the next journey in our lives. After a traditional Christmas dinner, Carter fell asleep on the sofa whilst the adults in the house prepared for a late-night escape route. The three of us set off into the night with pre-packed emergency bags, leaving everything we loved behind and taking our memories with us. To be fair, running away from our problems is how we learnt to survive.

I pulled my wandering mind back to the present. Five hand-knitted stockings hung by the electric fireplace. When emotional wallowing crept in, and self-pity forced me to drain an entire bottle of white wine, I might have filled them with gifts and treats prematurely.

I blame the old videos on my phone, the ones of Carter reaching his milestones: smiling, laughing, sitting, standing and walking.

Then, my favourite video, engraved in my memory forever, is this tiny human waddling down the hallway like a penguin to get to Uncle Ben. My brother barely made it through the front door before Carter scaled into his arms for a snuggle. He had been poorly that evening, whinier and clingier. Ben’s hug was all he needed to fall asleep and relieve restlessness.

It brought tears to my eyes, the video of them. The inseparable bond they formed and the doting, loving smiles they exchanged. No other relationship compared.

That’s when I decided to drink wine to an excessive degree and wrap presents for everyone to keep my hands busy and sadness in check.

I emptied small parcels into personalised stockings for my loved ones, even though I doubted they’d be around to open them.

My phone pinged with a notification.

Tommy: I won’t be available until after New Year. Ma is on my case ’bout family time. Someone has to find a tree. It might as well be me, right?

Brigid O’Shea left it until Christmas Day to buy a tree. Yes, because that’s normal. Or, Tommy is making excuses.

Me: They sell trees everywhere.

Tommy: Ma wants a real one.

Me: I doubt you’ll find one today. What’s the point? You’ll have to pull it back down in a couple of days.

Chewing the inside of my cheek, I typed another message.

Me: What about Quintin, though? You promised to take me to him. I need to see him, Tommy.

Message read.

Tommy: I ain’t broken any promises yet. I’m just a little stretched, that’s all. I have to juggle work, the site, Ma and Sheila. Ye want me in London to visit pops.

Me: It’s for Carter.

Tommy: I appreciate that.

Me: Do you?

Tommy: Ye, I do. Ye forget how badly I wanted to be in my nephew’s life. Now that I have the go-ahead from ye, I ain’t goin’ nowhere. I need answers to his disappearance just as much as ye do. But time is limited. Give me a few weeks to get shit together.

A thought occurred to me.

Me: Is this really about the shortage of time? Or is this Sheila’s way of prohibiting us from visiting Quintin?

Tommy: Why would Sheila stop me from seein’ my old man?

Me: I will be present.

The message stayed read for five minutes before I texted again.

Me: Your silence says it all.

Tommy: What do ye want me to say? No girlfriend is comfortable with former lovers on the sideline. I’m workin’ on it.

Me: One, we had sex once. Two, I am hardly a former lover. Three, what sideline? I am not at the end of the field, waiting to tap in for a night in your bed.

Tommy: Back then, what ye and I had, It meant somethin’ to us.

Me: Exactly. Meant. Past tense. We have both slept since then.

Tommy: Do not trivialise the memories of us.

The memories of us.

I would have cherished those four words in the past. I loved him so much that it was borderline crazy and slightly stalkerish. All I craved was his searching eyes, boyish smiles and all-consuming closeness. I woke up to thoughts of him and fell asleep to images of us.

For him, I would have left it all behind, life, routine, friends and family, an afterthought. He only had to meet me on the other side of recklessness. But he chose war, a war I could not fight. He made a choice, rightly or wrongly, to defend Killian and throw me aside. The pivotal moment in our secret relationship is the parting of ways.

Tommy: I loved ye.

Me: Kids in love*

Tommy: It mattered.

I had the urge to argue with him.

If love prevailed, why did he turn his back on me?

It’s not even important. I don’t care for his explanations anymore.

That ship sailed a long time ago.

Me: I am not having this conversation with you.

Tommy: Why?

Me: You must be drunk.

Tommy: I’ve had a few.

Me: A few too many.

Tommy: How can I argue with facts?

Me: I don’t love you anymore.

Message read.

Three circles bounced on the screen.

Tommy: That’s a shame.

Me: Is it?

Tommy: I never stopped lovin’ ye.

My heart pitter-pattered in my chest.

Me: I am not the same girl you fell in love with.

Tommy: Really? Ye look the same.

Me: Tommy…

Tommy: Em…

Me: Stop.

Tommy: Why does it scare ye? Us, I mean.

Me: It doesn’t scare me. I have moved on. You have a girlfriend. We are not meant to be.

Tommy: A bottle of rum later, I disagree.

Me: You won’t be saying that in the morning.

Tommy: Ye might be right.

Me: Exactly.

Tommy: Or, I might be onto somethin’ and chasin’ it blindly.

Me: Are you unhappy in your relationship? You must be.

Tommy: I’m comfortable if that’s the question.

Me: No, I am sitting here, wondering why you are trying to pursue me with a girlfriend at home. It’s wrong.

Tommy: I know.

Me: Then, why do it?

Tommy: Sheila is havin’ an affair.

My eyes widened in surprise.

Me: Seriously?

Tommy: Yeah.

Me: How do you know? Have you seen them together? Did she deny it? Are you still together?

Tommy: That’s a lot of questions.

Me: You have to answer one of them.

Tommy: I found photos of ’em in bed together on her phone. I haven’t confronted her yet.

Me: Sheila has no idea that you know?

Tommy: Correct.

Okay, that’s unusual-and uncharacteristic. The old Tommy O’Shea would have taken a baseball bat to the man’s kneecaps for disrespecting him and finished with her for betraying him.

Tommy: Come on, Em. Ye ain’t shocked. Ye know Sheila is only a relationship of convenience.

Yes, Quintin micromanaged his son. He was overly concerned with Tommy’s future and often interfered with his personal and intimate relationships. Sheila had been handpicked to be the man’s wife during adolescence.

Me: Sheila has no reason to doubt your loyalty, not where I am concerned. I am not here to rekindle old flames and vice versa.

Side note: Sheila is a hypocrite.

How can she be angry at Tommy for helping with Carter’s case when she’s in bed with another man?

Moreover, why is Tommy justifying himself to a woman who has tarnished their relationship?

If anyone had the right to be enraged, it was him.

Me: My only priority in life is finding my son. I need closure, Tommy. Closure or a happy ending.

Tommy: And I will be there in January, I promise.

I almost begged him to reconsider and come to London sooner. Instead, I thanked him for his consideration and hurled the phone into my handbag.

Yes, I could rant and rave until I got him to see sense. After all, Carter’s safe return outweighed the festivities. But I am not a complete bitch. I understood, irrespective of how I wished the Christmas season was abolished, other people waited all year to spend time together. They wanted to kick back, enjoy good food and welcome the New Year with faith, hope, love and raised alcohol glasses.

I had to be patient and wait for my turn.

The Christmas tree flickered with sparkling lights and glittering beads. The snow globe is at a standstill on the coffee table.

Pondering between watching old movies in bed or taking a long soak in the bath, I tweaked an oversized bauble and nudged an elaborately wrapped parcel with the tip of my foot.

My brother’s present is still on the coffee table, sans a personalised label and decorative bow. I should have posted it last week, but something stopped me from buying stamps.

Reaching for the permanent marker on the windowsill, uncapping it with my teeth, I picked up his gift with clumsy hands and scribbled his name on the matte gold wrapper, then signed it from his favourite sibling, followed by a lopsided love heart.

Now, eerie silence.

No excitement.

No music.

No Benjamin.

No Carter.

It’s never too late to right a wrong.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Emma

Inside the main bedroom, I eyed the huge pile of deliveries on the floor by the window. I had signed for them two weeks ago when the delivery guy pounded on my front door to dump the world’s largest order on my doorstep.

It took twenty-five minutes to convey everything inside. I had broken a sweat and lost my breath whilst stacking everything in neat piles.

Big Guy paid for my new wardrobe. I had been excited to unbox shoes and accessories prior to the staggering bombshell Alice Montgomery had dropped on my head.

Great. Now, I have depressing thoughts of them playing happy families together.

That’s not the image I wanted.

Don’t get me wrong. I adored Little Guy, and the new baby is a blessing, regardless of how sad I felt. I just wish the circumstances were different.

I am sure, in due time, days and months will provide moments of healing and clarity. I will get over this low-spiritedness eating away at me.

Hell, I might even meet the new baby someday, all doe-eyed and broody. But right now, I have no more love to give because my love is reserved for my son, who is out there somewhere, waiting for me to save him.

Big Guy’s thoughtful gesture left a bad taste in my mouth. He spent money on someone when a pregnant woman waited for him at home, so I cannot accept his generosity. It would be morally wrong and greatly expectant. I had to return the items and process a refund to his bank account.

Flinging open the wardrobe doors, I yanked an old pair of faded jeans off the hanger and a cable knit jumper. I had only just pulled the T-shirt over my head when something crunched under my foot.

Honestly, I died inside. If I look down and see a series of dismemberments on the floor, I will throw myself out the window.

Taking a generous step back, I braved the sight in front of me. Not a dead, bloodied animal. A torn parcel. I accidentally put my foot through the box.

A sigh of relief whispered through my lips.

Kneeling to assess the damage, I turned the parcel over and felt a soft brush of fabric on the back of my hand.

I should have retaped the box and stored it with the other gifts, but curiosity got the better of me.

Ripping through the damaged seal, I shook the contents until a black suspender set fell onto my lap. An array of lace thongs and crotchless lingerie soon came into my possession.

“God,” I whispered, touching the delicate fabrics with the tips of my fingers. It’s the opposite of what I normally wear. I opted for comfort, albeit unsightly cotton underwear.

My cheeks heated as I imagined myself in tight-fitted waspies. I nearly tried everything on to see if sexy lingerie was something I could pull off.

“Enjoy your free gift,” I read the shop’s generic card, then unpacked the silicone pebble massager. It was small, almost the size of my palm, and had a variety of buttons.

Unsure of what to expect, I clicked on the settings. A low hum vibrated on my skin, sending a pleasurable shockwave down my arm.

I finished reading the description to understand the purpose of such gimmicks. The tapered tip targeted sensitive areas, and the gentle massager heightened arousal.

Okay, I had a free vibrator to explore erogenous zones and increase feelings of sexual pleasure.

If I weren’t debating whether to venture beyond the flat on this cold, wintery evening, I’d be tempted to experiment.

Sure, I have masturbated to release sexual tension and push stress from my mind to leave me in a meditative state. Masturbatory business is the best sleep technique. However, I have never trialled sex toys before. That’s uncharted territory for an ex-celibate.

I returned the discreet bullet-sized vibrator to the box and stuffed it in the bedside table’s drawer. It might come in handy in the future.

Now, with one gift open, I had to see what was inside the shiny black box. It was medium in size and had gold writing on the front.

I broke the seal, popped the lid to one side, and brushed semi-transparent tissue paper out of the way. A black, ultra-seductive dress sat at the bottom. The luxuriously soft fabric, set between two delicately thin straps, had a V-shaped corset to accentuate the female waistline. Attached to an asymmetric midi skirt that gathered dramatically on one side, the satin material revealed the right amount of skin, promising the perfect attire for a dinner date.

The next gift had Giuseppe Zanotti emblazoned across the box and a pair of black high heel shoes with gold embellishments.

Both items paired together flawlessly. I had never seen such beautiful textiles and materials before, let alone touched them. And, technically, they belonged to me. I owned the underwear, the dress and the shoes.

Only Big Guy is responsible for refinement. He paid for everything, from the underwear to the cocktail dresses to the shoes and the incomparable accessories.

I told myself to repackage the items and change into the faded jeans hurled across the floor, to tuck myself into the cable knit jumper and throw on some old ankle boots.

But then, rebelliousness kicked in. My moral compass went out the window. I stripped into my birthday suit, shimmied into black lace underwear and carefully slipped into the dress. It was the right size, sticking to my body like a second skin. I felt exposed but beautiful.

Bending over at the waist, I sprayed my hair with Moroccan sea salt to give myself the undone look, letting tresses fall to the side and over one shoulder.

Hands roaming the curves of my body, I caught my reflection in the free-standing mirror.

The last time I wore a dress this daring, I ended up on my back with a monster on top of me, wrenching my legs apart, tearing my clothes into shreds, ripping my heart out of my chest and leaving it on the cold floor with fallen leaves.

My breath trembled.

Adding a light layer of foundation to my face, I went for a natural, inconspicuous image with a dusting of blusher and highlighter: Mascara and tinted lip balm.

I glared at the shoes as if they posed a threat. Six-inch heels are a death trap waiting to happen.

Convinced I would have a broken neck by the end of the night, I sat on the edge of the bed, slid my feet into the shoes and clasped the side straps.

Then, with a vote of confidence, I stood, wobbling at the knees. My arms automatically shot out to the side for balance. I daren’t move or blink. I cannot maintain an equilibrium state if I think too hard.

Exhaling the breath determined to stay hostage in my throat, I found my stance between the wardrobe and the vanity table.

Now, I had to walk in a straight line without the police assuming I was three sheets to the wind.

I predicted six nose-dives to the floor and a broken nose before I even made it out of the apartment complex.

I had to act now, or else I will change my mind and curl up in bed for the remainder of Christmas, overeating food and drinking in pitiful self-loathing.

With a matching clutch bag tucked under my arm, I grabbed the light jacket thrown on the bed and the front door key on the sideboard in the hallway, double-checked my reflection on the wall-mounted mirror and headed for the outside world.

Terrence is in the foyer smoking a cigarette by the opened window. His eyebrow lifted in greeting when I stepped onto the welcome mat.

“Miss Emma.” He blew out halos of smoke. “Shit. You look good enough to eat.”

I felt a slight ruddiness on my cheeks. “Is it too short?”

“No, the dress is good.” His appreciative eyes lingered on my bare legs. “Really good, actually.”

I can do this, I thought. It’s not too difficult. One foot in front of the other. A not-so-simple black dress for a night out. Not all men are licentious monsters with bad intentions.

I wore an insipid smile. “Thank you, Terrence.”

“I have to inform Command.” He threw the half-smoked cigarette out the window, wafting smoke from his face. “He might show up.”

“What? Why?” My brows met in the middle. “I go out all the time. Why is tonight any different? Plus, it’s Christmas. He is probably spending the night with the family. It’s best to leave him undisturbed.”

Terrence looked conflicted. “I have to ask. Are you going on a date?”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“If so, I must instruct you to go back inside and change, preferably into pyjamas.” Terrence stood tall, in a wide stance, with arms folded over his muscular chest and leather shoes turned slightly inward. “Unless you want Mr Hugo to die tonight.”

I put a hand on my hip. “What does Hugo have to do with anything?”

“You spend a lot of time with Mr Hugo.” His expression was utterly unreadable. “The boss doesn’t like it.”

Well, I don’t particularly like that his boss lives with his baby’s mother, but that’s a story for a different day.

“Hugo is my friend.” And I only see him every other day. He doesn’t pick me up from work anymore, not since Terrence became the chaperoned driver, but he will swing by the flat most evenings with takeout and movie suggestions. “Besides, what I do in my spare time is none of that man’s business. He has no say in who I choose to befriend, not after the lies he’s told.” My hand threw up in exasperation. “Hell, even if he hadn’t kept secrets from me, controlling every aspect of my life is unacceptable. I never signed up for a possessive…boyfriend.”

Terrence’s jaw steeled.

“So, no. I will not change. I haven’t worn a dress in, like, ten years. It’s a decision I did not make lightly. If you’d have told me last month that I’d be standing here now, wearing something this revealing, I’d have laughed at you.” Willing myself to calm down, to take a breather, I composed myself. “I have presents by the tree. Can you help me to carry them to the car? If I try to juggle everything by myself, I might fall down the stairs.”

“Of course, Miss Emma.” Terrence knew not to argue with an emotional woman. “You wait here. I can carry the bags.”

Terrence took the key I proffered, unlocked the front door and headed inside the flat to grab the presents under the tree.

My bodyguard never uttered a word during our short walk to the parked Bentley, which is not unusual. He isn’t the most sociable person I have met. He is uncharacteristically morose, though, as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

I played with the cluster of silver vintage rings on my fingers, the stones a melange of amazonite, chrysocolla and apatite. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, Miss Emma.” Terrence packed the presents inside the boot, careful not to break or damage anything, and then he fell behind the steering wheel with a regretful sigh, the road before him lost in transition. “Let’s get this night over with. You better hope I do not lose my fucking job.”

I flinched at the man’s curtness.

Terrence tended to blow hot and cold. If you caught him on agoodday, he was a pleasure to be around; however, if you caught him on abadday, he was the worst company, borderline insufferable.

Tonight is the latter. I am better off staying in mute silence on one side of the car. If I breathed too heavily, he might threaten to make me walk while he trailed behind me in the car.

Split personality disorder came to mind.

Frankly, I preferred happy-go-lucky Terrence. He is kind, chivalrous, funny, extraverted and approachable. He is the guy who will come inside my flat in the morning to make himself a cup of coffee and offer to help with laundry whilst I get ready for work. If he is too cold outside, he will spend the evening in the living room, scarfing down popcorn kernels and watching comedy movies. He never stayed overnight, though. His station outside, guarding the perimeters, is his utmost priority. His job.

I don’t like having a bodyguard. I don’t hate it, either. I am indifferent, I guess. He is a familiar face in the morning, so that’s something. But his assignment is unproductive and useless nowadays. He was assigned to the apartment complex to repel predators. If the intruder returned, he’d be readily available to detain and interrogate.

Only, the intruder disappeared like a ghostly apparition after the syndicate overturned the flat and catechised every resident in the building. My son’s bedroom door is never shut. My belongings are never moved. My home is untampered and free of sin.

Maybe I had imagined the entire ordeal.

Big Guy is right.

Grief triggered hallucinations. My mind played tricks on me. I saw things that weren’t really there.

How foolish I must have looked in the eye of the brothers. I bet they had a good old laugh when they left. They probably advised their boss to have someone escort me to the mental asylum.

Terrence is texting someone on the phone. When I glanced at the screen, I recognised the number.

“Let me guess.” My back slid down the heated leather passenger seat to get more comfortable. “I am to return to my room.”

My bodyguard smirked as his thumbs pounded on the brightly lit screen. “Something like that.”

Thoughts of Brad Jones took over. For some odd reason, the initial encounter crossed my mind. I had just dropped Carter at the school gates and sped home to help Ben in the cafe. I drove too fast, panicking over the time and the staff shortage.

I did not anticipate soaking a community service worker in the alleyway. I went straight through a dirty puddle with the impatience and aggressiveness of a questionable driver.

Had I adhered to the speed limit, I’d have saved both of us the humiliation of imprudence.

But then, if it weren’t for reckless driving, I’d have never gotten out of the car to apologise to him, to introduce myself and offer the free shit-tasting coffee he pretended to hate.

If I hadn’t smashed into a wheelie bin, knocking rubbish all over the floor, he’d have never come into the cafe to chastise me.

I’d have never had the opportunity to overcharge him for two slices of cake from the delicatessen counter.

I’d have never befriended the man who, brazenly and unapologetically, told me that he dumped his supervision officer in the dumpster-right before he asked if I still wanted to be friends.

Smiling to myself, I reminisced about the day I sat on the window ledge in my old flat, taking pictures of the world beyond the living room window.

Big Guy scrubbed graffiti off the brick wall whilst I captured his microexpression. He caught me, not that the lens fazed him. He had the gall to smile, throw me the middle finger and alternately flex his pecs instead.

“What’s your story?”

“You’re the photographer. You tell me.”

How did it happen?

Where did our friendship begin and end?

“In case our ‘maybe’ brunch comes to fruition.” Brad appeared behind the counter, which was strictly prohibited. His back was to the customers when he asked, “You didn’t fall for that cringe-worthy proposition, did you?”

“What are you doing back here?” I stuffed the napkin in my jeans pocket. “Ben will have an aneurysm if he sees you.”

He helped himself to a chocolate muffin. “Fuck Ben.”

“I hope you are going to pay for that.”

“Why?” he asked, chewing morsels of food like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. “How come Hughie Boy got a free muffin?”

“Brad, I am serious. You do not work here. You have to stand on the other side and wait like everyone else.”

Of course, the wind-up merchant never budged.

“I could use coffee,” he hinted, and I pointed to the cafetiere. “Oh, now I have to pour my own beverage. This is slave labour.”

He is such a drama queen.

“So, did you?” He poured black coffee into a ceramic mug. “Fall for that, I mean.”

I never cared for Hugo’s cheesy pickup lines. He is a sweet guy, the perfect catch for any female, but I never felt that spark or butterflies whenever he entered a room. We had zero chemistry.

“Hey.” I slid onto the cold, wet floor next to Brad in the alleyway. “You know it’s raining, right?” Worrying about my new friend, I hiked my knees to my chest and enveloped my shins with my arms. “You look lost.”

Yes, he looked soul-destroyed, tired of life and the cruel world we lived in. His dejectedness did something to my chest. I am not familiar with this side of him, downhearted and thoroughly defeated. He is the life and soul of any party, the jokester in the room, the permanent smile in the corner.

He wiped rain dew off his face. “Yes.”

“And it’s late.” Our shoulders kissed. “As in, it’s dark. Why are you still here? Your team left hours ago.”

His head turned to me. “Are you stalking me, sweetheart?”

“Well, technically, you are outside my place.” My chin lifted as I gazed at the scintillating stars above. “So, who is stalking who?”

He studied the side of my face. “You have nice eyes.”

My stomach tightened.

Did he compliment me?

Yes, I suppose he did.

I never realised it back then. He paid attention to the smallest of details. I often caught him scrutinising me, whether it be the colour of my eyes, the rings on my fingers or the beauty marks on my face and neck.

Maybe friendship was never on the cards for us. Perhaps those initial months prepared us for something far more special-an unexpected love.

“Hey, if it’s any consolation.” I thought of a lie on the spot. “I love sucking cock, too.”

Brad gave me a wicked smirk. “This conversation just got wildly inappropriate.”

Sudden laughter wracked my body. God, the shameless man. He never failed to put a smile on my face. If I weren’t so angry at him, I’d be convinced he is my soulmate.

Terrence grimaced in confusion.

“Sorry,” I said, knowing I must look crazy. “I thought of something funny.”

Shaking his head slightly, he continued to text someone on the phone. Great. He is now telling the boss that I am getting crazier by the minute.

Brad leaned over my body to turn on the lamp. He was bare-chested, sculpted to perfection, and ruggedly handsome. I had to stop myself from reaching up and palming his jaw. I wanted to feel the roughness of his honed cheek on my palm-on my skin. His eyes roved over my face. “Then, what’s the problem?”

I couldn’t look elsewhere. His beautiful, amber-coloured eyes locked on mine. I was trapped. “Are we friends?”

He never replied.

God, I am so nervous. “Are we inebriated enough to excuse possibilities for one night?”

Please, do not reject me.

It’s taken all night for me to buck up the courage to ask him.

He stared, nonplussed. “What are you asking me, sweetheart?”

Why did my tummy flip whenever he called me that?

Resting on my elbows, I shifted beneath him. My neck craned to meet his stoical stare. Without effort or thought, he intimidated me. I swallowed nervousness. “Will you kiss me?”

My eyes closed as I recalled how his hand slid up my stomach to my chest until my cheek rested in his palm. His lips, so soft and unexpected, touched mine.

“A good kiss is a combination of hands.” His finger traced my skin from chin to throat. “And a slow introduction. An overzealous tongue is sloppy and, quite frankly, a huge turn-off.” He swept the pad of his thumb across her lips, and I nodded breathlessly. “Let him lead. You can follow.”

“Sorted.” Terrence’s voice ripped me out of the past. “What’s wrong? You look flustered.”

My face did feel a bit heated. “I am fine.”

“Are you sure?” He turned on the engine in preparation for the unplanned trip. “I am a good listener.”

Do not ask. Do not ask. Do not ask.

Keep your mouth shut and concentrate on the task ahead.

“How is he?” No, I should have stayed quiet. I agreed to walk away for the sake of my sanity. “Is he okay?”

Terrence lit a cigarette, rolling down the driver’s side window. “Command?”

I hated myself at times. “Yes.”

“What’s it to you?” Putting the Bentley in reverse, he grasped the back of my headrest and backed away from two parked vehicles to get onto the main road. “You dumped the fucker.”

I still cared about him.

“Brad is Brad,” he said as if that made an iota of sense. “It will take more than a woman’s rejection to knock him down. Last I checked, he was at Warren Manor celebrating Christmas with his family.” The car sped down the quiet street. “He is fine, Miss Emma. But if you keep playing with his emotions? He might crack. Trust me when I say you do not want to see his dark side. I hear it’s damn ugly.”

That’s a fair argument.

“We lost many brothers recently.” He fed the steering wheel through his hands. “Everyone’s laid low ever since. It’s weird.”

I had numerous questions but kept my curiosity to the bare minimum. “What’s weird?”

“Warren Enterprise.” He flicked cigarette ash out the window. “It’s virtually non-existent.”

“I hope everyone is okay.” It must be awful, losing brothers to the job on a regular basis. “I understand your line of work, but I hate it. You lose people all too often. You shouldn’t have to consider death at such a young age.”

“It is what it is.” His teeth gritted as he worked the muscles in his jaw. “It’s what everyone signed up for: money and blood.” Taking a sharp turn, he drove past a street of private houses. “So, what’s the plan? I need an address.”

I took out my phone. “Can you take me here?”

He glanced at the old text message on the screen. “That’s not Mr Hugo’s place.”

How does Terrence know where Hugo lives? I don’t even know where the man resided. I have never been there. “Tonight is not about Hugo.” My chest is hurting already. “It’s about my brother.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Emma

My brother had moved to one of the most dangerous boroughs in London, the worst on record for violent knife crimes and gang-related murders.

Just last week, six gunmen brutally attacked two young lads near the high street and left them for dead. It was all over the news, the announcement of gangsters fuelled by drugs, weapons and turf wars.

Benjamin chose affordability over security and safety. I will never get a peaceful night’s sleep again because I will be too busy worrying about his well-being until he relocates to a safer neighbourhood.

The vast skyscraper, with bronze wave coiling from the podium to the top of the tower, is a stone’s throw away from East Croydon Station, where youths donned in designer tracksuits loitered by the fast-food truck.

Terrence parked the Bentley three blocks over. He never mentioned why the skyscraper’s car park was of no use to him. But when he pulled a cover made of revolutionary fabrics over the vehicle, protecting the exterior and the private number plate, I figured vandalizers leapt to mind.

The youngsters ordering sweet-smelling burgers to go are unintentionally intimidating. Maybe it’s the black snoods and heavy gold chains, the characteristics of violence, audacious arrogance and fierce defiance. Or perhaps it’s the aggressive ear-cropped chain-collared American bullies paraded like four-legged weapons, barking with malicious intent as people walked on by.

Even with one of London’s burliest bodyguards in tow, I kept my eyes down to avoid the prospect of controversy. It’s unfair to judge, but mobs of obstreperous tormentors frightened the living daylights out of me.

The cold night burrowed into the marrow of my bones as the two of us walked side by side toward the skyscraper. It is snuggle season, fluffy socks, cosy blankets, hot chocolates and wood-burning fires-a good book.

To my surprise, considering the disadvantages of urban living, the high-rise building is aesthetically pleasing. The clean, bright lobby, with an unstaffed reception desk, office-style black benches and sleek, high-gloss furniture, is warm, inviting and of a high standard.

Once we reached the top floor, Terrence left gifts in abundance on the home-sweet-home doormat in front of the paint-peeled door.

“It’s cold,” I mused, rubbing the icy chill from my arms. Not even the petite, double-breasted trench coat repelled frostbite. “Do you want to hang around?”

Terrence declined politely. He told me to have a good night and disappeared down the hall, the systematic sound of inconspicuous footsteps echoing upward. He will wait in the car until later. Hopefully, he came prepared: snacks galore and digital entertainment. He might be in for a long, boring night otherwise.

An endless grind of excessive background noise had my eyes darting in all directions. Flat number seventy-eight had a broken letterbox, the metal plate hanging on by one nail precariously. A crying baby and growling dogs.

Loud arguments belted out of seventy-nine, a war of hurtful words between a man and a woman. Doors slammed, objects shattered and shrieking crescendoed. A domestic dispute as a result of binge drinking, it would seem.

The top floor is a stark contrast to the lobby. I thought the skyscraper was a rare treasure until rowdy tenants exposed themselves. Trust my brother to align himself with craziness. I doubt he slept without disturbance here.

Another bang, smash, wallop echoed in flat seventy-nine, followed by an explosive burst of profanities and incoherencies. The man, whoever he may be, threatened to leave his wife and take their children with him. Her revolting, stomach-churning response is unutterable.

Merry Christmas, I thought, as the scent of marijuana crawled beneath the door and whirled to my nose. Good Lord. I will be stoned in no time. Kush had never smelt so strong, so good.

Predicting more arguments or a mass supply of throwing knives, I stared at the door numbered eighty with an anticipatory breath. I heard indistinct conversations inside, a combination of men and women.

This moment, circumvented by fear and anxiety, is easily attainable. I could choose the easy option, free of explanations and responsibilities, turn around, walk back to the car and vanish into the night. Or, I can embark on the hard path and face the consequences of my actions once and for all.

Giving my head an imperceptible shake to unload disconcerting thoughts, I brushed a strand of hair out of my eye, raised my fist hesitantly and rapped the door with whitened knuckles.

There is no going back now.

Although laughter escalated inside the flat, as if people were too preoccupied to hear someone knocking on the door, I detected one set of footsteps rushing to greet an unexpected visitor.

When the lock clicked out of place, and the door slowly creaked open, I drew in a ragged breath and prepared myself for the worst.

My twin loved me with every molecule in his body. It’s been us against everything and anything since we entered the world together. But after months of rejection, he earned the right to be angry, to berate me and slam the door in my face.

However, Benjamin is not the person to meet and greet. Ethan, wearing a gaudy Christmas jumper and over-elaborate reindeer antlers, is by the threshold. His jaw quite literally hit the floor when our eyes met. He stared penetratingly, with brows elevated and lips compressed.

I smiled at him.

“Emma?” Placing the beer bottle on the half-stocked bookshelf in the flat, he stepped into the hallway, wary at first, dodged the presents on the floor and approached me. “You are here.”

My face is ablush with apprehension.

“Who is here?” The door opened wider to reveal fiery red hair and sky-blue eyes. Quinn looked at him, then shot me a double take. “Emma?”

I gave her a meek wave.

“Oh, God.” Quinn, in a beautiful, sequinned dress and high-heeled shoes, put a hand to her mouth. “It’s really you.”

My lips quivered. “Can you make room for one more?”

“Do you even have to ask?” Quinn squealed, throwing herself at me for a loving hug. I should have been prepared for the unbreathable squeeze. Her arms strangled the life out of me. “I missed you so much.”

Staring at the ceiling, I blinked back the tears promising to slide down my cheeks, patting her back with the palm of my hand. “I thought you’d be mad at me.”

“How can I be mad?” Her head tilted back so that she could look at me. “You are my best friend.”

And I abandoned you. “I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologise for.” Wyatt came into the fold with a wide smile. His arms welcomed me for a short-lived hug. Even in high heels, I strained to embrace tall people. “It’s good to have you back.”

“Yeah, it’s been too quiet without you.” Ethan’s hand batted back and forth to dismiss reservations. “I hope there is a gift for me in that pile.”

“As if I could leave you out.” Handing out navy-coloured gift bags for the lads, I picked up the white and gold box for Quinn. “For you, Madame.”

“It’s heavy.” Her cheerfulness waded through the halls. “You know I have to open this now, right?”

I expected no less.

Quinn tore into the present. “Oh, Em.” Her glassy eyes brightened upon seeing the professional hairdressing scissor set. “This is amazing. But you shouldn’t have spent so much. I’d have been happy with a box of chocolates.”

“You mentioned a new job,” I said, recalling the morning she sat outside my front door, discussing an apprenticeship for hairdressing. “Every aspiring stylist needs a kitbag.”

Quinn held the rose gold bag to her chest devotedly. “You heard me,” she whispered, and I nodded, not trusting myself to admit fault without crying my bloody eyes out. “That makes me feel so much better.”

Convinced I had misheard, I frowned in confusion. “It does?”

“Hell, yes.” Her gaze swept over the others. “I honestly thought I was talking to myself during each visit. Your neighbours think I am crazy, by the way. The nice-looking fellow upstairs thinks I see dead people. He said as much when he came back from the store once.”

I am not familiar with the neighbours in my building. “Well, I listened to everything you had to say. I just…” My heart thumped at a maddening pace. “I wasn’t ready to face you.”

Quinn understood.

“What’s going on?” My brother’s deep, baritone voice stole the oxygen from my lungs. It felt like someone’s hand had speared down my throat to obtain my heart. “Is it the booze guy?”

My anxiety skyrocketed. I recognised the early signs of a panic attack and breathed slowly, deeply and gently to overcome it. Each in-breath and out-breath hurt my chest as violent tremors developed.

From the corner of my eye, I see his shadow come out of the flat. I did not possess the ability to speak. My speech, which I had worked on for weeks, got lost in the darkest recess of my mind.

“How much do I owe you?” Benjamin’s head was down as he counted the money in the leather wallet. “You charge extra for Christmas Day delivery service, huh?”

All sounds filtered into the abyss.

My brother.

My twin.

My best friend.

He is right there, close enough to touch. I had thought about this encounter a lot over the last few months. Would he be sad? Happy? Angry? Bitter? Would he yell at me for giving him the silent treatment or forgive and forget and wipe the slate clean? I prayed for the latter. But, now that I am within reach, I feared the worst possible outcome: dismissal. It’s only what I deserved.

I loved Quinn, Ethan and Wyatt. And I appreciated them for being so understanding. But Benjamin’s approval mattered the most. Without his support and consideration, I had no reason to be here.

“Eighty-five, right?” Benjamin’s eyes, piercing and inquisitorial, lifted, and when our gazes crashed, green to green, twin to twin, the wallet in his hand dropped to the floor. His shoulders, which had been hunched forward, pushed back in a strong, confident posture, and his chin insolently raised as if I were beneath him. “You.”

My lips parted to speak, but the tension in my jaw impacted my speech. I always teased him for being the delicate twin. Yet, at that terrifying moment, I felt like the youngest, the feeblest. The most vulnerable. The weakest link.

Quinn, Ethan and Wyatt collected the bags of presents on the floor and went back inside the flat to give us some privacy. Not one of them looked back or pried into family affairs.

I waited for the door to click shut behind them. Only then could I brave the storm of Benjamin’s wrath. “I had all this stuff I wanted to say…” Tear-inducing thoughts reverberated in my skull. “Like, how much of a selfish idiot I am and how I have no right to come to you…”

Benjamin’s cold expression and hard eyes felt like a sucker punch to the stomach. I never expected a hearty, hospitable greeting, but I thought, for better or worse, he’d engage in conversation.

Neither of us moved a muscle. The unsolved conflicts between us were an additional yet unnecessary stressor. It is particularly painful to maintain eye contact with someone so unforthcoming and detached.

This might be a wasted journey without a heartfelt discussion. Negative attention is better than no attention, though. I’d rather have a Rogerian argument than a vow of silence. If the breakdown in our relationship is irreparable, he had to meet me halfway to sever ties.

My brother’s shadow fell over me. He said nothing. Not a word. His eyes, although squint and misty, stared right through me like I was the enemy.

“I am the worst person,” I prattled on extemporaneously. “I should have been there for you. I should have-” Two strong arms locked around my waist and swept me off my feet in one breath-snatching movement. I barely had time to register the heat caging my body or the muffled cries of a broken man.

A hug. A huge, brotherly hug.

Benjamin did not need an explanation.

He just needed his sister.

Fingers splaying across the top of his back, I burst into tears, feeling this strange rush of relief as I fell into the safety of his arms.

Fear, dread and sadness dissipated as happiness slowly filled the void in my chest. I never realised how much I had missed him until this moment.

Crying on his shoulder is the cathartic release that expelled emotions provided. Each tear helped the soul to heal. I clung to him for dear life, the act of sadness exposing weaknesses and vulnerabilities.

If Benjamin’s arms squeezed any tighter, I’d have a broken back. His embrace is firm, strong and inescapable. He refused to let go. The thought of us separating was too terrifying.

“Us,” he rasped in my ear. “It’s always been us.”

“Yes.” I never released him. I wanted to hold him forever. “Two peas in a pod.”

“Buy one, get one free,” he joked, and I laughed with happy tears. “You know, I woke up this morning and thought, I wonder if my sister will stop by later. I mean, it would suck if she didn’t. So, I made a strawberry and elderflower gateaux in good faith.” A tear that did not belong to me fell on my shoulder. “You love strawberries.”

He could make the worst-rated dessert on the planet, and I would still eat it because I am his number one fan. I follow his culinary journey dedicatedly. “Yes.”

“You have lost weight.” He wiped the moisture from his red-rimmed eyes. “I don’t like it.”

“You have a grizzly beard,” I pointed to the ungroomed facial hair and medium-length messy hair. “I hate it.”

“Yeah, well, you did something different to your hair.” He tugged a strand of my hair. “I am not a fan.”

“You smell like expensive aftershave.” Truthfully, the masculine fragrance suited him. “I disapprove.”

“Says the woman sporting designer labels.” Holding my hand in the air, he twirled me around to get a better look at my new wardrobe. “Got yourself a sugar daddy, huh?”

“As if.” I shoved him in the chest. “He is a young, handsome businessman, actually. And he’s not my sugar daddy.” My heart burrowed deeper into my chest. “We separated recently.”

“That’s a shame.” Benjamin never asked for all the gory details. “Jones is a nice guy. He’d have taken care of you.”

“You approved?” My brow arched in puzzlement. “When did that happen? You once told me to stay away from him.”

“He’s not so bad once you get to know him.” My brother collected our scattered belongings on the floor. “Shit, I missed you.” He slid cosmetics back into the clutch bag and handed it back to me. “We got so much to talk about. But not today. I want a stress-free Christmas. Tomorrow, we can sit down and put everything on the table. Are you good with that?”

I will take whatever I can get. “Of course.”

“You know, when I texted my new address and mentioned dinner, I didn’t think you’d actually come over.” His hand paused the door handle. “I made dauphinoise potatoes. You have to share with the others, though. I know you will eat the entire dish if I allow it.”

“You can hardly blame me.” Smiling achingly, I followed him inside the small yet uncluttered flat. His place is bright, with a basic reception room adjacent to the modern kitchen and breath-taking views of London. I noticed empty bottles of rum in the bookcase, hidden behind numerous paperback books, as if he didn’t want everyone to know that he relied on alcohol to unwind in the evening. “You are the best chef in town.”

“I am not too shabby,” he replied with a self-approving smirk. “That’s Poppy.” He meant the short girl with a jet-black pixie haircut by the balcony doors smoking a cigarette. Her mini dress with cut-out designs all over the body left little to the imagination. Luckily, she had the perfect figure to pull it off. “She is with Ethan. They met last week.” His mouth moved like a ventriloquist. “I don’t know how long their relationship will last. You know what Ethan is like with women.”

My brother’s arm is draped over my shoulders, the gifted leather bracelet from his nephew tied around his wrist. I leaned into his side and gave his chest a gentle tap. “Ethan can never have enough women.”

“Right?” His voice was low, for my ears only. “It will be someone else next month.”

The extendable table, bedecked with dinnerware, silver cutlery and unlit candles, sat between the kitchen and the living room. The centrepiece featured jewelled garlands, light-up orbs and metallic magnolias. Solid wood placemats matched rugged coasters and natural jute twine, with sprigs of eucalyptus and stalks of wheat, bundled white napkins.

The seven-foot Christmas tree, with metallic leaf accents, faux berries, frosted branches, textural ornaments and a starburst topper, is the centre of attention. It is so artistic, magical and, quite frankly, eyebrow-raising.

Benjamin took the hands-on approach to everything in life, but decorating is not his strong point. He got more emulsion on the floor when painting the ceiling and damaged the wallpaper when trying to hang it.

If I left him unattended to accessorise the Christmas tree, I’d come back and find two out of innumerable branches clustered with baubles and fairy lights mantled grotesquely.

I don’t believe for one second that Benjamin channelled his inner artist. Someone must have helped. There is even a tuft of mistletoe above the front door. My brother hated mistletoe. He hated the super citrusy smell of dried oranges, too, yet there was a bundle of orange slices fixed to the cinnamon-laden wreath on the back of the door.

Interesting.

Quinn passed around glasses of champagne and fancy-looking canapés: serrano-wrapped pear with goat’s cheese, mini mushroom and gorgonzola bites.

“I got you a present, but I left it at the flat because I didn’t think you’d show…” Ethan’s mouth snapped shut when my brother shot him a scathing glare. “It’s only a jumper. You will probably hate it.”

“Well, I had a feeling you’d smell Ben’s cooking and appear, so I came prepared.” Smiling like a Cheshire cat, Quinn slapped a rectangular-shaped parcel onto my palm. “You can open it now or later.”

Thanking her for the gift, I tucked it inside the clutch bag for later.

Everyone is subtly watching me, which is a little overwhelming and unnerving. I don’t think I can withstand the enthusiasm in their eyes as I unwrapped parcels with feigned ebullience.

“Let’s make a toast.” Benjamin tipped his champagne glass. “To ‘making memories with some of my favourite people.’” A ghost of a smile touched the edge of his lips. “Forget the bad days and remember the good days.”

I felt a twinge in my chest.

“Celebrate new beginnings,’” Quinn added with a tentative smile. “And wishing you all the love and happiness in the world.”

Wyatt swallowed champagne in one mouthful. “Amen to that.”

“We should create our own traditions.” Ethan’s backside perched onto the arm of the sofa. “Like handmade Christmas cards.”

My brother pulled a face.

“A Christmas jumper party?” Quinn suggested, and Ethan gestured to his ostentatious outfit. “Oh, I know! Message in a bottle.” She swung open the kitchen cabinet doors in search of something. “Here!” Holding up an empty Mason Jar, she fossicked through the drawer for paper and pens. “We can write one small note to the person of our choice. Then, next Christmas, we can read them to each other.”

Ethan adjusted the reindeer antlers on his head. “That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard.”

“Do not be a Scrooge.” Poppy accepted a sheet of paper and a pen. “I think it’s a great idea.”

“For what purpose?” Wyatt scribbled something unreadable onto a torn piece of paper, then dumped it in the jar for next year. “And what happens once someone’s read them out?”

“We can put them in the bin and write new ones for the following year.” Quinn leaned on the coffee table to write her note. “Is it pathetic that I want to know what everyone has written?”

“Yes.” Ethan’s note is also illegible. “But I feel the same way, so no judgement.”

Clicking the top of a pen, I wrote a small message on the paper.

Carter,

If I could have anything in the world, it would be you.

Merry Christmas, Baby.

Folding the paper in half, I stuffed it in the jar of notes for next year, then headed to the kitchen for a champagne refill.

“What about you, Em?” Wyatt asked, and I must have made a face because he explained further. “Did you ever catch ‘Santa’ in the house growing up? I remember walking in on my dad, eating the cookies on the tray one Christmas Eve. It was the worst night of my life. I knew that my whole childhood was a lie. There is no fat man in a red suit or flying reindeer. It’s just my old man after a few beers.”

My lips meshed together. “We never stuck to festive traditions. Well, I mean, not in the literal sense. We had, like, two presents each on Christmas morning?” I glanced at Benjamin for validation. “We never had stockings or decorated trees. Santa was non-existent in our household.”

“Yeah, our family, alongside other Latter-Day Saints, gathered for a live re-enactment of the nativity scene.” Benjamin smiled at Quinn when she sat next to him on the sofa. “Basically, we didn’t celebrate Christmas. We celebrated the birth of Jesus.”

“Which is the same for most religious denominations.” I became defensive of our family, specifically the siblings who had no say in the matter. “Except our parents are fundamentalists with old-fashioned values.”

“Their self-righteous authoritarianism is what ripped our family apart.” Benjamin smiled faintly at the others. “Hey, it’s all good. We got out of that hellhole. Buying an eight-foot Christmas tree and a pack of cheap baubles is the first thing Emma did when shopping for new furniture.”

I laughed at the memory of us rushing through the high street to find advent calendars. “Yes, I went overboard.”

“Your parents sound like a bunch of morons.” Quinn recapped the Mason Jar and left it on the floating shelf. Then, detecting a burning smell in the air, her nose twitched. “What died?”

“Shit.” Benjamin shouldered past me to get to the cooker. “I almost forgot about the turkey.” He used a chequered tea towel to extract the oven tray, placing the perfectly cooked turkey with sage and onion stuffing onto the kitchen counter. “Piss off, Wyatt,” he scolded, and Wyatt stepped back with hands raised in mock apology. “You have to wait until later, like the rest of us.”

“That looks so good.” Carter is practically drooling from the mouth, watching with saucer-shaped eyes as his uncle carries the basted turkey crown to the table. “I have to eat it now.”

“No.” Ben moved around the small kitchen. “You have to wait until later, like the rest of us.”

“But I don’t want to wait.” Carter collapsed on the rickety wooden chair, staring at the cooked meat like he hadn’t eaten in aeons. In a strop, he picked up the wooden spoon and drummed it against the table. “I am hungry.”

Ben placed cartons of juice on the kitchen counter. “You are always hungry.”

“I know.” Carter, repositioned on his knees, flattened two hands on the table to glare at his uncle. “That’s because you don’t feed me enough!”

“Liar.” My brother poured three glasses of ice-topped orange juice. “You ate jam on toast merely three hours ago.”

“But that’s a turkey.” Carter is still looking at the meat like a starved human. “A turkey, Uncle Ben. You have to feed me.”

“Uncle Ben has to finish the vegetables,” I intervened before my brother lost his cool. “Hey, why don’t we go in the living room and play with one of your new toys?” Helping Carter down from the chair, I settled his two feet onto the floor. “He can finish dinner in peace.”

Carter is silent for a couple of seconds. “But I don’t want to play with toys.”

Wyatt tossed a stuffing ball in his mouth and ran for his life. “I already licked it.”

“Piece of shit.” Ben whipped a tea towel over his shoulder. “That’s fine. Choke for all I care.”

Smiles.

Laughter.

All eyes on me.

An incessant ringing deafened my ears. I had been holding my breath involuntarily, so when the air trapped in my chest, I choked, coughing and spluttering. My lungs and windpipe burned, the sudden shortness of oxygen triggering light-headedness.

“Em?” Quinn’s hand touched the small of my back. “Are you okay? Here.” She thrust a glass of orange juice into my hand and encouraged me to take a sip. “Wash it down.”

Gulping juice greedily, I wiped liquid off my chin, leaving the empty glass on the counter. I know if I look up, they will be staring.

“It’s hot in here,” I lied, and Benjamin told Ethan to open the balcony door fully to generate a cold breeze. “Can I take off my jacket?”

“Why are you asking?” My brother took my jacket and hung it on the wrought iron coat rack. “My home is your home, Em. Kick back and relax.” Then, with a reassuring smile, he placed a champagne flute in my hand. “Merry Christmas.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Emma

Benjamin served the Banquet of Champions. Mouth-watering delicacies and sweet-tasting desserts ran along the lines of unabashed gluttony and lashings of sin: sumptuous lobster and prawn salad, a turkey roast with all the trimmings and the rich and bubbly combination of wine and cheese.

I had imbibed an entire bottle of white wine in excess. If truth be told, I am half-cut and slightly distorted (weakened eye-muscle coordination proved it).

I should have quashed alcohol consumption hours ago and opted for ice water, but the mood-altering depressant slowing reaction time is not the worst cure for severe despondency.

Recently, along with early morning runs in the barren park, I have learned that alcohol is a temporary escape from mental agony and a whole range of feelings I did not want to experience. I pour it on recent problems to extinguish the fire of pain and misery until I detach from the memory of what happened on the day of Carter’s disappearance when I traded motherhood for bereavement because an evil force decided to take my son away and ruin my life.

With alcohol in my bloodstream, suppressing emotional pain and illogical thoughts of him walking into the room with a huge smile on his face and a brand-new model car tucked under his arm, I can get through the rest of the night without sending myself into a meltdown.

I looked across the table of high-spirited dinner guests, hoping to see him looking back at me. My brain is still trying to process the finality of his vanishment.

Sometimes, if I drink enough to numb the pain and the presence of him, if I close my eyes and explore the subconscious mind, I can hear the innocent chuckle of a happy little boy.

I suppose optimism is a comforting improvement. I used to consider the worst: starvation, torture, torment and abuse. Not anymore. Those gut-wrenching thoughts sailed along with practicality and perceptiveness. Now, I reflect on the good times instead. Happy memories that I will cherish forever.

Benjamin had barely touched his dinner, which is quite normal. He lost his appetite during meal preparation because his senses had already consumed every dish. Plus, he taste-tested whilst cooking to check food quality and seasoning. All those morsels satiated hunger.

Carter used to sit next to my brother and mirror his dining etiquette. If Benjamin used a knife and fork to carve meat, Carter fumbled with a knife and fork andattemptedto slice meat. If Benjamin sipped fizz and dabbed his lips with a disposable napkin, Carter slurped a watermelon crush mocktail and wiped his pout with a scrunched-up napkin.

Even when Carter grew taller and adopted an attitude problem, he looked up to Uncle Ben. He imitated the most influential male in his life: mimicking gestures, internalising words and facial expressions.

Benjamin set the standard of masculinity. He taught Carter to be a team player, polite and respectful and to take responsibility for his actions. To look after his family and be kind to himself and others. He told him it was okay to cry and show emotions just as long as he got back up and wiped his tears. He showed him the most important qualities of a decent man. A good role model. A strong father figure.

Looking up, I locked eyes with my brother. Benjamin stared openly at me beneath firmly furrowed eyebrows, an unvoiced question on the tip of his tongue. He knew something was wrong. He sensed it. Twintuiton.

Giving him a reassuring smile, I reached for the wine bottle and refilled the empty glass with bubbles of liquid confidence.

“It happened once!” Wyatt’s face is red-raw with spots of humiliation. “Ethan, I have embarrassing stories about you, too. Think about that before you speak again.”

Poppy is reluctant to eat anymore. I think the topic of untreated erectile dysfunctions and hypoactive sexual desire disorders might be the reason for sudden food aversion.

“Do your worst.” Ethan delved into his second portion of beef Wellington and sautéed asparagus spears with zealous passion. “I am made of strong armour.”

“What about her?” Wyatt, with a playful, puckish glint in his eye, glared at Poppy from across the table. “Is she made of steel and shit?”

“You don’t scare easily, do you, doll?” In a hubristic attempt to manipulate Poppy, Ethan placed a hand on her knee, his fingers stroking her pale flesh tenderly. “You can handle me at my worst.”

“That depends.” Poppy had the subtlest tinge of pink on her blusher-dusted cheeks. “How bad is it?”

Quinn’s eyes rolled. If she had to listen to this nonsense for five more seconds, she might threaten bloody murder.

Soaking up the idle chit-chat of bizarre individuals, I picked up the glass and spilt the nectar of apples, peaches and apricots down my throat. I might have a newfound love for wine.

“Your guy is into some freaky shit.” Wyatt’s knife and fork slashed through a crispy Yorkshire pudding with roast beef and caramelised onions. “Tell her about Only Fans.”

Ethan’s half-sipped champagne sprayed across the table like projectile vomit. “Wyatt,” he wheezed as everyone else dabbed bubbles off their arms with napkins. “How can you do me like that?”

“Seriously?” Quinn glowered at him with murderous intent. “You just spat germs all over me.”

Poppy’s bated breath came out airily. “You have an account with Only Fans?” And here comes the woman’s mental distress and inconsolable vexation. “You sell sex online.”

“Does a couple of measly masturbation videos qualify as sex?” Ethan did nothing to mollify his disgruntled dinner date. He whetted the appetite as an alternative, devouring roasted vegetables in an unsightly display of mind-boggling gormandising. “Hey, do not cast judgement on someone for earning a living. I lost my job at the cafe. I had to pay bills and keep a roof over my head. It’s easy money.”

Flummoxed by the absurd conversation, I scrutinised the man’s lips bedaubed with over-thickened gravy. He ploughed through dishes with unceremonious haste, not even trying to hide improper table manners. He had never behaved so ungentlemanly, tearing into meat like an uncivilised troglodyte.

Wyatt let out a short, caustic laugh. “I rest my case.”

“You are such a prick.” Ethan’s hand slipped off Poppy’s lap. I suppose if he hadn’t moved it, she’d have stabbed him with a fork. “I made one bad joke about your floppy dick, and you threw me to the wolves.” He guzzled champagne straight from the bottle, savouring the taste of crisp, dry effervescence. “I am officially unfriending you.”

“As if I care,” Wyatt spoke directly to Quinn. “I still haven’t forgiven him for leaving me at the bar two weeks ago. I mean, who does that? Who invites their friends on a night out to ditch them during the first round of shots? And for a bird, I might add. He is lucky I came today. I almost didn’t bother.”

“Oh, don’t say that.” Quinn’s hardened expression softened. “You guys are meant to be friends for life.”

“Whatever.” Ethan jerked an insouciant shoulder. “He is too sensitive for his own good.”

“I am not too sensitive,” Wyatt defended himself. “Dismissing someone’s feelings is an insult, by the way. The word you are looking for isinconsiderate. That would be you, in case you were wondering.”

Ethan is calm. “I was not, but thanks for pointing that out.”

What is going on? Ethan and Wyatt had never bickered over such petty matters or trivial subjects. They normally devised a scheme and teamed up against other people.

“I need to use the ladies’ room.” Poppy tossed a bunched-up napkin on the plate and excused herself from the table.

I might not know the woman, but I still pitied her. Imagine attending an intimate gathering with your new partner, anxious and nervous, only to be humiliated in front of an audience. And to find out, tactlessly, that your new boyfriend uploaded indecent images and masturbation videos online for money.

Hell, if I were Poppy, I’d lock myself in the bathroom and escape through the window. I’d never want to see Ethan again. He chose to air dirty laundry in front of a grandstand of spectators. She deserved to know the truth about his extracurricular activities before agreeing to an exclusive relationship.

Ethan ogled Poppy’s lithe legs as she sauntered down the hallway with the sultriness of Jessica Rabbit. “Do you think it worked?” His quiet, conspicuous tone of voice slammed the brakes on mental musings. “I bet she is in there, thinking of excuses to leave.”

Wait-what? I needed some clarification.

“I think so.” Wyatt leaned back in the chair to glance down the hall. “If she stays after that conversation, I will be shocked.”

“Hold up.” Quinn’s hand is on my brother’s shoulder. “Are you telling me that ridiculous fracas was all an act?”

“Obviously.” Ethan guffawed loudly, forking steamed green beans into his mouth. “My cock is not big enough for Only Fans.”

Benjamin gave me a strange look.

“You pair of asswipes,” Quinn, with bulb-shaped eyes, chastised both men. “Ethan, if you wanted to drop the girl, why invite her to Ben’s for dinner?”

“I don’t remember asking,” Ethan whisper-shouted, rechecking the hall to ensure his lady friend was not looming or ready to pounce. “Look, I bedded her a week ago. The next thing I know, she is on my doorstep, calling me her boyfriend. I haven’t slept since. Like, no offence, she is a pretty girl and all, but I am not ready to settle down.”

My fingers twirled the wine glass’s delicate stem. I did not condone Ethan’s behaviour. He should have told Poppy straight from the get-go. I had second-hand embarrassment for the poor girl.

“Apparently, I invited her to celebrate Christmas with me.” Ethan is undeniably distraught. “I think she is lying. I would remember if I said that.”

I disagreed.

An overconsumption of alcohol affects short-term memory. Here is what really happened. Ethan got blind drunk, invited someone he’d just met home, slept with her, made promises he couldn’t keep and woke up the following morning with a hangover from Hell and moral regrets.

Ethan, under normal conditions, is kind and thoughtful. He probably walked Poppy to the door and kissed her goodbye because he is not the type of man to throw a woman out of bed unchivalrously.

Then, when Poppy left, Ethan swore to himself that he’d never drink again and put the entire night behind him. That is until she showed up again as his unlikely girlfriend. And, rather than be honest about empty promises made when under the influence, he allowed the lies behind the unwanted relationship to get out of hand.

Thus, here we are, in quite a conundrum of whether to laugh or cry. I need more wine for the impending shirt storm.

“Serves you right for reckless drinking.” Quinn sipped orange juice. It’s her fourth glass since I arrived. “You might want to opt for soda water next time.”

Shaking the cobwebs from my head, I refilled the glass with white wine. “No Malibu tonight?”

“Huh?” Quinn belatedly understood the question. “Oh, Malibu. No, I am not drinking tonight. I have to take a course of antibiotics…” Her face was rubicund. “…Ear infection.”

That sounded unpleasant. I had a toothache once, and the pain extended to the jaw, ear and head. I begged my brother to punch me in the face until I passed out because I could no longer bear the discomfort. Benjamin refused, of course, and I had to wait twenty-four hours to see an emergency dentist. A cracked tooth, if you can believe it. That’s the last time I munched on an everlasting gobstopper.

Rubbing the blurriness from my eyes, I polished off wine like it was inexhaustible. Well, I guess it does exist in abundance. I only have to walk to a nearby Bargain Booze to get my hands on the goods-that’s if the store is open. “So, what’s everyone doing with themselves these days?”

“I got a job at the bank.” Wyatt’s cracker made a snapping sound when he pulled it open. A green paper hat fell on his lap. “It’s good money, but I don’t know, guys. I miss the cafe.”

“Same.” Ethan aimed a party popper at the ceiling and uncaged colourful confetti. “I don’t hate the garage, but mechanics is not for me. Heavy lifting and weird positions? It’s tough on my body. I constantly smell like motor oil, too.”

“Well, I love the salon. Watching clients leave in satisfaction is very rewarding.” Quinn poured rum into a glass and slid it across the table for Benjamin. “I have always wanted to be a hairdresser. Losing my job at the cafe is the push I needed.”

I wondered why Quinn tended to Benjamin’s every need. It’s been constant throughout the night. She mentioned in the letter that he’d been in a bad place recently, drinking unreasonable amounts to deal with grief. Maybe it’s become second nature to take care of him. I am glad she is a good friend to him.

“What about you?” Swigging wine like water, I looked at my brother. “Are you in one of those fancy restaurants yet, serving crab and chilli linguine?”

Benjamin smiled lazily. “No.”

“Why not?” Now, with Carter and I out of the picture, he could pursue his dream of being a Michelin Star Chef. “If not career options in a restaurant kitchen, what will you do?”

Ethan noticed Benjamin was reluctant to speak, so he downed tools, leaving the cutlery on the plate to divulge on his friend’s behalf. “Your brother is a Sainsbury’s employee.”

“You work at Sainsbury’s supermarket?” My voice came out soft and hollow. “You are too overqualified for a job like that. Why didn’t you apply to nearby restaurants? Managers are always looking for chefs.”

“I don’t know.” Ben’s arm rested on the back of Quinn’s chair. The small gap between them had closed at some point. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t it?” I swear, if my eyebrows drew any closer, they’d be set in a permanent unibrow. “It’s your dream. Why would you throw it all away?”

“Why did you leave the cameras at our old place?” His lips twitched in a resentful way. “It’s all meaningless, right?”

Yes, everything in life is meaningless without Carter. If I do something I enjoy, like photography, I feel guilty. It eats away at me, reminding me he is gone and I am having fun or stuffing my face with entrées.

Quinn shot to her feet. “Who wants chocolate cake?”

“Ben served the cake already,” Ethan reminded her, then he jumped a mile because his girlfriend, Poppy, had skulked toward the end of the table without any of us noticing. I won’t lie. Her sneakiness is quite creepy. “Oh, hey! You came back. I thought you got lost.”

“My sister called.” Grabbing her coat and handbag off the sofa, she readied herself for a rapid exit. “Her little girl is unwell. I offered to swing by and help.”

“Her little girl.” Benjamin is on his feet now, helping Quinn to clear the table. “Doesn’t that make her your niece?”

Poppy is straight-faced and composed. “Same difference.”

Swiping the wine bottle off the table, I relocated to the sofa and collapsed into the comfortable cushions to dodge an omnishambles. Okay, the short walk disimproved coordination. I almost landed on the floor.

“Ah, that’s a shame.” Ethan escorted Poppy to the door by her elbow. “But hey, it’s all good. You go and check on the family. I will text you later.”

“No, it’s okay.” His soon-to-be ex-girlfriend did not hang around for a goodbye kiss. “I will text you when I am next available.”

Ethan, with a relieved expression, locked the door behind Poppy. He put his ear to the wall, listening to her scurried footsteps as she faded into the background. “I am never drinking tequila again.”

“You are an abomination to society.” Quinn carried three bottles of wine and two cartons of orange juice to the living room and arranged them neatly on the coffee table next to bowls of dry-roasted peanuts. “It comes to something when you have to fabricate stories to end a connection with someone you met on a night out. Drink less. Say less. That should be your motto from now on.”

“Fucking Hell. Alright, Hitler,” Ethan half-heartedly admonished her. “I got the picture. I am an embarrassment to myself. Happy?” He slumped next to me on the sofa, the weight of him sending a ripple of nausea through me. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. We all went on a little field trip to the Jones Estate.”

Big Guy’s handsome face came to mind, and I froze with the wine glass near my lips.

“Your brother got himself a cushty head chef position for the night.” Ethan’s arm is across my shoulders. “He will not brag, but I will do it for him. He killed it, Emma. Killed. It. Your rich friends had a night to remember, thanks to the master of culinary arts.”

Benjamin’s cheeks scorched red.

I set the wine glass on the coffee table. “How did that come about?”

“Your ex-guy-friend organised it.” Benjamin scraped leftover food in the bin. “It was a surprise baby shower for Mrs Warren. Em, I have never seen anything like it before in my life. The house is humongous. Idyllic. I am talking acres upon acres of private land and the type of sports cars you see in James Bond movies. They even had a grand ballroom, for fuck’s sake.”

“Think Beauty and The Beast,” Quinn said with dazzled eyes. “The floor consisted of marble and motif artwork.”

“Glass chandeliers and uniformed waiters.” Wyatt scarfed down a handful of roasted peanuts. “Yeah, The Beast’s enchanted castle is a good comparison.”

Yes, I remembered Bug Guy’s estate quite vividly. There is nothing more rich and powerful than wealth built into a castle. Ultimately, that’s what the estate represented-a truly, breathtaking castle at the pinnacle of extravagant complexes. I never received an extended tour, though. The masculine office and well-equipped gym sufficed.

“And to think, you threw it all away.” Ethan’s titanium-ringed fingers squeezed my shoulder. “That could have been your home someday. Her Lady Emma Jones Lives a Life of Leisure in a Private Estate Owned by Millionaire Tycoon Brad Jones. A happily-ever-after has never looked so…” His finger spun rapidly between us. “So…”

Quinn’s foot tapped the floor impatiently. “Tempting?”

“Obtainable.” Ethan’s stretched-out legs crossed at the ankles. “Em, I don’t know what happened between you two. It’s none of my business. And there is no denying that Jones is a questionable character. I think we can all attest to that. But if you can turn a blind eye for the sake of financial wealth, you should do it. You may never get another opportunity to do so.”

I am not a materialistic person. Affluence does not impress me in the slightest. I looked for chemistry, stability, commitment, honesty and emotional presence in a man. And, selfishly, little baggage. In other words, I cannot handle a relationship with someone who lied by omission and had to compensate for past recklessness.

“Did he pay you?” I asked my brother as he eased onto the sofa opposite me. “Brad, I mean.”

“Obviously.” Benjamin chucked a pack of playing cards onto the coffee table. “In actual fact, he paid over the odds for our services. He didn’t have to do that.” He stared knowingly at me. “He overcompensated for you, I think.”

“Yeah.” Wyatt threw a peanut in the air and caught it in his mouth. “Jones wants to get in your good books.”

“You mean, in her knickers,” Ethan Joshed, and Benjamin’s scowl deepened. “What? It was a joke. Calm down.”

I felt warm inside. I am glad Big Guy looked after my brother, even if it was only for one night. “Well, you finally got your wish to meet Alexa in person.”

“Don’t remind him.” Wyatt pointed the remote at the television to select a different music station. “He gushed about it all night.”

Benjamin’s mouth stuttered. “Wyatt is lying.”

“The only liar around here is you.” Ethan had Wyatt’s back. “Em, your brother has a huge crush on a criminal’s wife.”

Amused, I watched Benjamin intently. “Your face is a bit red.”

“That’s because everyone is talking about me!” He tugged the collar of his long-sleeved jumper. “I do not have a crush. I respect her.”

I laughed.

“Em, come on. You know how much I love documentaries and shit. I have followed that woman’s life story for years.” He shuffled a deck of cards. “Naturally, if given the opportunity, I wanted to meet her someday.”

Alexa’s story is inspiring for other victims and survivors. “So, what did she have to say to you?”

“She thanked me for the dinner service.” He dealt out cards to everyone. “And then,” he added with a smug smile. “Fuck it. I almost mentioned it earlier. She asked if I’d like to attend a head chef interview for the casino.”

“What?” I asked loudly, and everyone flinched. “Do not lie to me, Benjamin Hughes. I will beat the living shit out of you.”

Quinn toyed with the cluster of silver chains around her neck. “You never told me that Alexa asked you to come for an interview.”

“Same,” Ethan said, a tad miffed. “Holding out on us, huh?”

Benjamin topped up his wine glass. “I had to wait for my sister to be here.”

Damn it. I had tears in my eyes. “I am so proud of you.”

“Yeah?” He sucked his upper lip. “Maybe I can get some of those stars for the casino.”

“And someday, you will own a five-star restaurant and earn the culinary world’s top awards for yourself.” I know he will do it. I believed in him. “But for now, the casino is a step in the right direction.”

“Fingers crossed.” Benjamin mouthed lyrics to the song in the background. “I am not getting too excited, though. I have to wait for someone at Warren Enterprise to get in contact with me first. Right.” His hands rubbed together. “Who wants to lose money?”

For the next two hours, the men played poker. I drank myself into oblivion with orange-juice-absorbing Quinn. It was nice, the two of us catching up. I forgot how much I missed her.

“Hey, I might be an apprentice, but I have faith in my skills.” Quinn examined the end of my hair. “When was the last time you went to the salon? You should let me practise on you.”

It’s been years since I visited a hairdresser. “How much do you charge?”

“Do not insult me. I will not charge you a penny. I have an idea.” Unlocking her phone, she searched for hairstyle ideas online. “Let’s ditch the faded ombré look for golden caramel highlights. I can add face-framing bangs, too. What do you think?”

A day of rejuvenation is the exactness of what I needed. “Okay,” I agreed, and she clapped happily. “Just don’t get carried away with the scissors. I want to keep the length.”

“What are you two smiling about?” Ethan is by the fridge. He replaced the wine with beer. “Also, before I forget, has anyone spoken to Stephanie recently?”

Quinn sighed dramatically. “And that’s my night ruined.”

“Chill.” Ethan tousled her hair. “You don’t need to pout. Stephanie is not going to steal…” He briefly glanced at me. “I mean, I hate her. I don’t even know why I asked.”

I could have told them about the voicemail message Stephanie had left me, but honestly, I didn’t care enough. I never liked the woman.

Wyatt is curious. “Have you texted her?”

“Yeah.” Ethan pulled a swig of beer. “I texted. I called. Shit, I drove to her place and knocked on the damn door. Her next-door neighbour called me a stalker.”

“Steph is nothing but trouble.” Benjamin’s jaw muscles pulsed furiously. He is not inclined to talk about his crazy ex-girlfriend. “Let her ghost everyone. It suits me.”

“Sure…” Ethan scratched his chest. “It’s weird, though. It’s like she just vanished. Yet, her car is on the drive. And if you look through the living room window, you can see the furniture inside the house.”

“Maybe she moved but left everything else behind…” Wyatt did not believe his own words. “Fuck. Do you think something bad might have happened to her?”

Ethan looked deadpan at him. “I kinda hinted as much.”

“No,” Quinn said with a firm shake of the head. “Stephanie is fine. She must be…” Her forehead wrinkled. “Right?”

“Who cares?” Benjamin tossed the cards onto the coffee table. “Stephanie is not our problem. Guys, it’s Christmas. Can we get back to having fun?”

Agreeably, I raised the glass. “Hear, hear.”

Everyone’s narrowed eyes swung to me.

I laughed my bloody head off.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Emma

It was nearing midnight when I tripped onto the balcony to socialise with Ethan. For one night only, I can be a social smoker. I pinched a cigarette from the packet, balanced it on my lower lip and ignited a lighter flame. Or, I should say, I failed to operate the mechanical flint wheel. Whoever invented child-resistant thingamabobs is a dullard.

“Your cig is upside down. Here.” Ethan snatched the narrow cylinder out of my mouth and turned it the right way. “You are hammered.” His hand shielded my face as he lit the end of the cigarette. “No more wine for you.”

Ethan can piss off. I am here for a fun night of carousing. “Sorry, Dad,” I said sourly, wafting smoke out of my face. “I didn’t mean to disappoint you.”

Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name” is Wyatt’s song for the night. It has belted on repeat since he caned half a bottle of rum. I don’t mind, though. It’s a romantically despondent rampage-the upbeat feel is easy to dance to-and Jovi is one of the sexiest men alive, especially the young, sizzling-hot version. The big-haired heart-throb can marry me whenever he is ready. I will be waiting.

“Stop.” Ethan blew halos of smoke toward the night sky. “You dance like a fish.”

My hip sways came to a halt. “Fish can dance?”

“Your roll and flop demonstration proved it.” He insulted me without any effort. “And you sing like a deranged cat.”

Great. Now, I cannot get the image of Cleo, the grey-haired male/female cat, out of my head. “Yeah, well, you are dressed like a pretty reindeer, so…” I cringed at the pathetic comeback. “You have white pom poms on your jumper!”

Ethan gave me a thin smile. “Excuse me for being festive.”

The London skyline twinkled like a thousand stars behind us. I tried to count the lights, but drunkenness had reduced clear-sightedness. I could not see clearly or think sensibly. Still, I homed in on vast skyscrapers in the distance, the windows alight and bespangled with colour for the festive season.

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, more to myself, but Ethan listened. “Have you ever wondered how some people are just lucky and born into privilege?”

“No.” Ethan’s arms leaned on the balustrade’s top rail. “A Trust Fund Baby? Where is the respect in that? No one takes a parvenue seriously. New money is where it’s at.”

I never thought of it like that. “I wish I owned one of those penthouses and lived in the sky with rich folks.” I could sit on the balcony every night in satin bedwear with my new buddy Vino. Maybe I can hire a butler for the company. “From this viewpoint, I can see South London and Canary Wharf. Look further afield. That’s the Shard.”

Ethan expelled smoke. “Yeah, it’s something.”

“We should visit.” Yes, I can save for a night at one of London’s most iconic buildings to associate in style and immerse in the diverse cuisines of Southern China with unrivalled views of the city. “I can reserve a table by the window for everyone. Hell, I am even willing to pay.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” His hand rubbed the small of my back comfortingly. “People like us? We don’t belong there. Plus, the menu is overpriced and overhyped. I’d trade the Shard’s menu for Ben’s smoked salmon any day of the week. Stay loyal.”

“I am loyal,” I insisted, knowing damn well that my brother won the favourable vote by default. “And I need to pee. Good Lord. When did that happen?” Leaving the half-smoked cigarette in the glass ashtray on the bistro table, I headed for the double doors. “Save some wine for me.”

If Ethan replied, I could not tell you. I was already rushing through the living room to find the bathroom.

When bypassing Wyatt in the kitchen, you would think I’d have noticed the inactive room and the lack of participants. But it never even entered my head, Benjamin’s and Quinn’s absence, until I walked down the narrow, unlit hallway to the bathroom and heard their low, conspiratorial voices coming from one of the rooms. My brother’s bedroom, to be exact. And judging by the thunderousness of his footsteps, he is upset.

My eager strides decelerated. I might be a bit too crapulous to be of any help, but I had to pop my head around the ajar door to honour my sisterly duties.

Tucking strands of hair behind my ears, I nearly welcomed myself into the room when Quinn, with red, blotchy cheeks and wet, haunted eyes, entered my peripheral vision.

“Why are you so angry?” she asked him. “We knew this day would come. You are making me feel guilty. How is that fair?”

“I will deal with it.” My brother is beside himself with distress. “Not tonight, though. It’s not the right time. It can wait.”

“It will never be the right time,” she replied, and I leaned closer to see them pacing by the double bed. “Ben, I am not comfortable with any of this. If we don’t tell her, someone else will. Bad news hits harder when it comes from other people.”

Why does it feel like I am the topic of conversation? Am I paranoid? Yes, I must be. Benjamin never kept secrets from me. And Quinn is my best friend. She had no qualms about telling me straight.

“Babe.” Benjamin closed the gap between them, wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed the frown between her brows. “I have only just got her back.”

Taken aback, I stared at them together.

He is holding her intimately.

She is staring at him lovingly.

My eyes rounded.

How did I miss it? After years of dancing around their attraction for each other, Benjamin and Quinn finally found a way to be together. And I was not around to witness the romance. I could slap myself. The amount of times I played cupid between them is no one’s business. I hounded my brother religiously when he dated Stephanie-the needy, money-grabbing control freak-because I knew, deep in my heart, that his sights were on the wrong woman.

Honestly, I couldn’t be happier. I don’t know why Benjamin and Quinn feared the truth out in the open. Their long-overdue relationship is a cause for celebration.

I need to put their mind at ease.

Quinn’s head fell against his chest. “Ben…”

I should have walked away. I should have gone to the bathroom as planned and waited for them in the living room. But I stayed and, to my imprudence, faced the consequences of my actions.

“Emma is not stupid. I have avoided alcohol all night.” My friend wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I hate lying to her.”

The hair on my neck stood to attention.

What does orange juice have to do with their secret relationship?

“Quinn…” Benjamin took her face into his hands. “I will tell her. I promise. Just…let me have this one night with my sister. Tomorrow, I will tell her about the baby.”

I will tell her about the baby.

My heart wrenched in my chest. I most definitely misconstrued the situation. Quinn is not pregnant. My brother is not expecting his first child. They would not be so callous and insensitive.

No, I refused to believe it. Benjamin would never overlook the anguish caused in the wake of Carter’s disappearance. He is grief-stricken, just like me. He had no intention of replacing my son, did he? Not yet. He had all the time in the world to be a father. He could wait, right?

Delirium. Apprehension. Despair. Jealousy. Maternal grief. I felt it all tenfold, to the core, to the heart. I had barely grasped Alice’s pregnancy, the dawn of Big Guy’s newborn, and now Quinn? My brother? A niece or nephew?

Breathing painfully and rapidly, I stepped away from the door. I had to get far away from here. I needed fresh air. I needed to think.

The floorboard beneath my foot creaked, alerting them of an eavesdropper. I froze on the spot, not knowing how to act, what to do or what to say. Hell, I am not in the right frame of mind to converse with them. I have had too much to drink. It will only end badly.

Benjamin’s bedroom door flew open, the blunt force whipping hair over my shoulders like turbulent winds. He paled. “Em…”

To the sound of drums in my ears, I fixated on the chipped floorboard. I did my utmost to stay calm and think rationally, not emotionally, to wrap my head around the idea of another little one traipsing through the halls. But it was no use. I only considered Carter, who should be here tonight, enjoying Christmas with his family.

“I had to pee,” I croaked, willing myself to lock tears away for another day. “But I…You sounded upset. I wanted to check on you. I wanted…” On trembling legs, I slowly retraced my footsteps. “I have to go.”

“Emma…” My brother reached for my hand, but I was too fast. I spun on my heel with momentary dizziness and headed for the living room. “Emma, wait. Please, I never meant for you to find out like this. I was going to tell you!”

I don’t know what’s worse, the secrets, the lies or the distance between us.

On the brink of hyperventilation, I forced myself to put one foot in front of the other, but the ache in my heart sprouted tears involuntarily.

Ethan and Wyatt are in the kitchen preparing sandwiches with leftover meat. I never looked them in the eye or hung around to say goodbye. I snatched my coat off the coat rack, grabbed my clutch bag, unlocked the front door and dashed down the hall.

“Emma!” My brother’s footsteps pounded the floor as he chased me down the stairs. “Don’t do this! Not now. Not after everything we have been through!”

My heeled shoes scraped the floor. “Go away, Ben.”

“Can you just hear me out?” His loud, anxious voice had multiple doors opening. Residents overheard the commotion and shamelessly came forth to listen. “Em…”

Pushing through the main doors in the lobby, I stepped into the dark, cold night without any sense of direction. Terrence is parked nearby, but I had the urge to walk to clear my head and shake alcohol-infused sluggishness.

“Wait!” Benjamin seized my elbow, his fingers digging into my skin. “I can explain-“

“Explain what?” I asked angrily. The main doors opened, and Wyatt, Ethan and Quinn spilt out, staggering by the entryway. I shot them an irritated look. I did not request a public session with mediators. “It hasn’t even been six months since Carter disappeared.” My stony glare swung back to Benjamin. “You couldn’t wait. You had to lie down and get someone pregnant.”

“I never planned for this to happen.” He tried to comfort me, and I slapped his hands away. I did not want his brotherly love after that unexpected turn of events. “It was not intentional, Em.”

“You couldn’t wait,” I repeated, tasting salty moisture on my lips. “I don’t understand.” My son. His nephew. He is alone in the world. He is waiting for us to save him. “What about Carter?” When he remained tight-lipped, I felt the tiny shred of patience I had left snap. “Oh, that’s right. Carter is not your problem anymore. You got your own kid on the way!”

“Fuck you!” he snarled, and I laughed and cried simultaneously. “Don’t you say that shit to me! I loved Carter like a fucking son!”

“Right,” I replied bitterly, the deadpan glint in my eyes goading him. “And look how quickly you have replaced him-” His strong arms locked around my waist like a vice. “Get your hands off me!” My feet raised off the ground. He carried me, kicking and screaming, across the street. “Ben, I mean it! I don’t want you to touch me!”

“We are not doing this!” He is too strong, too overpowering. He wrestled me in his arms with exasperated grunts, but he never backed down. In his eyes, I am worth the fight. “Emma!”

“I hate you!” At that devastating moment, I meant every word I said. I did hate him. I hated him for lying down with someone and impregnating her without any consideration for our little boy lost. I hated him for planning the arrival of a new baby when my son should be irreplaceable. “I fucking hate you, Benjamin Hughes. You are a cold-hearted, selfish, insensitive piece of shit!”

Suddenly, his arms withdrew, freeing me from restraint. He towered above me like a force to be reckoned with, but his face had greyed. He is shell-shocked. “I’m selfish?”

“You are the most selfish person I have ever met,” I punctuated every syllable with hitched breaths. “You want to move on in life and forget your nephew? Fine. Be my guest. But I will not stand around to bear witness!”

“The only selfish person around here is you,” he snapped, jamming a finger in my face. “You have the audacity to insult me after everything you have put me through? You were everything to me!” He never budged, not for one second. His hard eyes, filled with anger and sadness, bore into mine. “I put you before everyone. Everyone! My mother. My old man. Fuck, I left my brothers behind. My older sister. I did that for you: you, Emma Hughes. I made the decision to hold my twin’s hand because she needed me. I dedicated my whole fucking life to you, to Carter,” he yelled, and when the first tear rolled down his cheek, I felt a tiny slither of guilt. “And the one time I needed you to return the favour? To be my shoulder to cry on? You shut me out. You turned your back on me! And yet, I am the selfish one. You are a joke. A fucking joke.”

A huge, raspy sob escaped my lips. “Not everything is about you.”

“What the fuck are you saying?” He came at me with outstretched arms and furious strides. “It’s not about me. It’s about you. It’s always about you. This is your show, right?” His lips grimaced into a sinister snarl. “I am only here to be fucking weaponised!”

“Screw you, Benjamin!” Oh, God. I can’t believe he said that to me. “I never asked you to leave everyone behind! I never asked you to come with me! You made that decision all by yourself!”

“And I’d do it all over again!” He ranted at me through gritted teeth. “I’d lose my parents’ respect. I’d fight with the travellers. I’d protect you, over and over.” His broken voice felt like a knife to the chest. “I’d raise Carter like my own son because he is special. My little shadow.” His lips wobbled. “My favourite boy.”

Benjamin’s face had blurred. I could not see anything beyond the tears flooding my eyes. “Well, you don’t have to worry about us anymore. You have a family depending on you now.”

“How can you be so spiteful?” He jerked me out of his reach. I was not prepared. I tripped over a pothole and landed on my backside, straight into a puddle of filthy rainwater. “You heartless bitch. To fucking Hell with you!”

Quinn’s hand came to my arm to help me stand.

I shirked away from her unwanted touch. I had two options: walk away or continue the argument. I chose the mature approach. I got to my feet, dusted off my dress and drifted down the street.

“That’s right. Fuck off. Walk away from your problems. That’s what you are good at!” My brother reprimanded me, and I slowed down. “It’s what you have always done! When life is too difficult, you run away!”

Fuming from the inside out, I marched back toward him. If he wants an argument, so be it. “Do not pretend to give a flying fuck about anyone but yourself,” I fired back, and he cringed at my hurtful words. “You don’t care about my son! If you did, you’d have wrapped something on the end of it and waited! You chose to move on and start your own family instead! Well, I am glad Carter is easily replaceable! Congratulations!” He stared at me with wide, horrified eyes. “You are burdenless!”

“Emma…” Quinn’s teary eyes beseeched with me to stop. “It doesn’t have to be this way. We understand how difficult this is for you…” She glanced at the men individually. They all wore equally woebegone expressions. “I mean, we are sad, too. There is not a child on earth that can replace Carter. You have to know that…”

My throat hurt from all the tears I had shed. I glanced at her flat stomach, where my brother’s child blossomed.

“You have every right to be sad, scared, and whatever else you feel.” Quinn kept her distance. “But please, do not take it out on Ben. He is not strong enough to handle any more rejection from you. I told you as much in the letter.”

And I am not strong enough for anything these days. “Everyone’s expectations of me are unrealistic,” I sobbed uncontrollably, gazing at the night sky. “I have to get out of bed in the morning and go to work with a smile on my face. I have to walk past other people without a care in the world. I have to live again, hang out with friends and pretend to be okay.”

My brother’s silent tears and soul-destroyed countenance broke my heart. I did that to him. Me. I made him suffer.

“I have to exist without my son as if it never happened. How is that fair? How is a new baby supposed to mend the huge, gaping hole in my heart?” My mouth quivered. “How am I ever going to find happiness again when all I can think about is how much it hurts? It’s impossible. I shouldn’t have to pretend to be okay. I shouldn’t have to walk around every day like it’s normal to live without him. I shouldn’t have to!” My hand smudged tears and mascara across my cheeks. “I don’t think I can go on like this-“

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Benjamin’s hands captured my head. He forced me to meet his eyes. “I don’t want to hear you talking like that. Ever. I lost Carter. I can’t lose you, too.”

Holding onto his forearms, I cried into the groove of his neck. God, I loved him so much. I loved him with everything I had. “I can’t do it, Ben. I’m not ready. I will never be ready.”

“We will figure it out.” His fingers were buried in my hair. “We got this, Emma. You and me? We can take on the world, remember?”

My stare found Quinn over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Quinn. You’re going to be a mother, and that’s something to celebrate.” My throat tightened as I eased Benjamin’s hands down from my head. “But I don’t want this.”

Quinn’s hot breath misted in the air. “You don’t have to love the new baby. But you can be an auntie in the future. We can wait, Em. There is no rush.”

“An auntie?” Tremors wracked my body as I licked the trickled tears on my lips. “I don’t want to be an auntie, Quinn. I want to be a mother again. I want my son back.”

Benjamin stood there with one arm across his chest, the other hand pressed to his mouth. “Sis…”

Hands raised stubbornly, defensively, I side-stepped the others, walking backwards. “I can’t do this right now.”

“Emma, I am begging you.” My brother left our friends by the skyscraper to follow me down the street. “Please, don’t cut me out of your life. Not again. I need you.” When I paid no heed to his cries, he lashed out. “Goddammit!” Fisting the side of my dress, he shoved my back to the brick wall, the force knocking the wind out of me. “I fucking need you!”

I did not have the chance to respond. Terrence came out of nowhere, threw my brother into the wall with unmerciful force and pulled a gun on him. His wild eyes, so cold and threatening, dared my brother to step one foot out of line.

The feeling of absolute terror is what challenged the fierceness within. I did not allow myself the time to consider the outcome. I acted on instinct, throwing myself in the middle of them to shield my brother from the man’s wrath.

“Don’t you dare hurt him!” My hands shoved Terrence’s chest as I implored him to disarm and stand down. “I mean it, Terrence! Put down the gun! He is my brother, you idiot!”

“Yeah?” Terrence would not entertain debates. He had to follow strict orders. His forearm wedged Benjamin’s throat, pinning him to the wall. “You looked compromised, Miss Emma.”

Ducking under Terrence’s arm, I put my back to Benjamin’s chest. His heart thudded wildly against my back. He was scared. He did not stand a chance against deadly weapons-against the syndicate.

Terrence would have to physically move me because I am not letting anything happen to my twin. I might be sad, angry and confused, but I love him with every fibre of my being. If he hurts, I hurt. If he goes down with a bullet, I go down with him. It’s as simple as that. I had nothing else to live for. He is all I had left.

Ever so slowly, Terrence’s eyes lowered to mine. “Step aside, Miss Emma,” he warned, and my stomach clenched anxiously. “Let me do my job.”

“If you lay one finger on him,” My chin raised defiantly, “I will have you killed. So help me, God, Terrence. I will call Big Guy. He will have you hanged for this!”

His mouth curled at the corner. “Command is not at your beck and call.”

“Do you want to test that theory?” I know, without a shadow of a doubt, if I called Big Guy, he’d come to me. He has repeatedly proven that I matter. “He is my brother. You can hurt whoever the Hell you want, but he is off-limits.”

Benjamin thrashed and groaned behind me. His fingers clawed at Terrence’s arm with vigour as he begged the man to let him breathe.

“You got a death wish, Hughes.” Terrence’s arm withdrew sharply, and relief poured over me like heavy rainfall. “Learn how to behave next time.”

My brother doubled over at the waist. He drew a deep breath and choked, gripping his throat almost desperately, where the lightest red mark started to blemish his skin. “Fucking…asshole…” His spine straightened, but it was a slow process. He was drained. “Put the gun down. Fight like a man.”

“Don’t antagonise him,” I said, and my brother spat out a reel of curse words. “I am serious, Ben. He is a contract killer. He doesn’t care about us.”

“You should listen to your sister.” Terrence tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers. “It’s time to go home, Miss Emma. Say goodnight to your brother.”

“Who the fuck is this guy?” Benjamin is seconds away from throwing fists. “You don’t get to come here and tell my sister what to do. If she wants to stay, she can stay.”

When I spotted Ethan, Wyatt and Quinn closing in on us, I knew I had to intervene before everyone I loved was on the floor in pools of blood. “He is my bodyguard. He is here to make sure I am okay. You need to go home,” I said, somewhat curt. “Go, Ben. I have to leave.”

Benjamin stared at me like I was an imposter. “A bodyguard?”

“Miss Emma.” Terrence’s muscular shoulders squared when the lads came barreling closer. “If they initiate, I will effectuate.”

“You’re not so tough now, huh?” Ethan’s aggression only urged Terrence forward. “You can’t throw your weight about-“

“Fuck with me,” Terrence spat, and I latched onto his suit jacket. “Miss Emma, I ask you kindly to let go.”

“I want to go home,” I pleaded with him to leave them alone. “Please, Terrence. They are my family.”

My bodyguard side-eyed me. Then, with a taunting smirk to the others, he pulled me to his side and coaxed me down the street. “Run along,” he taunted the others, and I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. “I got it handled.”

Shame-faced, I followed him down the street toward the parked Bentley. I looked back once we reached the corner. Only one figure remained by the skyscraper’s main doors. For some unknown reason, knowing my brother stayed behind to watch me leave gave me hope. We had never lived so far apart. Our separation is unprecedented. Maybe in the future, I will have the courage to come back to him.

Terrence drove to the flat in a rapid blur. I don’t remember the car journey or the lecture he gave me. I entered my home, stripped out of my dress, kicked the heels in different directions and dumped the bag on furniture somewhere.

The tree is still in the living room.

The stockings hang on the fireplace.

My son’s presents are on the floor.

Sitting on the ledge of the coffee table in my underwear, I brought the gingerbread-patterned parcel to my lap. If I opened it, I’d find a model car inside: BMW. If I tore into the tree-patterned present, I’d uncover a magicquarium of sea monkeys.

Maybe it’s guilt for my unforgivable behaviour tonight. Perhaps it is months upon months of sadness and grief. But when I stood up and hurled the present across the room, the outburst came as no surprise. I had reached my breaking point and hit rock bottom. I had lost the will to live another day.

Gripping the fairy lights on the tree, snapping branches and crushing baubles, I destroyed Christmas within a blink of an eye. I did not want it. I hated it. I never wanted to celebrate it again.

The tree capsized on the floor with a shattering thump, beads and ornaments spinning underneath the sofas. The stockings went in the air. The unlit candles and damaged nutcrackers followed. It’s gone. I never want it back.

I stepped on broken glass, yet I continued to trash the room in a violent display of broken-heartedness.

My knees took the brunt of my fall. I fell on the ground and cried for what felt like the first time in my life. Every muscle in my body ached. Every bone shook. I only breathed in between intervals of comfortless sobs.

Seconds ticked.

Minutes passed.

Hour after hour.

My cheek pressing on the glass-covered floor, I studied my blood-streaked hands through tired eyes. I could see my son’s bedroom door from this angle. It was shut. Someone closed it. It’s not in my head. I knew I wasn’t crazy.

“What do you want from me?” My low whimper echoed down the eerie hall. “What the fuck do you want from me?!”

No one answered.

Only darkness loomed.

My breathing evened out eventually.

Tears dried up.

I had to open Carter’s door, but my eyelids felt too heavy. I succumbed to tiredness after a short while, drifting into sleep, surrounded by the carnage I had caused.

Much later, I heard footsteps approaching. Terrence must be here to assess the damage. Only the man lifting me into his arms did not smell like Terrence. And Terrence would never kiss my cheek as he lowered me onto the bed.

“It’s okay,” Big Guy whispered in my ear, and my sore body relaxed on the cold sheets. “I got you.”

“I am going to be an auntie,” I murmured, wishing he’d stay with me forever. “Maybe I do have more love to give.” Nausea burrowed deep. I might be sick. “I think I am going to throw up.” Although I had no energy to open my eyes, I sensed him watching me. “Don’t watch.”

“You won’t.” The bed dipped as he climbed onto the duvet behind me. With his cotton-clad chest to my back, he curled a protective arm around my waist and kissed the nape of my neck. “Don’t cry.” His lips tasted the tears on my cheek. “It will get better. I promise.”

“I am a horrible person,” I blubbered into the pillow. “Benjamin. I hurt my brother, Big Guy. I hurt him really bad this time.”

He listened.

“God, I hate myself.” My hand grappled the sheet despairingly. “I want to go to sleep and never wake up.”

“Don’t speak like that.” His fingers drew patterns on my exposed stomach. “Benjamin will forgive you.” Of course, he knew what I had done-what I had said. Terrence told him everything. “But if you leave him behind in this world? He will harbour resentment until the bitter end.”

Ashamed of myself, I sniffled into the pillow.

“Besides,” his throaty voice whispered into my ear, “I will be forced to live a very lonely life if you opt-out. I won’t recover.”

Comforted by the man’s closeness, I found his hand and interlaced our fingers before I could talk myself out of it. “Why did you come here? You should be at home with Alice. You have a baby on the way.”

“Alice might be the mother of my child, but she is not my bedmate, and that will never change.” His hand flattened on my stomach. “When you need me, I come running. That’s how it works for us.”

My heart fractured. “I make everyone miserable.”

“Yet, I am at my happiest when with you.” His mouth grazed my shoulder as he peppered warm kisses along my skin. “Go to sleep. I can wait.”

My breathing began to shallow. “Will you be here when I wake up?”

A small pause. “Not unless you promise to keep me this time.” His ringed fingers traced the stretch marks on my middle section. “Your silence is enough.”

I was convinced I had dreamt about the moment I shared with Big Guy. But when I woke up in the morning with a pounding headache and a new vermeil bracelet with clear quartz and rose quartz beads on my wrist, I knew the man had come over to put the world to rights.

I lazed around in bed for the rest of the day.

And the day after.

And the day after that.

Terrence knocked on the door once or twice to see if I needed anything from the supermarket.

I declined.

Sade blew up my phone with missed calls and unanswered text messages.

I never replied; I had nothing to say.

I should shower; I smelt worse than death.

I should go for a run; I am too lazy.

I should be at work; I earned a lousy pittance.

Did I eat yesterday? What about the day before? No, I starved myself again. Food is overrated, anyway.

When did I last change the sheets? I smelt my pillow. Okay, I had to do laundry and switch the duvet cover. I can do it tomorrow.

Laurence sent an email. I am scared to check it. I have probably lost my job. Hell, I deserved to lose my job. I am the worst employee to date.

Hours rolled into days.

I never left the bed.

My front door knocked. Terrence would take the hint and return to the Bentley if I ignored it. He is persistent, though. And impatient. His fist hammered against the door unceasingly until I pulled myself out of bed.

“Alright,” I shouted, not that he listened. His pounding fists intensified. “I said, I am coming!”

Walking down the hall in nothing but an oversized T-shirt, messy bed hair and a cluster of scabs on my feet, I unlocked the front door and swung it open to hand Terrence’s ass to him on a plate. “Must you be so testy? You have the patience of…” My bodyguard is not the person in front of me. Tall, blond hair, green eyes and designer labels for days. “Mary?”

My older sister smiled. “Hello, Emma.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Emma

Mary’s youthful appearance had changed drastically since I last saw her. Her straight posture, svelte figure and contagious confidence demanded attention. The long coat, ribbed turtleneck, smart, vertical ironed creased trousers, vibrant, encrusted rhinestone high-heeled shoes, and GG Marmont waist-defining leather belt with a shiny, gold-toned buckle made a bold and powerful statement. Throw black faceted crystal pendant earrings, a polished-looking updo hairstyle and Chanel’s vintage maxi flap bag and you have got yourself an accidental fashion icon.

I remembered a girl with lustrous waist-length hair that our mother braided for church on Sundays. Modest clothes with multiple layers: long-sleeved blouses, ankle-length skirts and closed-toe shoes. A cute yet chubby, spotty face and cuddly puppy fat.

Pubescent was unkind. Adulthood is considerate. Mary aged beautifully, with a fresh-faced glow, a great deal of self-assurance, a trace of smugness and an unhealthy dose of vaingloriousness. Even the expensive-smelling perfume exuded vanity, boldness and success.

Aware of my chaotically bedraggled appearance, I fussed with my coarse hair, a tangled mess. The hem of my T-shirt barely covered my legs. I had chipped polished toenails and jewellery-dented wrists.

Why is she here?

How does she know where I live?

I wish someone had given me the heads-up. My flat is a diabolical mess: clothes littered the hallway, dirty dishes mounted the sink, clabbered milk and rotten food took up residence in the fridge.

I had yet to clean the living room. The Christmas tree is still on the floor amidst broken ornaments and disintegrated glass.

Mary’s smile faltered.

What is expected of me?

I could invite her inside for a cup of tea. Maybe we can catch up for old times’ sake. But honestly, I am not comfortable around her anymore. We don’t know each other. We are strangers. Once upon a memory. Plus, judging by her ultra-glamorous appearance, I doubt the bohemian-style flat will fulfil high expectations.

“Nice.” Her defined eyebrows incurved with bitter disappointment. “I come all this way to surprise you, and this is the unfriendly welcome I get.”

A hard knot formed in the pit of my stomach.

“Regardless.” My sister pushed past me to enter the flat without an invitation. “I take two sugars with my coffee. Come on. Close the door.”

Although discombobulated, I listened to instructions and locked the door. I turned to the woman togged up in faux fur and designer labels with many questions in mind.

“You look like shit. If you want to sit down with me…” She paused by the kitchen to scrutinise the cluttered counters. “Grab a shower. I can wait.”

I stood there agaze at the woman, with homicidal ideations emerging. I could kill her. I could wrap my hands around her throat and shake her to death.

“What died?” The straightness of her well-proportioned nose crinkled in open-mouthed disgruntlement. “The bin is overflowing. You might want to empty it.”

My entire body soared with heat.

“Emma.” Her fingers clicked to snap me out of it. “Shower. Now.”

Call it insanity, but I drifted into the bathroom, slammed the door with deliberate churlishness and continued to stare into space. I must have gone to sleep last night and awakened in an alternate universe because there is no way my sister showed up after all these years to throw the rule book at my head.

Yanking the T-shirt over my head, I dumped it on the overloaded washing basket and stepped into the bath. With the floral-patterned curtain pulled over, I turned on the shower, hissing through punishing lashes of cold water until warmth and steam permeated the air and effaced the goosebumps on my skin.

Mary is left unattended. I wondered if she was going through the kitchen cupboards or nosing in the bedroom. No, I bet she is ramrod in the hallway, not wanting to touch anything in case her manicured fingernails became besmirched with dust.

I laughed to myself.

Yes, let’s go with the latter.

Twenty minutes later, I exited the bathroom cleaner than I had entered. My skin is scorching hot, clean-shaven and buttery soft. My hair is sopping wet and coconut-scented.

Luckily for Mary, I found an empty bedroom and untampered drawers.

Decent attire is too much effort. I towel-dried quickly, then, braless and knickerless, shimmied into Aztec trousers and a tight-fitted T-shirt. A pair of cosy slipper socks covered my feet.

Droplets of water trickled down my back as I sauntered down the hall to the kitchen. I half-expected to see the front door open in the wake of Mary’s abscondment, but she stayed, with sleeves rolled up to the elbows and hands in a sink of bubbly water.

“I made coffee.” Her attention is steadfast on the dishes. “And I emptied the fridge. You owe me a decent shot of whiskey for that job. There was mouldy leftover curry in one of the containers.”

Hugo delivered nutritious meals directly to my fridge: meaty stews, seasonal vegetables and crock-pot curries. Variety, quality and simplicity is the axiom that supports his logic. He is convinced that home-cooked comfort food heals the mind, body and soul. He is not far wrong. Ben’s Cafe prided itself on cold-pressed juicing benefits. Fruits and vegetables have great cleanse benefits.

The kitchen was almost clean and smelt like lemon air freshener. No dirty plates or miscellaneous items on the counters. No stained mugs on the two-seater table. No drawn window beads to block out the sun.

Curling my hands around the ceramic mug, I sat cross-legged on the chair and watched the washing machine tumble with a cycle of clothes. “Why are you here?”

“I would have sorted the living room, but that’s a two-person job.” Mary used a tea towel to dry the dishes. “I bought salad bowls en route. We can tuck into them whilst we organise.” Then, she glared down her nose at me, letting me know she had no intention of answering my question. “You cannot salvage the tree. You will have to buy a new one next year.”

“How did you find me?” I probed as she stacked dry dishes in the kitchen cabinet. “Mary?”

“If you hadn’t thrown a gasket recently, Benjamin could have told you I moved to London.” Her bottom slid onto the chair directly opposite me. “Six weeks ago, to be exact.”

I must be dreaming. “Why?”

“Duty,” she said, matter-of-fact. “My baby brother cried for help. So, I spoke to my partner one night and decided to relocate. We sold the apartment and bought a three-bedroom townhouse in Kings Road.”

My lips parted. “You live in Chelsea?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” she said with pride-filled eyes. “Right by one of London’s most fashionable high streets.” Her fingernails played the piano on the table’s ledge. “The location made sense because I have my own clothing line. I am in the process of opening a new store.” She noticed my questioning stare and endeavoured to explain herself. “It’s all good. I had to upgrade facilities and reach new markets anyway.”

Secretly impressed, I chewed the inside of my cheek. “A clothing line?”

“Don’t act surprised. I always had a creative flair. I took creativity and business acumen to the next level in search of a successful brand. I would offer a family discount, but I design menswear.” Her unimpressed gaze settled on my trousers. “Although, I might have a paisley jacket to compliment your eccentric style.”

Judgmental bitch. “You waited six weeks to come and see me.”

“I prioritised Ben,” she said, unapologetic. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. He asked for help. I am his big sister. Of course, I put my life on hold to be there for him.”

I half-scoffed. “How heroic of you.”

Mary’s lips, pumped with dermal filler, puckered into a sneer. If I do not cut the bitchiness, she will lunge across the table and put me in my place. She was always inherently bossy. Superiority complex came to mind. “Someone sounds bitter.”

“I am bitter,” I replied, short and sharp. “Look, I don’t know what this is, but I never signed up for a family reunion. I do just fine without you. So, thank you for checking in on me-six weeks too late. You can leave.”

“I am not going anywhere. I uprooted my entire life for Benjamin.” Her body snuggled into the chair. “And for you. You can insult me. You can yell at me. You can swear blue murder and threaten me. But I will still be here, every day, for the rest of your life. Get used to it.”

I was speechless.

Get used to it.

I should not have to familiarise myself with estranged siblings. Mary, Martin and Miles terminated relationships with others and abandoned the ship. They were older, wiser and more mature. They had a responsibility to keep the lines of communication open between them and the babies of the family. Instead, they chose the easy option, deserting the childhood home, maintaining contact with each other and disregarding younger siblings. I owed them nothing, especially valuable time.

“Maybe you can come over for dinner one night?” Mary picked up an old magazine and read the small print. “My partner is an amazing cook.”

You clearly haven’t tasted Benjamin’s creamy ham and mushroom tagliatelle, I thought bitterly. “I will take a rain check.”

Mary’s condemnatory eyes came over the magazine. “Right,” she said tightly. “I promised Ben I would give you a few days to come to terms with my return, but the saltiness is not working for me. I am your older sister.” Her authoritarian voice is not one to be messed with. “You will show some respect.”

“You have not earned my respect.” My blood bubbled with heat. “How dare you? You walked out of our lives and never regretted one step. You got out of that godforsaken house and put yourself first. Good for you. I don’t blame you. But what happened to the letters? The phone calls. The visits. You forgot about us. You moved on. You made a choice. Live with it.”

“Yes, I ran away. I will not apologise for it.” Her vexation mirrored my own. “I had no other choice.”

I did not want to spend another five minutes with this selfish cow. “Everyone has a choice.”

“Not the preacher’s daughter.” She flashed a steady smile. “Don’t you get it? Our father despised me. I had to run to escape punishment. Or do you think I should have withstood the unmerciful strokes of the man’s belt buckle? Or the cult’s abusing the power of exorcism. They’d have beaten malevolent spiritual entities right out of me. Tears be damned.”

My tense shoulders sagged. “I know dad is strict…”

“Strict? He is a contradictive, hypocritical, sanctimonious asswipe. I hated him then. I hate him now.” Her cold fingers reached across the table to touch my hands. “I am a lesbian. Our father is anti-gay. He would see me hanged first. If I am attracted to women, I have a demon inside of me.” There was an edge of sadness in her voice. “I’d be dead if I stayed. I truly believe that.”

Yes, I remembered the man’s uncontrollable anger the day someone from the church approached him confidentially. He was red-faced and foaming at the mouth when he consistently called my sister’s phone until the voicemail box became the only means of communication. He knew about her relationship with Patty, Tommy O’Shea’sfemalecousin.

Dad is a pharisaic tyrant. He lived in a homophobic, transphobic and biphobic world. He struggled with same-gender attraction in others, never mind his offspring. We had to marry the opposite sex and breed Mormon worshippers. He will never accept same-sex couples, adopted children or nonmarital pregnancies.

“Our mother is no better.” Mary applied Yves Saint Laurent’s Berry Brazen lipstick to her lips. “She sat back and watched him physically and emotionally abuse her children.”

In our mother’s defence, it could be argued that she also fell victim to psychological, physical and emotional abuse. Her husband controlled every aspect of her life. He asserted power and micromanaged her daily activities, what she wore outside the house, what food she ate for dinner and what book she read before bed. He demanded sex every other day, whether she wanted it or not. He gave her an inflexible schedule, leaving no space for alone time. And, worse, he lost control and beat her black and blue when pent-up frustration and alcohol coincided.

The unacceptability of my father’s abusive behaviour is not only reproachful but downright contradictory. What is good for one is good for another. If it’s okay for him to spend money frivolously, she is allowed to empty her purse and treat herself to new purchases. If it’s okay for him to eat over-portioned meals, drink alcohol in excess and wear daring suits, then she is allowed to stuff her face with carbohydrates, guzzle wine by the bottle and flash some skin every once and a while. Hell, if it’s okay for him to backhand her across the face, she earned the right to knock his front teeth out.

“You disagree.” Mary is preparing another round of coffee. “You think reprimand for such a spineless woman is unwarrantable.”

“I think there are two sides to every story. We were young and foolish. We don’t know the truth behind their marriage.” Only distant memories filtered through my mind. “You know what? I am not having this conversation. I don’t care enough. At least, not anymore.”

Mary spooned two sugars into a mug. “Ben is going to be a father.” Good Lord, she is going for the jugular. “Pretty cool, right?”

“What?” The pungency of coffee pervaded the small kitchen. “Seriously? Is that why you came here? To lecture me on the responsibilities of twinship? Please.” An unladylike snort came out short and sarcastic. “You are in no position to educate me, not with your track record.”

A hand went to her hip. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you are a shit sister.The worst,” I chided, and her eyes widened in surprise. “Spend a decade with Benjamin, and I might take you seriously. Until then, I have nothing to say to you. I most certainly do not value your opinion.”

“Hey,” she snapped, not that I gave a rat’s ass. “My face is up here, Emma. Quit glaring at the floor like you want to stomp all over it and show regard to those who cherish you.”

“How can you stand there and pretend to care about anyone but yourself.” I was out of the chair and on my feet before she could blink. “I am not a little girl anymore. You cannot come here and tell me how to live my life. You will never earn the right to criticise or advise or guide.”

“I have always cared about you,” she argued, then followed me out of the kitchen and down the hallway with blundering footsteps. “You and Ben are the only reason I stayed in Mostyn Avenue back then. If it weren’t for you, I’d have left the second I had a chance. I’d have packed a bag and ran the moment I learnt how to stand on my own two feet.”

In the living room, I unravelled a bin liner and stuffed it with broken ornaments. I deduced that Mary was staring intently, so I looked up and met her gaze from across the room. “Close the front door on your way out.”

My sister’s face is tight with exasperation. “What you did to Ben was completely uncalled for,” she said as if I hadn’t dismissed her. “You were selfish, cruel and unkind. He rolled out the red carpet and welcomed you into his home.”

“Mary…” My hands trembled with unease. “Please, I have asked, very nicely, if you can leave.”

“And I have stated, repeatedly, I am not going anywhere.” Her backside fell on the arm of the sofa. “In due time, I expect your side of the story.”

Assuming she meant Christmas Day, I cast my gaze to the rain-splattered window and prayed to the Heavens that she would go easy on me. God Knows I am riddled with guilt because of my unforgivable behaviour that night.

“The O’Shea family,” she added, and I shot her a quizzical look. “Ben told me about Killian. The rape resulted in an unexpected pregnancy. Mum and Dad evicted you from the house without a pot to piss in because unmarried teenagers who bear children bring shame on the family. You had no parental support. No big brother or big sister to put their arm around you and tell you everything is going to be okay.”

A knot lodged in my throat. “Do not be a sympathiser.”

“You had a baby on the way.” Her voice was strong and fierce. “A baby that you did not want. You could not imagine yourself as a mother, loving this small, tiny human with the blood of an Irishman. A boy born of rape, nonetheless.”

“Rape. Right. I get it. You don’t need to repeat yourself. I understand. I was the star of the show.” Yes, I spoke derisively, but faux apathy is my way of blocking out anxiety and sadness. Or flashbacks that I wish to forget. “And since you insist on harassing me, I suggest rubber gloves and bin bags.”

Mary frowned at the mess on the floor. “Ben never turned his back on you, did he, Emma?” A suffocatingly awkward silence fell over the room. “He never doubted your story or called you a liar. He never left you out in the cold by yourself. He never rejected the baby in your unloving arms. No, he challenged our father for the first time in his life,” she informed me, and I stared, pensive and confused. “He got right in that man’s face and told him what a lousy, pathetic excuse of a father he is right before he packed a bag and chased you to the nearest Greyhound bus.”

“No…” Benjamin never took on our father. None of us braved the man’s storm. It’s not worth our demise. “You have been misinformed. Ben is terrified ofPappa Hughes.”

“Yes,” she said with a morose yet agreeable smile. “That’s something we can all relate to. But fear is an afterthought when his twin’s love and safety are compromised.”

Tearful, I inhaled a long, slow breath.

“Ben is your guardian angel. He provided for you. He watched over you. He protected you. And then, aside from brotherly duties, he lifted your baby into his arms and loved him like a son. Carter never experienced neglect or abandonment because our brother made damn sure of it.”

Breathing rapidly, I dumped the half-filled bin bag on the coffee table and slumped onto the sofa in defeat. “Mary…”

“He is so sad,” she said with croaky regret. “He cries all of the time. He misses Carter. He missesyou. God, I hate myself for not being there for the two of you. You have been through so much…” Her stare got lost to the window, the wind and the rain outside. “If only I had known what our parents put you through. If only I had heard of what the traveller community did to you. I would have searched for you. I would have come to you sooner.”

I did not like my sister very much, but that is not an indication of hatred. I still loved her with all my heart, and her teary eyes hit me where it hurt. “You weren’t to know. You cannot be blamed for the behaviour of others,” I whispered, and she secretly wiped the errant tear on her cheek. “You were right to leave. You had your whole life ahead of you. Who can truly call you selfish and mean it when all you needed was happiness and hope.”

Mary snivelled into a ball of scrunched-up tissues that she found in the bottom of the handbag.

“Did you find it?” I asked, and she passed me a puzzled glance. “Are you happy? Is your partner everything you hoped for in a woman?”

“I left with Patricia.” Her watery eyes dazzled. “Sure, we have had our ups and downs, but we have been inseparable ever since. I love her, Emma. I always loved her.”

My sister’s contentment is the best news I have heard in months. “You were so young-too young to be adulting,” I quipped, and she laughed lightly. “Have you had any contact with our parents since you left?”

“Oh, no.” Her hand waved dismissively. “That opportunity passed a long time ago. I will never forgive them for what they did to this family.”

Rubbing the moisture from my eyes, I grabbed the string of fairy lights on the floor and rolled them into a messy ball.

“I have so much to tell you.” Mary took the lights out of my hands, hurled them into the bin and went to her knees in front of me. “You can be mad at me. I don’t mind. I can handle it. But, in the end, I have to do what’s right. Your days of hating everyone are over. Your nights of wallowing in self-pity are done. You can grieve for the rest of your life. No one expects any different. You can do this whilst living, though.” Her hands came to my cheeks. “You have to live. Carter depends on it.”

“Stop.” My voice wavered. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”

“You will talk about him every day because you are his mother,” she stressed, catching the single tear on my cheek with the tip of her thumb. “You will cherish those memories until death is among us. You will talk to him so that he can hear your voice. You will light a candle on his birthday and promise to see him someday. You have to remember him, Emma.”

My chest filled with pain. “You would have loved him.”

“Hey, I am besotted already.” Mary’s lips stretched into a smile. “Ben showed me pictures and told me all these funny stories…” Her merriment waned. “I wish I had known about him. It shouldn’t have taken a late-night phone call from my baby brother to find you.”

I brought our joint hands to my lap. “Where did you go?”

“Scotland.” Her gold-ringed thumbs tapped my knuckles. “I got myself a part-time job serving pints, studied at The University of Edinburgh and completed a master’s degree in fashion design.”

“Edinburgh,” I repeated, imagining the mountainous region of the Scottish Highlands and all its scenic, natural wonders. “Tartans, bagpipes and lochs, huh? Here is a serious question: did you encounter Nessie on your travels?”

“No…” Her face glowed with amusement. “Although I once heard, if you walk along the stony shore of Scotland waters at night, you will be swept off your feet by irresistible, shape-shifting selkies.”

Right, because mythological creatures skilled at therianthropy is imaginable. “Scottish Vikings are more believable.”

“A celt ismore accurate.” She is insatiably curious. “Wait. Vikings? Are seafaring men a dealbreaker?”

“I love long-haired, muscular men with eyes that pierce your soul.” A light, dreamy sigh wisped through my lips. “They do something to my insides.”

“But what about Finster? I highly doubt he changed into a warrior overnight. Too lanky. Too scrawny…” Her wandering eyes had an incredulous twinkle. “Too socially awkward.”

My insides churned.

“You remember Finster,” she tried to prompt my memory, thinking I was clueless. “Finley Gibbs? The eldest son of eight strapping boys? His father is a primary care physician. His mother knitted ugly jumpers.”

Yes, I know the Gibbs family.

Her brows rose. “Emma, how can you forget about him?”

Finley Gibbs isunforgettable. He is the quintessential good boy hand-picked by my mother. His dreamy looks, soft demeanour and academic discipline, sealed the deal. If I had stayed in Leeds, I’d be married to him by now, rearing snobbish children.

My mother arranged for the two of us to meet for lunch once. Finley walked into the restaurant unpretentiously preppy, wearing a white Oxford cloth button-down shirt with a textured jumper, beige chinos and classic penny loafers. He ordered Pork hotdogs topped with gherkins, ketchup, mustard, and diner-style chocolate milkshakes. Then, after he covered the bill (a bank card provided by his father), he took me for a stroll at a nearby park and told me about his plans to be a dentist.

It was sweet for a first date.

He arrived on time.

He ignored phone calls.

He never mentioned ex-girlfriends.

He asked the right amount of questions.

He walked me home and kissed me on the cheek.

But the boy with a cute baby face and boyish charm never stood a chance. Tommy O’Shea had my heart in his unyielding hand. I was crazy in love.

“Hello?” Mary’s fingers clicked in my face. “Earth to Emma.”

“I heard them talking once.” My father deserved to be excommunicated. In secret, he sinned often and violated his covenant with God. He only adhered to religious beliefs and practices when it suited him. For example, Mormons do not practise arranged marriages, but that never stopped him and my mother from scheming and plotting. “Dad wanted me to marry him. Finley Gibbs. If I hadn’t given birth out of wedlock, I’d be Mrs Gibbs, the wife of an oral and maxillofacial surgeon.”

“Nice.” Pound signs flashed in her eyes. “Do you know how much the top OMF surgeons make a year?”

I couldn’t care less. “Must we discuss Finley?”

“All jokes aside, I thought you had a huge crush on him growing up.” She knotted the bin bag. “Is that no longer the case?”

“I never…” My sister is delusional. “He is not my type.”

“Right. You like savage men with ungroomed beards. Got it.” Dragging the bin bag to the hallway, she left it by the wooden dresser. “Now is a good opportunity to mention Tommy O’Shea, then. He is a little rough around the edges. The neck tattoos and plait at the back of the head? Golden.”

My cheeks could not get any hotter. “What exactly did Ben tell you?”

“Oh, not much. Just that you and Tommy used to fool around back when you were kids.” Her face was less than impressed. “Really, Emma? You scraped the barrel with that one.”

“I never told Ben about Tommy…” Why, in all these years, had my brother feigned unknowingness? “He really is one in a million.”

“Who?” She regarded me with cold disapproval. “O’Shea?”

“Our brother.” My smile was slow and reflective. “I owe my life to him.”

Her lips pursed at that.

“Mary, I am not sorry that he called you. He needed support. I let him down. You were there to pick up the pieces.” If only I had handled the news of a new baby differently. If only I had pretended to be excited for the sake of my brother’s heart. “I don’t know how to fix it, or rather, how to fix us.”

“There is nothing to fix. Ben loves you.” The coffee table graced her derrière as she sat elegantly, with knees crossed and arms folded. “Yes, he is sad, hurt and disappointed, but if you show up and make this right, he will open his arms to you.”

I did not deserve my brother’s kindness. “A baby should be celebrated.”

Mary nodded slowly.

“Benjamin will be a great father.” Despite the pounding in my ears, I held her probing stare. “His child will want for nothing.”

“A baby will not replace Carter,” she stressed, and regret rose deep inside me. “You must know this.”

“I do.” I gave her a tight smile. “I am already warming up to the idea of auntie cuddles and bath time fun. I will rectify past mistakes. I promise.”

“Good.” Her hand cupped my cheek comfortingly. “You are a strong woman, Emma. I am so proud of you.”

My throat swelled. “Ditto.”

“You don’t hate me anymore?” she asked, and I let out a short, disagreeing laugh. “Good, because it’s New Year’s Eve, I booked a private booth at the Ice Bar. I would love for you to come out with us tonight.”

“Us?” I wondered, and she mentioned her girlfriend. “I don’t know. I am not really in the partying mood.”

“It’s non-negotiable.” Clutching the remote control, she switched on the television and perched onto the edge of the sofa. “Go and pack a bag of glad rags. You can come over to my place for pre-drinks and glamorising.”

Tonight marks the last day of the year.

Tomorrow is the start of new beginnings.

Maybe I am allowed to accept changes.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Brad

Tony and Camilla, with bright, radiant smiles, unflappable buoyancy and naughty secrets, emerged from the bespoke pool house reeking of oxytocin, endorphins and middle-aged sex.

How do I know they had hot, wild, relentless sex?

Well, for starters, the man’s cheeks had a hint of rosiness. He sported messy bed hair, a sweat-slicked forehead and a Duchenne smile. The crisp white shirt, left unbuttoned to flaunt neatly trimmed chest hair and a heavily patterned mariner chain, is half-heartedly tucked into the waistband of smart formal trousers.

As for Little Miss Squeals A Lot, the recently brushed hair, fresh concealer and sultry purple lipstick application with a pinch of pucker-up, buttercup, unsuccessfully obscured lustfulness.

My life has amounted to nothing.

It comes to something when a bunch of old biddies are getting more action than I am.

Fern, the experienced physiotherapist, who specialised in psychological trauma and EMDR therapy that preached affirmation practice to reduce self-sabotaging thoughts and self-exploration techniques to manage masturbation-induced anxiety and improve sexual health and relationships, is entirely blameable for my current sexless state.

If not for Fern’s professional opinion (off the record), I’d be my normal, fun, hypersexual self, engaging in sexual activities with beautiful, wanton women on speed dial. At my beck and call. I wouldn’t be lying in bed every morning, on my Tod, telling myself I am worthy of what I desire or turning down club whores most nights by virtue of a safe and healthy sex life.

My lips pursed.

No, it’s wrong to blame Fern, the eccentric shrink, for my dry spell. I asked for help and the crazy old bint delivered, free of charge, out of the goodness of her heart. Affirmation therapy, as told by countless quotemasters online, is a world of self-awareness, self-acceptance and new beginnings. It’s my shot at stability, normalcy and, most importantly, love. It means investing in the future and fighting for what’s right.

So, I haven’t had sex for a while-big deal. If I wrap my head around masturbation at some point in the future, I can feel good again. I can get to know my body better and master relaxation without vice. If I can be patient, loyal and faithful, I can, fingers crossed, guarantee a successful relationship with Emma Hughes that does not end in a gory bloodbath.

With a heavy heart, I stared into space, not blinking. I needed to prepare for the worst-case scenario, though. I have concentrated all efforts and resources in one area in the hope of a successful outcome when, in hindsight, I should have kept an open mind.

Emma is the end game for me.

But am I the long-term goal she wished to accomplish?

What if I straighten out my life for nothing?

A single dad of two kids is not what I predicted subsequent to Warren’s life imprisonment. Falling for an unavailable woman is not part of the program. I should be living freely, the quintessential life of a bachelor, without restrictions, obligations, mental stress or emotional distress.

Maybe I am in the wrong lane. I was more than content before I met Emma. I had a good, stress-free life. Problems were far and few between. Childhood trauma was kept under lock and key. My toxic relationship with sex was easy to ignore.

I promised to wait forever, but forever might be unattainable. Emma accepted Dominic, not the new baby because she instantly recognised that baby mother drama and feigned care and love for a newborn were unreasonable expectations on my part. She prioritised mental health, protected her fragile heart and walked away with an unrealistic belief that happiness is synonymous with her son’s return, a son that, as much as it pained me to admit, might never come home.

Warren Enterprise, by order of Command, used anonymising software to browse the dark web every Friday, with no exception, to hack the online slave market. Although Carter is never among the shipment of kidnapped children, the syndicate went undercover to raid modern-slavery endeavours within the vicinity and, with great success, passed the responsibility of survivors to the local authorities. The outcome is always bittersweet. Families and loved ones reconnected, but Emma stood behind dreamlike coroner tape for a face that never returned.

Blunt pinched between my thumb and forefinger, I placed the roach to my lips, inhaling mind-numbing smoke and exhaling into the cool night air. A sense of relaxation washed over me. Euphoria has never felt so blissful: carefree, safe and free of stress.

“What bothers you?” Vincent, a suited and booted customer of Brioni Vanquish, with midnight blue fabrics and timeless leather shoes meticulously handcrafted in Italy, sipped whiskey to quench thirst and unspoken amusement. “You look absentminded.”

“No,” I lied to mask apprehensiveness. Not that lying helped. I am still a touch temperamental. “Just wondering where Alexa got to with those whiskey refills. I have been dry for over thirty minutes.”

“It is not Alexa’s job to wait on you. We have banquet servers. Utilise them.” A slight smile curved Vincent’s mouth as he watched the two decrepit lovebirds advance in the solar-lit garden of Warren Manor. “Sexual relations in elderliness.” He scrutinised the loving couple intently. “I can only dream of such strength, stamina and flexibility in the state of beingarchaic.”

Wiping the smirk off my face, I kept mirthfulness under control.

“Are you lost?” Vincent harrumphed to state knowingness. “You were gone for quite some time. Jones, for lack of better words, was ready to send out a search party.”

“To put it simply, I thought…” Alexa’s father paled, his weight shifting from one anxious foot to another. Ah, the dirty geezer is high as a kite, satisfactorily fucked and shrinking in the throes of other people’s non-judgemental approaches. “Well, I thought, if I go to the bathroom, I can change the shirt and take off the jewellery…” He is wearing the same outfit as earlier, gold and ice included. “But I changed my mind and decided to…”

“Tony had a dilemma.” Ambushed by hawk-eyed inquisitiveness, Camilla, who is ruddy-complexioned, uncomfortably hot and squeamish about people knowing her business, created a fictionalised version of events, where her other half, Tony, the sprightly man of the hour, had to use the restroom whilst she made a pitstop to the bedroom for alternative footwear. “And my feet were on fire. I don’t know why I insist on back-breaking heels.” She is talking about Alexa’s shoes, the ones she cannot help but snaffle for special occasions. “Pumps and platforms are not my forte.”

I eyed Gianvito Rossi’s praline pink suede and nude organza-heeled shoes on her feet. “Yet, she left the time-worncrocsin the pool house somewhere and foxtrotted the night away in a degradé of Swarovski crystals.”

Tony’s face blanched. Oh, yes, old man. I can see through the defiant façade, the personification of stone-faced guiltlessness. I know what you did in the pastel-hued pool house. Christ, I could hear rhythmic grunts, muffled groans, heavy breathing and banging furniture over the loud music and raucous party guests-right here, in the charming courtyard of twinkling fairy lights and annoying peasants. Hats off to you, you diligent stallion. I am almost jealous.Almost.

“Your story leaves room for doubt.” Vincent, too, marvelled at the woman’sunchangedshoes. “A word of advice from an expert teller of lurid tales.” His lips, to her ear closely, whispered, “Untuck the skirt next time, love.”

“Good Heavens.” Camilla, humiliated by the wardrobe malfunction, freed the end of her long, pleated skirt from low-rise knicker shorts with intricate lace trim. Her leg-length-to-body ratio is impressive for an old bird. “It costs absolutely nothing to be an honourable gentleman and, above all, incurious. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

I winked, which only heightened her inconsolable vexation. “Hey, if it’s on show, in the most innovative range of carnal possibilities, I am going to look–” Her shoulder rammed into my ribs-quite breath-snatching because of the mildly winded situation-as she escaped the ignominy of indecent exposure. “You have a great arse, Camilla.” Her furious footsteps, hindered by six-inch heels, gravitated toward the Manor’s bi-fold doors, where immaculately besuited men and glamorously dressed women gathered in bright lights, popular music, fine wine and hors d’oeuvres. “Own it!”

Camilla flipped the middle finger before disappearing through the crowd like a speck of glitter. Poor Alexa, in that big house, blindsided by her father’s dearly beloved and treasured partner in crime. Tony’s woman will chew her bastard ear off, bitching about me like an insecure bully.

Tony, rubbing the weariness from his inflamed, bloodshot eyes (he should lay off the alcohol), glowered at me with, it would seem, bloodthirsty ambition. He’d skin me alive and feed my hacked flesh to the fishes if he could get away with it. You will not convince me otherwise. “Must you deliberately irritate her?” His voice is an angry rumble. “Camilla is already overwhelmed by social circumstances. Presumably, she will never wear a skirt again.”

I stared at the complaining sod with incredulous disgust. “Why do I get it in the neck every time you piss someone off?” The direct question is for Vincent, the real, problematic culprit. “You embarrassed Camilla in front of an audience. I merely piped up later.”

“It is a gift.” An unlit black cigarette with a gold foiled filter perched at the side of Vincent’s mouth. “I am inclined to do slightly naughty things for fun.”

I am no different. Still, I draw the short straw and bear the brunt of reproval when outsiders are nonsensically affronted.

Vincent noted the bemusement of his older brother’s right-hand man and smirked wide, toothy and wolfish. “You are angry.”

“Stupefied.” It’s not like Tony prevented the inconveniences of anxious worriment. He just stood there, soaking up the unwarranted aspersions of his daughter’s loyal subjects. “That’s all right, old man. Your card is marked.”

“He is a touchy fellow, isn’t he?” Alexa’s father is a toxic fucker, speaking about me instead of to me. “Perhaps I should teach him a thing or two on how to cope with sexual frustration.”

Vincent is delighted, with eyes that sparkle and glitter with all things considered frolicsome. “Please do.”

“Look at him, bragging about the ghastliness of rumpy-pumpy like I have something to learn from intimacy in old-age pensioners.” Although, I do have the worst case of blue-balls. I have never gone this long without sex and blowjobs. “I don’t knowabstinence. Celibacy is not part of my vocabulary. As for you, you disloyal schmuck.” My finger jabbed Vincent’s chest. “I thought you and I were on the same side.”

“And there you have it.” Vincent sparked an incandescent lighter flame to spark the end of his cigarette. “The king of overemotional behaviour, back in his element.”

My expression soured.

I will guthimlike a fish.

“You did warn me.” Tony laughed at my expense and inconvenience. “I should have listened.”

I will feedhimthe traitor’s steaming entrails. “You fucking nob-head-”

“Brad!” Alexa is on me in a flash. I don’t even know where she came from. “Please, refrain from personal insults.” Then, with a skin-twisting pinch to my waist, which hurt like a bitch, she slid an arm around my back and gave me the most beguiling smile. “Tony is not your punching bag.”

“I beg to differ,” I muttered into the whiskey glass she had thrust into my hand. “And, by the way, since everyone is making a habit of snitching on each other, Vincent is a bad influence on your old man. You can thank me for that tidbit of information later.”

“The only bad influence around here is you.” Alexa, with a subtle wince, accepted a glass of ice water from the uniformed waitress. “Vincent, where is Logan? I was looking forward to seeing him.”

“Logan is compliant.” Vincent adjusted the platinum hoop earring with a crucifix dangling from his lobe. “He has proven to be a remarkable young man: disciplined, well-mannered and well-behaved. I have no reason to control his every move if he conforms to house rules. I am sure you know that positive reinforcement encourages more good behaviour and, as a result, I allowed him to attend a party with friends. In return, he promised to be here before midnight.”

“Oh.” Alexa’s hand massaged the side of her stomach. “Well, I can’t wait to see him. Christmas Day feels like a lifetime ago.”

Logan slept at the Manor on Christmas Eve alongside Tony, Camilla, Vincent and Josh in preparation for Christmas Day celebrations. Supposedly, they wore comfortable loungewear, watched movies in the theatre room and depleted the vending machine’s snack chain within two hours.

I declined an invite to feast one’s eyes on Love Actually. I had better things to do than follow the lives of eight uncommunicative couples with complicated love lives. Besides, Mabel would have castrated the chopper between my legs for missing Dominic’s half-assed effort to throw chewed cookies on Santa’s tray. I had to get my Kris Kringle on and fill a stocking with small toys, sweets, chocolate, fruit and other gifts Mabel kindly purchased on the Coutts card.

Like any other good father, I stayed at the estate on Christmas Day with Dominic and Mabel until midday, opening and assembling presents and playing with new toys in the nursery. I drove to the Warren household shortly after, with my son and a crazy amount of stuffed animals in tow, to ingest a mouth-watering feast with the rest of the family.

Mabel chose to stay home with housekeeping, kitchen staff and service technicians. Gilbert served a traditional roast dinner in the kitchen of the annexe building, and then everyone gathered in the day room for mulled wine and a charcuterie board. I paid for the lavish, celebratory meal because, if I do say so myself, I am a fabulous boss, and I know how much the employees needed a little pick-me-up. I even chucked in three bottles of Dom Pérignon.

Sadly, Edith, the responsible, organised, hard-working manager of household affairs, is not around for the festive season. Gilbert found the clumsy old mare on the floor. A severe head injury, sustained from falling down the stairs if you can believe it. I had her buried on the estate.

Christmas was a day to remember, with exchanged gifts, games, activities and recollections that may vary. Dominic fell asleep on the sofa by seven p.m. Alexa offered to have him overnight so I could enjoy a night of liquor in the billiard room with the men. I think Alfie’s funeral, a private service held the week before, had mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted Warren’s wife. Between bereavement, pregnancy and hormones, she had a good enough reason to call it a night-bonus points for being the best aunt of the year.

Nate and Kade did not make an appearance. My friend and brother wanted quality time with his son. He texted, though, wishing everyone aMerry Christmas. He is supposed to be here tonight, that’s if he can get a trustworthy babysitter for Kade.

I, too, planned to sleep at the Manor on Christmas night. Whether Terrence had called or not, it would have been a late one because Vincent and Josh kept the drinks flowing and the music blaring. But, as the story goes, Emma caused quite the spectacle at her brother’s place, with close friends to bear witness, which eventually leaked into the street. A public display of aggression, sadness, shame and contempt.

I had to be there for her.

Terrence managed to get Emma home in one piece, but whilst he stood in the foyer, keeping tabs on her unpredictable movements, he overheard what can only be described as a mental breakdown. She flipped the switch, trashed her apartment and cried until she fell asleep on the floor. I should know. I found her in the living room, half-dressed and tear-stained.

Emma’s misery and despair tugged on my heartstrings. I dodged the mess on the floor, shattered baubles and damaged presents, went down on one knee and hoisted her limp, weightless body into my arms. And fuck, if that’s not where she belonged, in my protective hold, without error or judgment. I would have slept in her bed, by her side, all night if she’d promised exclusivity in the morning. But our relationship is a fanciful hope, a pipe dream, a figment of my imagination, a never going to happen conclusion.

I gave Emma a gift whilst she slept: a vermeil bracelet with clear quartz and rose quartz beads. I personally drove to a jewellery store in London and hand-picked the perfect present. It was inexpensive yet considerate. My girl believed in comforting crystals, the magical healing powers of stones that connected with the spirit world. She is powerless against sadness and loss in her darkest moments. The bracelet may provide a gleam of light.

“What’s wrong?” Vincent’s hand touched the small of Alexa’s back. “You look pained.”

“Tired.” Her breathing was a bit noisy. “It’s been a long night.”

My brows shifted upward.

The night had barely begun…

“Maybe I ate too much at breakfast.” Alexa’s fingers kneaded the base of her spine. “I will be fine once Logan arrives. I miss him.” Her stare drifted over the sea of heads in the courtyard. “And Celine is back.”

Everyone followed Alexa’s line of vision and, lo and behold, Nate, in a three-piece suit, with formal trousers, heavily starched collared shirt, classical Windsor knot, gold rings and diamond-encrusted necklace, sought for alliances, all while the blond bombshell in a pink, jewelled minidress and silver stilettos clambered his arm like a rabid chihuahua.

I grimaced at the ghastly sight. “I thought she bounced.”

“Likewise.” Vincent, though hardly conscious of it, glared at the lovesick duo with an expression of haughty disdain. “I do not trust her.”

Alexa’s eyes rolled. “That’s because you think everyone is some kind of suspect.”

Warren’s younger brother smiled proudly.

“A paranoid personality disorder is not something to brag about,” Alexa retorted, and Vincent’s smugness plummeted along with his smile. “Look, I know everyone has doubts and reservations, but judging the woman before we get to know her properly is unfair.”

“I don’t know, Alexa.” My arm draped across her shoulders as I pulled her to my side. “Nate is susceptible to villainous women. Have you forgotten Blaire?”

“I wish I could forget that vile bitch.” Alexa rubbed the expanse of her swollen stomach. “Right, they are headed this way. Be cool. Act normal. Pretend to like art or something.”

“Or something,” Vincent said whispery. “As a matter of fact, I am an art aficionado, so this encounter should be relatively painless.”

Tony’s brain caught up. “What kind of art?”

“Oh, you know.” Vincent brushed a finger along his upper lip. “The frowned-upon kind.”

Alexa is curious. “I am intrigued.”

“I have a predilection for thevisualgenre.” Vincent made eye contact with me as he sipped at the Norlan whiskey glass. “All past purchases were under budget, too.”

“Where do you store this art?” Tony, like father, like daughter, is on the hunt for answers. “At home, I assume.”

“Hardly.” Vincent clicked down a smartly dressed server and kindly requested a whiskey refill. “Yes, I have a painting or two in the master bedroom, but the preponderance of erotic depictions are protected like timeless treasures in a private members’ club.”

Tony is less than impressed. “And that, my friends, is my cue to leave.” He hugged Alexa first, kissed her on the temple and told her to take it easy. “Let us meet by the fountain at midnight to welcome the new year.”

Once Tony was out of earshot, on the prowl for Camilla, I am sure, I turned to Vincent and slapped a hand on his shoulder. “I have yet to receive a formal invite to this members-only club.”

“Monstrous inaccuracies.” Vincent whistled cigarette smoke through his lips. “I made aformalrequest for your attendance. You, however, chose sheer ignorance.”

Yes, well, I had nothing better to do these days. I might as well swing by the not-so-secret sex club for a night of observational research.

“Nate,” I blurted out with mock astonishment, eyes wild and mischievous. “What a surprise to see you here. How’s fatherhood treating you?” My friend came to a stop in front of me, with hands pushed into the deepest depths of his trouser pockets. “Is that a new suit?” His stare sharpened. “New shoes?” His head tilted slightly as if he could not differentiate between ridicule, sarcasm or profound adoration. “A carbon copy of your ex-girlfriend?”

Nate never so much as blinked. He knows what I am about. He has dealt with me for long enough. “You done?” Still, there was a flare to his nostrils, which rattled the nose ring. “Only, I ain’t got time for your shit.”

Eyes wide, I fake-gasped. “How will I ever survive such hostility?”

“Babe, I can handle him.” The blonde nymphette tapped his chest soothingly. “Okay, let’s get whatever this is ironed out. It was…very memorable the last time we met. I might have freaked out and run away.”

No, shit. I was there.

“And I regretted it instantly because I should have stayed and gotten to know everyone better. Nathaniel loves you all so much. He talks about you every day, so I knew I had to get the family’s approval if I wanted a chance with this guy.” Celine gave Nate a reassuring smile. “I had it all figured out. I’d smile, be polite, compliment everyone, and the rest is history. Only you saw through the bullshit and called me out on it. Then, to make matters worse, you told me everything I thought I knew was a lie. Nathaniel is not a gym instructor. He works for London’s most notorious crime lord.”

I looked at Alexa. Right now, she is calm and collected, but if Celine makes one negative comment about her husband, she will disregard the syndicate’s cardinal rules and threaten capital punishment.

“I needed some time to reach an acceptance. I mean, it’s not every day I get to meet suited gangsters.” Celine uttered a nervous laugh. “I had every right to be concerned. What if I get embroiled in crime? What if I have to carry out dangerous tasks? Or, what if I get killed by a rival gang?”

I might vomit.

Nate had an odd taste in women.

“But then, whether I approve of your lifestyle or not, I am truly, madly, deeply in love with this man. And his little boy.” Celine, having quoted Savage Garden, leaned into Nate’s side with the world’s largest smile on her cute but annoying face. “It will take more than guns and roses to scare me off.”

“A preposterous metaphor.” Vincent braced himself for an interruption that never came. “You are an unusual creature. But Alzaim approves, so who am I to judge?”

Celine blushed.

I glanced sidelong at Vincent. His nod of approval, of acceptance, raised a red flag. He is instinctively distrustful, sceptical and cynical about newcomers, so that swift, friendly, syndicate endorsement is uncharacteristicandquestionable.

“Well, I am glad you had a change of heart.” Alexa cut through the awkward tension. “Nate, has Celine signed a non-disclosure agreement?”

“Yes.” Nate’s heavy-lidded stare came to me. “I need your signature before I can close the case.”

Truthfully, I did not want to authorise the agreement. Celine is an outsider, a potential threat to the brothers and the institution. “I am going to need a background check first.” His love interest let out a dejected sigh. “Hey, it’s mandatory, not personal. Nothing to hide, nothing to fear, right?”

“Absolutely. I am here for the long run,” she said sweetly. “It was lovely meeting you all. Again.” Her hand latched onto Nate’s fingers as they made a beeline toward the Manor. “Let’s do shots later!”

“Awesome,” I replied, and Alexa elbowed me in the ribs. “What? I was nice.”

“You were sarcastic.” She linked our arms and led us into the kitchen, where guests thronged to the marble island for smoked salmon canapés and sparkling wine. “Jax is still on leave. I don’t think he will come back.”

Jax was Alfie’s secret lover. “Give him time.”

“I am worried about him.” A morsel of thinly sliced cucumber went into her mouth. “Do you think I should call him? Make sure he is okay.”

“No.” Jax will come back when he is good and ready. “Where is Jace? I thought he’d be here.”

“Jace is in the billiard room with Josh.” Her forearms leaned onto the kitchen counter as a look of discomfort crossed her pallid face. “What’s the time? I want to get this night over with.”

Alexa’s bored expression and moody demeanour sounded an alarm. I set the whiskey glass on the slate coaster, held the base of her spine and lowered my voice. “The party was your idea, Sugar Tits. Why the cold feet?”

“Yes.” Her white-knuckled hands grappled with a pile of satin napkins as her hips rocked, side to side. “And I regret it. I want a warm bath and a good night’s sleep. My ankles hurt.”

Sliding a hand down the back of her leg, I got down on one knee and, alternately, unlaced Manolo Blahnik’s open-toe sandals on her feet. “There.” I stood, reaching for the whiskey glass. “Pregnant in heels. I will never understand your logic.”

“My back is killing me.” Alexa stepped onto the cold marble floor one foot at a time, her toes wriggling with relief. “I must have slept awkwardly last night. I feel like a right off.”

“I can send everyone home,” I offered, and she grunted in disagreement. “Do you want to lie down? I can be a great party host.”

“Obviously, not,” she snapped, and I jerked back, miffed by the sudden attitude problem. “It’s New Year’s Eve. I have everyone I love under one roof. I have to sing Auld Lang Syne at the stroke of midnight and bang pots and pans in the street.”

I shot her a disgusted look. “You could not pay me to run outside and beat a frying pan with a spatula.”

Alexa breathed heavily. “I lied. Everyone I love is not under the same roof. I am missing two very important people,” she whispered, and when her eyes welled with tears, I could only scratch the back of my head in confusion. “Logan is not here. Liam…” Her lips fused tightly. “I miss my husband.”

Great. If she starts crying about Warren, I will start crying about Warren, and then everyone else will start crying because of an undeserving twat by the name of Warren.

“Don’t,” I warned, and she sniffled into the back of her hand. “Not now. Not tonight. I can’t go there.”

“I am allowed to be upset,” she bit my head off, wiping her nose with a used napkin. “Oh, God. That smells like cottage cheese. Who eats cottage cheese? It’s disgusting.” The napkin landed in the bin. “I never ordered cottage cheese.”

“Right. Cottage cheese. You hate it. Duly noted. Have you lost the plot?” Seriously, what’s gotten into her? “Are you sick? Do I need to call a doctor? You are behaving like a spoiled brat.”

“Thanks.” Alexa’s response was mildly sardonic. “If the crown fits, I shall wear it.” Then, as if I couldn’t get any more confused, she made a long, low sound of pain as her forehead descended to the counter. “I might take you up on the offer to carry me up the stairs.”

I never offered to carry anyone up those never-ending steps. “Sugar Tits, I will not pretend to understand this mood swing. Jace is the guy for the job.” Knocking back the last remnants of whiskey, I placed the empty glass on the coaster and headed for the exit. “I will send him over…” I watched in stark horror as a trickle of fluid meandered down her leg. “Alexa, what the fuck?”

“Oh, God.” Alexa, with eyes rounded in sheer embarrassment, cradled her protruding bump. “Brad…”

I studied the ever-growing pool of what looked like water on the floor between her bare feet. “Did you…?”

“No, I did not urinate…” Yet, she seemed frightfully unsure. “At least, I don’t think I did.”

“What have I missed?” Jace, better late than never, flung an arm over her tense shoulders. “Josh is a sore loser. I whooped his ass at snooker…” He glimpsed at the floor to see what stole our attention, then did a double-take. “Oh, shit. Are you okay?”

Alexa’s head shook.

“What?” My eyebrows went together. “Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on?”

“Her waters broke.” Jace dropped a tea towel on the floor to discreetly cover the wet patch and slipped another tea towel between her thighs. He studied her twisted features. “When did the pain start?”

“I woke up with niggles this morning,” Alexa admitted, and I had to refrain from scolding her. The vixen should have told me sooner. “I thought it was Braxton Hicks. I had the same dull ache last week and the week before that. The midwife said it was false labour pains.” When she perceived the frustration etched across my face, she mounted the pinnacle of defensiveness. “How was I supposed to know tonight was any different? I have never had a baby before…” Her forearms returned to the counter, and the back-and-forth hip movements soon followed. “The pain has gotten progressively worse throughout the night. What should I do?”

Jace stared at the Rolex on his wrist.

I, however, loitered like a wordless muppet.

“I am not even ready for the baby.” Alexa respired a ragged breath, her spine straightening as she stood to her full height. “I haven’t finished the nursery.” Her hand drew lazy circles on her stomach. “Or packed an overnight bag.”

I might die from nausea. “Sailor will pack an overnight bag.”

“I have to tell the guests to leave.” A single bead of sweat ran down her forehead. “They will be so disappointed.”

They can find a nearby pub. “Sailor will hurl the guests’ in the gutter.”

“Liam hasn’t responded to the letter.” Alexa uncapped a bottle of water and drank thirstily. “He never replied, Brad. He doesn’t want children. I knew as much and pestered him anyway…” Her moisturised lips flattened. “I need warm socks.”

Warren is an ignorant prick. “Sailor will get you a pair of socks.”

“Josh is busy with the brunette…” Alexa squirmed on the spot, then rested her elbows on the counter to repeat that strange hip action. “Oh, God. Why did I do this to myself?”

Jace is back to studying his wristwatch.

“Last I checked, it takes two people to create a life…” I felt like a spare part, unsure of what to do or what to say. “Are you in pain right now? Paracetamol, perhaps”

Alexa scowled, her flushed cheeks blowing out like a pufferfish.

Unlocking my phone, I clicked on Vincent’s name and sent a text message. If Alexa is in labour, I will need all the help I can get.

Me: Alexa is compromised.

Message read.

Vincent: I beg your pardon.

Me: Her waters broke.

Vincent: Where is she?

Me: Kitchen.

When the text message remained unanswered, I tucked the phone in my trouser pocket, listening to Jace murmur numbers to himself. “What are you doing?” I asked, not that he replied. “Can someone communicate with me?”

Alexa breathed out a small, calm sigh, holding the sopping-wet tea towel between her clenched thighs. “That one lasted longer.”

“We need to get to the hospital.” Jace grabbed the leather jacket slung on the back of the stool and shoved his arms into the sleeves. “Her contractions are four minutes apart.”

I am not stoned enough for this madness. I knew this day would come eventually, but nothing could have prepared me for the arrival of Warren’s firstborn child. It is a big deal, one of the greatest moments in the history of Warren Enterprise. If something goes wrong, if anything bad happens to Alexa or the baby, he will never forgive me. He will hold me accountable. He will more than likely kill me.

Suddenly, I did not want the responsibility of his family’s safety on my shoulders. I might hand in my notice. Move to The Cook Islands. I could live on a palm-fringed beach and avoid the aquamarine lagoons like the plague.

“Brad!” Jace barked, and I flinched back to the present. “If we do not get the car and drive to the hospital right now, Alexa will be giving birth in the fucking kitchen.”

Christ, I felt sicker than a ward full of patients at death’s door. I have never known fear quite like it.

CHAPTER FORTY

Brad

St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington, the city of Westminster, London, is only thirty minutes away from Warren Manor, Bishops Avenue, if you avoid motorway tolls and traffic congestion. Alexa, a patient of Imperial Private Healthcare, is due to arrive at The Lindo Wing. The ward of choice, equipped with obstetricians, top medical staff and a team of dedicated midwives, prepared a personalised care plan prior to the anticipated accouchement of Liam Warren’s firstborn child. The highest quality of care for the underworld’s royal heir and rightful successor is of vital importance.

As pre-agreed and pre-planned, Alexa, in accord with the chief midwifery officer, should be in the modern, private suite or taking advantage of the ward’s state-of-the-art facilities. Instead, she is slumbered in the Bentley Mulsanne’s heated leather seat, the material of her dress hiked to the apex of her thighs, the sole of her bare feet balancing on the chair between my thighs and the hair of an infuriated goddess thrown into a shabby bird’s nest.

I have spent the preceding hours speculating about life, the silent observer in the physical presence of a maniacal pregnant woman threatening to emasculate every man within her reach, as if everyone unfortunate enough to be the owner of a fantabulous cock, with the exception of Warren, the solipsistic wanker, is solely responsible for her current miserable state.

Trust me to try and make time for important reflection when the coarse-mannered banshee of London is weathering the storm of unspoken rejection, somatic pain and inchoate furry. I should be attentive to Warren’s wife, not preoccupied with visions of how to manifest the law of attraction.

“What is taking so long?” Alexa whimpered in discomfort, her knees lifting restlessly as hard contractions and muffled sobs racked her body. “Please, I need some pain relief. Are we almost at the hospital?”

The gridlocked motorway is a nightmarish vision of what lies ahead. Hundreds of motorists in traffic and travel chaos fought with car horns, filthy obscenities and vile profanities to make it home for New Year’s Eve celebrations.

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we are not moving any time soon. The Bentley is stuck between articulated lorries loaded with freight transport, overcrowded motorcoaches and impatient city cars.

The hard shoulder is an exit route. Even then, the emergency stopover will only provide a temporary solution, a short break from the long, calamitous queue of stationary traffic.

“Can someone roll down the window, please?” Alexa asked, but no one moved a muscle. The men, relatively immobile and silently perturbed, opted for blissful ignorance. “I cannot see anything through the privacy glass.”

It is better for everyone if the boss’s wife is incognizant of the motorway’s standstill. If she sees the long delays outside, she will climb out of the limousine and walk to the hospital in a pitiful attempt of bare-footed stubbornness. I would rather save myself the hours of melodrama.

“Brad?” A pretence of calmness and collectedness masqueraded Alexa’s no-nonsense approach. “Why are you so quiet?” Her hips rocked back and forth, the seat squeaking in protest as she stretched for relaxation and comfort. “What is wrong with your voice? Are you present?”

“No, I am not present.” My tone dripped with not-so-innocent raillery. “I am on a remote island set along the Caribbean coast, relaxing in a pink, inflatable flamingo, catching a well-deserved sun tan whilst drinking piña colada through a fucking straw!” Christ, I would sell vital organs to the black market for a unique stay in isolated picturesqueness. Anything but this craziness. “Is that alright with you, Your Majesty?”

“You are positively insufferable.” The demonic feline disguised in red fabric repositioned onto her side to relieve the strain in her back. “You offer little assistance and even less reassurance.”

My eyes flew heavenward.

“The well-timed eye-roll says a lot about your personality.” Her rose-coloured nose wrinkled when another painful contraction occurred. “Stop looking at me like I have gone nuts!”

“Where the fuck do you want me to look, huh?” Laughing on the inside like a homicidal maniac, I folded my arms over my chest and focussed on the Bentley’s impeccable interior. “I am confined to a small space with you, you nutty fucker!”

“Can everyone just calm down?” Jace undertook the mediation of irate friends, which proved to be pretty pointless because the two of us were too stubborn for our own good. “Brad, be patient.”

“I have the patience of a goddamn saint where she is concerned,” I fired back, and the disrespectful mare scoffed at me. “Alexa, so help me, God, I will put you over my knee.”

“Yeah,right,” Alexa muttered something unrepeatable under her breath. “And get amniotic fluid all over the three-thousand-pound suit? Pigs will fly beforethathappens. Ah, shit.” Holding drenched, bloodied tea towels between her legs, she bewailed the consequences of unprotected sex. “Oh, God! Why did I think having a baby was a good idea? I have never experienced pain like it before in my life.”

My nerves are shot. I am mentally and emotionally exhausted. If I could take away Alexa’s suffering, I would do it in a heartbeat. But I am helpless, useless and purposeless. The most I can offer is moral support.

In a great deal of distress, Alexa made twitchy movements in the leather chair. Her body is crippled with labour pains. When she endeavoured to lessen the extremely strong cramping in her abdomen, groin and back with rhythmic breathing, position changes and controlled vocalisations, muscle contraction seemed to worsen. “Can someone please open the fucking window?” Her anger soared to dangerous heights. “I should not have to ask more than once!”

“It is broken,” I lied, her thumbs beating seven shades of shit out of the power window switch. “Will you desist from destroyingirreplaceablevehicles?”

The sadistic siren is a furious hater, looking at my hair like she wanted to rip it out of my scalp, at my flawless face like she wanted to rearrange it.

I snatched her slender forearm. Her hot, sweaty skin had my fingers flexing worriedly. My fingertips travelled the length of her arm until the underside of her bracelet-burdened wrist caressed my thumb and threaded our fingers together in an unspoken vow of love, loyalty and respect.

Togetherness and comradeship.

The definition of us.

Alexa is the annoying sister I never asked for, but I would not change her for the world. Sibling support is unwavering, love is unconditional, and tonight, when she blamed me for her anguish, when she yelled and cried and promised never to speak to me again, I will be by her side, holding her hand, helping her breathe through emotional turmoil. Not for the Brotherhood. Not for the institution. Not for Warren Enterprise or even Warren himself. I will do it for her because I love her like any brother loves hispestiferouslittle sister.

“This is a quarter of a million-pound car. A justifiable purchase for any Bentley connoisseur.” Still, in true Brad Jones fashion, I belied respect and adoration in exchange for feigned yet professional antagonism since one thing I have learnt about Alexa Warren over the years is that she is most responsive to toxic circumstances. It’s like she gets off on it. Thus Warren is the perfect man. His level of masculine toxicity is unrivalled as per his wife’s expectations. “Its rarity, provenance and equipment mean a replacement is virtually impossible. Warren loves you. But luxury cars are the man’s valued possessions.” Her fingers slowly withdrew from the power window switch. “He shot a negligent motorcyclist for clipping the wing mirror once.”

Alexa smiled for the first time in over an hour, albeit flushed and reduced to sweat. “I am untouchable.” Her toes curled around the edge of the leather seat between my slackened thighs when an evident contraction slammed into her writhing body. “Even at the hands of mykillerhusband.”

Josh, the designated, sickly pale driver, who has spent the better part of thisjoyfulcar journey in silent contemplation, snorted amusedly. “I hear no lies.”

“Her restored confidence is staggering.” Vincent, the shotgun passenger, used a sharp switchblade to peel a waxy green apple. “Although, as strange as it may seem, I cannot argue with facts. I could say, with absolute certitude, that my brother would set every vehicle he owned on fire if his precious wife demanded it. The Mulsanne included.”

Vincent is not wrong. Alexa has always been Warren’s greatest weakness. He does not think like a rational, level-headed man when she is around. He throws the role of criminal codes out the window if she so much as looks at him. If those eyelashes flutter, he goes down on one knee as a sign of respect and promises to deliver the bloodied hearts of her most hated enemies on a gold platter. Gruesome poetics, that’s if you are into the whole dark romance malarkey.

Nevertheless, I will not endure another five seconds of this woman’s bizarre behaviour. If she wants to dismantle syndicate vehicles, she can do it on her own time and when I am not in attendance.

“Thank you, Vincent.” In a dramatic performance, Alexa changed position on the seat, her knees supporting the weight of her body, which shook like a leaf, as she grasped the headrest between rigid fingers. I saw way too much backside for it to be deemed acceptable or appropriate. “At least I can rely on you to see the bigger picture.”

There is no “bigger picture” to be seen. Alexa is fucking bonkers on a normal day, never mind when ensnared in pain-induced delirium. At this point, I don’t even think she even knows what the fuck she’s saying.

Alexa’s head fell forward, exposing the nape of her sweat-soaked neck. The white gold chain, a gift from her husband, snaked into erogenous areas. “Oh, God. I can’t take much more.” Her fingernails scratched the seat’s leather finish. “I need a tranquilliser. Just put me to sleep. I don’t care how you do it.”

“Alexa.” Jace, the voice of reasoning on her left, rubbed the lowest part of her back. “Breathing exercises are effective modalities for labour pain.” His jaw muscle was firm with tension. “Breathe through your nose and sigh through your mouth. In and out. Nice and slow.”

Alexa’s face was glued to the headrest, the perspiration on her pink-bespattered forehead trickling down her temples.

“Keep breathing,” Jace encouraged, and the repetitiveness of her rough, raspy breath activated. “Good girl.”

“Don’t say that to me,” she choked up with inconsolable broken-heartedness, and he shot me a glance of perplexity that besought answers I refused to provide. “Why has the car stopped? I should be at the hospital by now. Can someone tell me what the Hell is going on? I-Oh, God.” Another contraction sent her body crashing and falling into the seat. “Brad, please. I need to find a restroom. I can feel something…” Her hand disappeared between her trembling legs, where blood intermixed with amniotic fluid left stomach-churning streaks on her skin. “Can someone fucking do something?!”

Jace’s eyes rounded.

“Console the shrieking pregnant woman before I die from nausea!” Josh, with sallow-skinned, dull-eyed apprehensiveness, pounded at the steering wheel. “I need to get off the crazy train. I need to-”

“Spare me the idiosyncrasies and eccentricities.” Vincent’s hackles rose, and unpreventable indignation precipitated an outpouring of splenetic vitriol. “If bodily fluid is intolerable, I suggest a new career path. You are clearly not the right man for the job.”

“Fuck you, Vincent.” Josh’s hands gripped the steering wheel firmly. “Killing a random person by exsanguination is different. I am not emotionally connected to randomers. Alexa is my friend. Her pain might as well be my pain. I have vicarious goosebumps, for fuck’s sake.”

“How empathetic of you.” Vincent’s switchblade stuck out of the half-peeled apple. “There may be hope for you yet.”

“His sarcasm has no limits.” Josh swivelled in the driver’s seat to deal with Vincent head-on, to defend himself in the face of adversity. “I visualise your death on a daily basis. Nothing too drastic. Buried alive works.”

“It is good to know I occupy your mind on such an obsessive and imaginative scale.” Vincent’s jaw is set in a hard line. He wanted to rehome the switchblade in Josh’s neck. I saw the evil glint in his eyes as he contemplated the aftermath of the lad’s death and the risk of disownment if his older brother found out. “I feel honoured.”

Jace pinched the bridge of his nose. “Will you both shut the fuck up?”

Raised voices and abusive language merging into one, I shouldered the limousine door open and practically fell out of the car, with arms and legs flailing to regain equilibrium.

My cheek cushioned the impact of face-planted clumsiness. If I have incurred one mark or scuff on this beautiful countenance, I will murder the first passing motorist in sight.

Getting to my feet, standing tall yet weak and shaky at the knees, I dragged my feet across the asphalt and, hands grasped to the back of my head, catalogued the interminable maelstrom of fighting vehicles, beaming headlights and exhaust smoke.

Yeah, the parade of flashing lights is not good. Not good at all.

Alexa’s muffled cries sent my brain into a riot, into a hodgepodge of deep-rooted uncertainties and unblockable anxieties. I had this overpowering desire to flee as far as possible, to run full-pelt down the motorway and depart responsibilities with marked urgency, as if under the influence of mind compulsion. “I don’t know what to do,” I said angrily to no one in particular. Then, I had a light bulb moment, a realisation that Dr Death is a dab hand at surgical procedures. He will have the answers. “Nate.”

In a cold sweat, I crawled into the limousine on my hands and knees. I shut the door behind me and uprooted the phone, thumbing through contacts to call a lifeline.

“Brad,” Alexa called, but I distracted myself with the phone to my ear. “Please, I have to use the bathroom…”

Drowning out the woman’s cry of pain, I waited for the call to connect. Then, like a true saviour, the man spoke directly in my ear, reducing stress with his baritone voice alone. “Nate.” My eyes squeezed shut in momentary gratitude. “Where are you?”

“I am at the Manor with Celine, babysitting the in-laws,” he stated the obvious. “That’s the job, right? You ordered as much before you left.”

“Well, I changed my mind.” My face burnt with an acute sense of panic. “I need you here, in the limo, with Alexa. Go to London Biggin Hill and get the helicopter. It is an emergency.”

“The what?” He quite literally shrieked down the phone. “Brad, you can’t be serious. I am not authorised to fly any of Warren’s aircrafts. Shit, I don’t even have a fucking pilot’s licence. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“You are a criminal. You are above the law. You do not need a legitimate pilot’s licence. Just…throttle the bitch and get her moving.” With a grunt, I thrust a hand through my hair, listening to the man’s unceasing complaints. “Stop chatting shit and get the blades in the goddamn air!”

“No,” Nate refused to cooperate, and I saw the colour red in every corner of the limousine. “I can’t, and I won’t. It’s a suicide mission. It’s most definitely not worth the potential backlash. What I can do is jump in the Audi and drive to you. Take it or leave it.”

“There is not enough time,” I argued with him in quest of acquiescence, and he paused, mute and unforthcoming, waiting for an explanation. “Traffic jam. Huge. We have not budged in almost two hours. If I do not get Alexa to the hospital, I will have a motorway baby on my hands…” My fingers gripped the phone as I watched the boss’s wife fall apart in the eyes of multiple observers. “Childbirth is not my area of expertise.”

Alexa’s hand landed on Jace’s shoulder, and she squeezed with knuckle-white tenacity. Double-peaking contractions surged through her body once more, just as powerful as before, as she bore down in the chair.

“Shit,” Nate whispered, overhearing the woman’s moaning voice and melancholy in the background. “You need to get off the motorway, like, yesterday.”

Knowing I had to take matters into my own hands, I ended the call, chucked the phone onto the spare seat and doffed the suit jacket with newfound confidence.

“Josh, pull onto the hard shoulder. Now,” I ordered, and Josh, the nervous wreck of a driver, re-fired the engine and swerved the vehicle into the emergency stopping lane. “Jace, I need you to put those friendship skills to the test.”

“What is going on?” Josh, with a worried expression, turned in the driver’s seat to glance into the passenger compartment. “This better not be what I think it is, or I promise you, I will faint.”

“Alexa?” Jace lost the leather jacket, tossing it on the floor somewhere. “Do you trust me?” Her response came out as a pained moan. “Josh, look in the overnight bag for a clean towel. Be quick.”

Everyone moved into action. I unbuttoned the shirt, tore it off my body and somehow managed to coax Alexa into a face-to-face conversation. “I need you to sit down for me, Sugar Tits.” Her arm hung around my shoulders with insuperable listlessness. “We need that towel, Josh! And a fucking ambulance!”

Jace used the discarded shirt to cover the seat in time for Alexa’s backside to ease into position. Then, thanking Josh for the overnight bag, the syndicate’stoolbag, one of many, he found a pair of disposable sterile gloves and, with a slight tremor in his fingers, covered his inked hands.

“What are you doing?” Alexa’s thighs moved up and down in pursuit of comfort and solace. “Guys, I need the toilet. Why is no one listening to me? I don’t want to do it in front of you.” Her face, bright red and bathed in sweat, scrunched up. “Oh, God!” Her scream burst an eardrum. “Fuck this shit. I am done. I am so done.”

The side door opened.

A cold breeze.

“Ambulance is en route.” Vincent lingered outside, in need of fresh air and a stretch of his legs. “How is she?”

“What do you think?” I asked with the furiousness of an old, curmudgeon man. “She is about to give birth on the side of the motorway. Does that answer your question?”

Vincent’s jaw steeled.

“I will not deliver the baby here.” Alexa’s big doe-eyes, framed by strands of wet hair, marked my every move inquisitorially as I tugged the material of the dress to her hips, where I proceeded, with eyes trained ahead, in respect of her privacy, to tear the lace, water-soaked knickers down her stiff legs. “Brad…Oh, No.” Her head thrashed against the leather seat. “Not again.”

“Give me your shirt,” I demanded with a held-out hand, and Vincent stared at my palm as though it offended him to look at. “Come on, Vincent. I do not have all night.”

Balancing an unlit cigarette on his bottom lip, Vincent peeled out of the suit jacket, ripped through the seam of his shirt, fired buttons across the floor and, leaving himself bare-chested in freezing temperatures, handed over the goods. “This is unbelievable.”

Tossing the shirt to Jace, I examined the surgical steel barbells in Vincent’s nipples. “You are pierced.”

“And?” A crease formed between furiously gathered eyebrows. “Save your judgments, Jones. I never asked for approval.”

Vincent’s bejewelled nipples are his prerogative. Each to their own, I guess. I never fancied myself with barbells, or any other piercing, for that matter. One, it looked extremely painful. My pecs throbbed at the dire thought. Two, the healing process is a huge turn-off. Imagine having a sore chest for six months. Yeah, no thanks. Not on my watch. Three, I have to get out of my head and focus on the task ahead. It is concerning how random musings can be so distracting.

“Alexa, I do not want you to panic. I have to see what’s going on down there.” Clutching the woman’s knee, Jace’s gloved hand went between her legs after a moment’s hesitation. She recoiled slightly, embarrassed by tonight’s unexpected circumstances. “Shit. We have to get this baby out.”

“You think?” Alexa spoke sharply. “I need to use the bathroom!”

“Not yet…” Jace, face twisting with internal conflict, peered under the shirt draped across Alexa’s thighs and, fuck, if I did not envy him. He came back whiter than a ghost, paler than my taut tushy in the winter months of scarce sunrays. “Jones…”

“What?” Josh’s head appeared through the front seats. “Oh, fuck that. Why is there so much blood on the seat? I am out before I pass out.”

“Put a fucking sock in it, Sailor.” Perceiving Jace’s concern, I almost stood, not overly sure where I planned to go, when Alexa’s hands shot up and clung to the planes of my shoulders. “Alexa, I am no good to anyone, especially you.”

“Please, don’t leave me.” Her fingernails pierced the bare skin of my back as instinct took control of her body and urged her to push. “Brad!”

Fixated on monitoring Alexa’s erratic breathing, I kissed the side of her head and, tasting salty moisture on my lips, whispered words of encouragement in her ear. I will be left with indents on my skin subsequent to the woman’s emotional pandemonium.

“Alexa, slow down.” Jace’s left hand rested on her knee as he fumbled with Vincent’s shirt to cover her most intimate area. “Can someone track down this fucking ambulance?” He looked at me, searching for answers in my eyes. “I don’t want to fuck this up, Brad.”

Alexa’s teeth gritted. Her body knew what to do, even if she did not, even if we fell victim to second-guessing ourselves and procrastinated. Inclination quashed fear and doubt, and with the help of everyone she loved, she listened to Jace’s advice through intervals of sadness and enervation because she trusted him with her life, with her baby’s safe arrival.

“Breathe.” Jace kept a hand between the junction of her abdomen and thigh as he wiped the blood on the seat. “Does anyone have eyes on the time?”

“Yes.” Watching the scene unfold with an unreadable expression, Vincent chewed his thumbnail. “Every minute feels like an hour.”

“I can’t do it. It hurts too much.” Alexa, having lost heart and strength, sobbed into the groove of her arm. “I am not strong enough.”

“Don’t do that.” Fisting her hair, I brought her eyes to me, so lost and defeated. “Bossman would tear you a new arsehole if he heard you talking like that. You are not a defeatist.” Taking her hand in mine, I interlocked our fingers and brushed a thumb over her knuckles. “You are one of the strongest women I have ever met. You can and you will.” My determined stare had her head nodding agreeably. “Everyone is ready to meet Warren’s kid. You got this.”

In teary-eyed resoluteness, Alexa grasped my hand with all her might and pushed until red-faced, grunting and struggling. She followed Jace’s instructions like a champ, grinding down on her teeth, taking breaks to catch her breath and bearing down the baby.

“I am going to be sick,” were Josh’s parting words, the car door rattling on its hinges. A surge of vomit splattered on the floor outside. He choked, heaved, gasped and swore to resign in the morning.

“Alexa, hang back,” Jace advised her, and I spied something on the seat between her restless legs. “No, do not push.” Her fingers shook vigorously in my soft hold. “Brad, I need you to distract her for me.”

I smiled at her, waiting for him to check the umbilical cord was not wrapped around the baby’s neck. “You are doing so well,” I said quietly in her ear, not that anything I had to say alleviated the pressure and pain she felt. “Warren would be so proud.”

“Brad, I have to push.” Alexa is thoroughly defeated. Her body trembled from head to toe, silent tears streaming down her blotchy cheeks as Jace’s gloved finger smoothed around the baby’s head. “I can’t help it. I’m so sorry. I-Ah,” she hissed, the overpowering urge to relieve herself of present obligations too insurmountable. “Oh, God. I can’t do this anymore. Just wait for the paramedics. I want a caesarean birth.”

“You are almost there.” Jace reached for the clean towel, one-handedly unfolded it across his thigh and prepared for the final stage of Alexa’s labour. “I need you to push down, Alexa. Push as hard as you can, okay?”

Trusting her instinct, Alexa took a few deep breaths whilst the contraction peaked and pushed with everything she had. Her grip on my hand never wavered. Fingernails taking chunks out of my knuckles, she bared her teeth in a noiseless snarl and used every ounce of energy she had to bring the baby into everyone’s waiting arms.

“Keep pushing.” Jace’s gloved hand supported the baby’s head, the body easing out one shoulder after another. “That’s it, Alexa. One more push-”

An unfamiliar, low-pitched yet forceful cry interrupted the commotion like a sweet symphony.

In complete and utter exhaustion, Alexa’s head fell back, the most relieved whimper on her dry lips. And then, after years of heartache, lost hope and endless failures, I witnessed the exact moment when Jace lifted the baby onto Alexa’s chest.

“It’s a girl,” Jace confirmed, and Alexa, placing a protective hand on the baby’s back, burst into happy tears. Her quivering lips, kissing the baby’s furrowed forehead, whispered promises. “And she is beautiful, just like her mother.”

Well, I will be damned.

A healthy baby girl and a mob of psychotic uncles.

You better embrace life in a gilded cage, princess, because I will die before I let something bad happen to you.

Jace studied the pair of them together with glassy eyes. Alexa soon noticed the man’s scrutiny, and when she looked up, elated but confused, her face softened, and her happiness dwindled. “Thank you,” she whispered, reaching out to palm his jaw. “I know this must be hard for you.”

“No.” His lips pressed to the underside of her wrist. “I am happy for you, Alexa. Loyally bound, remember? Nothing will ever change that.”

Falling back on my haunches, I wiped the sweat from my brow and glanced at Vincent, who stood with arms crossed by the open door, the proudest smile on his face. “Congratulations, Uncle Vinny.”

Vincent nodded, grateful for the acknowledgement.

“Although, I should warn you,” I bantered for shits and giggles, and his smile widened as he braced himself for insults. “I am already her favourite uncle.”

His watchful gaze settled on Alexa and the baby in the Bentley’s passenger compartment. “I will have to take your word for it.”

“Those paramedics are useless.” Jace removed the gloves, hurled them over his shoulder and carefully placed the clean towel over the baby’s back. “I won’t touch the umbilical cord. That’s on the professionals.” He glimpsed at the Rolex on his wrist. “Almost midnight. Happy New Year to each and every one of you. I earned myself a shot of vodka.”

“There is a minibar down the back. Knock yourself out.” Pulling myself onto the spare seat next to Alexa, I stared at the baby, with a mop of jet-black hair, the cutest rose-bud lips and painfully familiar blue eyes. “Welcome to our world, Bean.” I kissed the mother’s cheek for good measure. “Trust you to be difficult and have a girl,” I half-joked, and Alexa laughed airily. “Warren will have a stroke when he finds out.”

Warren’s wife smiled the proudest of smiles.

My thumb traced the baby’s tiny curled-up fist on her mother’s chest. Her lips smacked together in a cute sucking motion. Someone is hungry. “You look like your father.” My heart thumped wildly in my chest. “You don’t know him yet, but someday, way into the future, you will get to meet him and show him the true meaning of love at first sight, for you will be the apple of his eye, the air that he breathes and the reason for his very existence.”

Bean’s eyebrows knitted as her eyelashes fluttered onto her cheeks. Her peaceful slumber eventuated.

“I never thought I could love him more than I do right now in this special moment.” Alexa’s cheek gently touched the top of the baby’s head. “Liam gave me the most treasured gift.” The sound of emergency sirens blared in the distance. “And she is so loved.”