I love him. I hate this. But I don’t know what else to do.
Myles
I paid Jared five hundred grand. I would have paid far more, if he’d pushed things. But he didn’t, and now he’s screwed. Payment came with a contract that he had to sign, giving me the digital files of all his images of Zara and me, as well as the copyright to them, with a penalty clause far exceeding my payout to him if any of the images ever appear anywhere.
He signed, of course. Couldn’t take my money fast enough. Then had the nerve to offer to send me a reel of his work. I told him where to shove it.
And then I made some phone calls. Just to a few people, ones I can trust to be discreet. Said nothing directly, just hinted that I’d heard Banks was a pretty unreliable videographer, that maybe they should pass that on. His professional reputation, whatever it was, is now shredded.
Like I say, he’ll regret trying to hurt me and, more importantly, Zara. I’m sure those damn tabloid photos are part of the reason she won’t speak to me. She still thinks it’s her fault, Eloise tells me.
Eloise is back in the office and my life is running smoothly once more, except for the fact that Zara isn’t in it. I have to fight myself every day to not press Eloise for more information about her. I know Eloise wants to say something as well; I can see by the way she glances at me then looks down, her mouth tightening.
I fucking hate this. But I need to respect Zara’s wishes. Iwas the one who screwed up, so, if she’s going to come back to me, I know it needs to be on her terms. I’ve given her space before. I can do it again, even though it’s destroying me.
Eloise comes into my office now, a folder containing a sheaf of documents in her hands.
“More things to sign?” I try to sound pleasant. Throwing myself into work to avoid my feelings seemed like a good idea at the time, but it’s starting to grate on me, affecting my mood. Nothing seems quite right since I lost Zara, and I know I’ve been more gruff than usual.
“Mmm-hmm,” she says, not meeting my eye. “And Lucie has sent through another message, wanting to confirm you want pockets in every one of the women’s dresses for the new collection?”
“That’s correct.” I’ve already emailed Lucie about this. My heart aches at the memory of Zara in my office, blushing as she told me what was wrong with the dresses. She was spot on, of course. I was right to offer her that design assistant job; if we hadn’t gone through what we did, she’d be starting it now.
Eloise drops the file folder on my desk. It lands with a bang, rattling the pens in the jar. I blink, looking up.
“That’s it,” she says, an unaccustomed hardness to her pleasant face. “That. Is. It.”
I wait, one eyebrow raised. The ache in my chest is still there.
“She’s leaving.” Eloise’s cheeks are red, her eyes bright. “She’s leaving London and you’re going to lose her and that’s just about the stupidest thing I ever heard.”
“What?” My heart sinks.
“Look, I’m sorry. I know I’m crossing a line, and she wouldn’t want me to say this. But I can’t stay quiet anymore, not with her languishing alone in her room and you growling around the place like… like an angry bear or something!” Eloise’s clipped tones are rough, her arms folded. “She’s my best friend, and she deserves better.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do, El?” I rake my hand through my hair, trying not to think about how it felt to run my fingers through Zara’s silken tresses. “She won’t take my calls, ignores my messages, returns my gifts. What does she want?”
Eloise’s angry expression softens. “She wants you, Myles. That’s all,” she says. “And you’re a fucking billionaire. You know where she lives. So why don’t you get creative and sort it out?”
ChapterThirty-Eight
Zara
London is beautiful at this time of year. The sun emerges after what seems like months of dull grey, the river sparkling. Trees are acid-green with new leaves, blossom in the gardens drifting petals like a bride’s confetti.
Perhaps it seems even more beautiful because I’m leaving. Despite Eloise’s repeated pleas I’m going, the day after tomorrow. My new job, working as a personal assistant for the owner of a garden centre, starts in two weeks, so I want to give myself time to get settled. My mortgage came through and the studio apartment, the top floor of an old Victorian mansion, is mine.
I should be excited.
But I’m not. I lie on my bed, my neighbour’s cat curled up next to me, my hand on her soft fur. I think about Myles again, just as I do every day. He hasn’t messaged for a few days, and I wonder if he’s given up. Perhaps that’s for the best. But once again I’m back on the terrace with him, swaying to the sounds of the Moroccan orchestra, feeling safe and warm in his arms.
The music gets louder, and it’s almost as if I’m there. I close my eyes, tears leaking down my cheeks. Maybe leaving is a huge mistake. I imagine another scenario, one where I tell Big Red to get fucked and get out of the bed, and I stay with Myles.
Then I hear shouting. I open my eyes, the fantasy drifting apart like smoke. But I can still hear the Moroccan orchestra. Am I going mad?
I sit up, realising the music seems to be coming from outside. Perhaps there’s a festival or something on I hadn’t realised, London’s multicultural heart beating. I go to my window and pull up the sash, leaning out.
And my heart seems to stop.
