“I fucking knew it,” Dad splutters. “I knew you fucked her. I could tell by the way you looked at—”
In a flurry of motion, a shifting of suits and broad backs and limber bodies, a fist flies into Dad’s face, smashing against his nose, blood splattering over his shirt, spraying the floor.
Sylvie, who until now has been hovering near Dad, darts out of the way, pressing herself against the wall, arms raised over herhead like she’s surrendering. Dad crouches on the floor, spitting blood into his cupped hand.
At first, I think it’s Rafe who hit him, but he’s exactly as he was a moment ago, still upright, still perfectly composed.
It’s Julian who’s cradling his hand against his chest.
“You better be head-over-fucking-heels in love with her,” Julian says to Rafe, grimacing. “Because I think I just broke my hand.”
“You idiot,” Henry says to Julian, stepping towards him.
No one moves as Henry attends to Julian, despite the fact that my father is the one leaking blood. I’m pleasantly surprised to find I do not give a fuck. He could be bleeding out, and I’d kick him to squeeze more out.
“I told you I didn’t want to see you again,” I say to Dad. “I meant it. I fucking meant it. How dare you come here and ruin this event for me? How dare you?”
Dad grunts.
Sylvie sinks to her knees and presses a tissue from her pocket to his nose to soak up the blood.
Lizzie’s struggling in Charlie’s arms, and he releases her. “Dad,” she shrieks, slamming her hands against her cheeks, tugging the skin down. “How could you? Oh, my God, how could you?”
At the sound of her distress, I forget about my father.
Rafe opens his mouth to speak, but Lizzie turns to me, her eyes welling with tears. “Is it true?”
The affirmative clogs up my throat, refusing to budge, but she must see it in my eyes or read it in my expression because she lets out a pitiful squeak as though I’ve just told her all the sordid details.
She blinks rapidly, staving off the tears that shimmer in her eyes. I make a move towards her, but she steps back, holding outher hand to ward me off, then she runs for the exit before any of us can say anything else.
Without so much as a glance in my direction, Rafe goes after her. It’s only right that he should—it’s exactly what I’d want him to do—but my heart sinks nonetheless, and that little flame of hope, tentatively burning in my chest, snuffs right out, because now I’ve lost them both.
43
RAFE
Lizzie runs up through the main atrium, pushing aside groups of attendees who have spilt out of the auditorium after the disruption.
She’s out on the riverbank, heading God knows where, before I reach her.
“Stop, Lizzie. Stop!” I call, but she doesn’t until she glances over her shoulder and trips. She doesn’t fall, but her stumble gives me the second I need to catch up.
I reach out, but she swerves away, backing up against the wall that separates us from the Thames.
“Don’t touch me,” she screeches.
I raise my hands, breathing hard. “Okay.”
She tips her head back and stares at the clouds above, which are thick and dark with imminent rain. Placing one hand against her forehead, she says, “You slept with Diana?” Her voice breaks on the question.
Heat spreads up my back, sweat prickling on my nape. “Yes.”
“Was it the night you took her to the opera?”
“No.”
Lizzie’s breathing comes in strange, uneven bursts. “Did you do it more than once?”
