‘I think so,’ I say. It makes sense and explains why he came storming in so furious and red-faced.
This should be a good thing. Agreatthing, even. Imani’s plan has worked spectacularly, exactly as she wanted it to.
And yet, there’s no rush of satisfaction. No moment of triumph, or at least not the kind I used to crave. Instead, all I feel is this low-grade dread, like we’ve set something in motion that can’t be shoved quietly back under the rug.
I think back to last night and wish we could’ve had more time together, just the two of us. I catch Imani’s eye again. I’m not sure if it’s just wishful thinking or what, but for a fleeting moment, I get the feeling that she’s wishing for the same thing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXImani
I’m late. Again.
It’s become something of a recurring theme in my life lately – running late, running away, running from things I don’t want to face. Mostly Asher.
I’ve become an expert at avoidance, perfecting the art of pretending I’m suddenly, tragically, extremely busy every time his name flashes across my phone screen. It’s cowardly, I know, but I don’t know what else to do. Because how do you go back to pretending to hate someone when you’ve had their mouth on your most intimate parts, and their voice in your ear whispering sweet nothings that made your heart forget how to function?
You don’t.
At least, not gracefully.
Sometimes, in my more delusional moments, I tell myself that I’m not avoiding him because I’m scared but because it’spractical. Strategic, even. The @TrustFundTea crowd has certainly noticed our absence from the social scene these past two weeks, which makes it easier to pretend like avoiding Asher has some kind of ultimate purpose. It’s not quite as socially devastating as having an argument in public, but it’s something and I’ll take what I can get right now.
My driver pulls to a stop and all thoughts of Asher evaporate from my mind, replaced with a slightly more pressing issue.
I used to look forward to meals with my parents. That was back when dinner meant echoing laughter and real conversation. Now, dinners with them feel like a performance review for a job I never even applied for, one where the promotion comes with a husband I didn’t choose and a future that doesn’t feel like mine.
Anxiety settles in the pit of my stomach as my driver opens the door. It’s been two weeks since France and every time I’ve been in contact with my father since then, I’ve expected him to drop the bomb that he’s finally done it: told his board and investors all about his plans to merge with Vouvalis Resorts and that me and Asher will be marrying to sweeten the deal.
For some reason, he hasn’t yet and it means I’ve spent the last two weeks in a permanent state of anxiety-fuelled anticipation waiting for the ball to drop.
Surely this has to be it, I think to myself as I climb out of the car and walk towards the restaurant. I’ve been summoned to No. 12 Blythe, the upper echelon’s current favourite restaurant of the month, under the guise of a simple family dinner.The text message I received last night simply readIt’s been too longfollowed by a calendar invite, but I know he must have an ulterior motive.
A hard lump lodges itself in my throat as a doorman pulls open the door. He gives me a look of barely concealed alarm as I stride past him and I know the expression on my face must look like I’m walking to the gallows and not one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city. I can’t be bothered to pull up the façade and fix a polite smile onto my face though. This meal signals the beginning of the end for any kind of autonomy in my life, and I can’t bring myself to pretend otherwise.
The maître d greets me with a polite smile and does a better job than the doorman at pretending I don’t look like I’m seconds aways from tears. ‘Ms Davies,’ he says smoothly. ‘Your parents are already seated. This way, please.’
I nod shakily and he leads me through the main dining room to a frosted glass door tucked away in the back, then scurries away.
A private room. Of course.
I swallow thickly, reach for the door handle, and then freeze. I can hear my mother’s soft murmur from here.
‘—can’t hide this from her forever.’
Eavesdropping on my parents feels like a cardinal sin, but I don’t move. Instead, I get a little closer to the door just in time to hear my father let out a heavy sigh.
‘And what would you have me tell her? That we’re one bad quarter from going under?’
My breath catches.
‘It can’t be that bad,’ my mother says.
‘It is,’ my father responds grimly. ‘We’re still haemorrhaging from the routes we had to cut during lockdowns and the investments I made during that period haven’t panned out like I’d hoped.’
‘What about the government loan?’ my mother asks. ‘When are we supposed to hear back on that?’
‘I heard back last week,’ my father says, his voice strained in a way I’ve never heard it before. ‘They aren’t going to go through with it.’
My mother draws in a quick breath.
