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I quicken my pace, waving an arm to Duncan, who is waiting in his Mercedes. Leave me alone, Clark.
“Dayna, stop. That wasn’t what it looked like.”
I have nowhere else to go because Duncan has turned on the headlights and is manoeuvring out of his parking bay. I turn sharply, wrapping my arms around me in an attempt to hold myself together just a little while longer. “Clark, your sex life really does not concern me.”
“Then why are you running?”
I look for the Mercedes. Thankfully, Duncan is heading towards me. “There was only ever one of us running, Clark. I’m going home. At a normal speed.”
Clark reaches out a hand. I jump, startled by another man trying to touch me, and he drops his hands to his side. “Finnoula… she’s not… we’re not…”
Finally, Duncan pulls up beside me. He steps out of the car and moves to open the back door. Safety is just a few feet away. “Like I said, Clark, you do not concern me.”
“You said my sex life doesn’t concern you.”
I move to the Mercedes and place a hand on Duncan’s arm. I need to feel someone safe, someone I know isn’t trying to hurt me. I turn back to Clark. “With you, the two are really one and the same.”
“Dayna, I’m not like that anymore, I swear. I’ve changed. I’m not with Finnoula, tonight or ever.”
I dip my head to let Duncan know everything is okay. He takes the cue to get back in the car. “That doesn’t surprise me, Clark. Who in their right mind would want to be the rebound for a man who just got out of an eighteen-month engagement?”
I get into the car and slam the door shut on two demons from my past. “Go. Please,” I tell Duncan. He pulls away, leaving Clark standing on the kerbside, dragging a hand across his face. He looks… lost. I shouldn’t, but I feel guilty and, possibly, sorry for him, too.
I hold it together through the drive home and as I say goodnight to the concierge of my apartment block. In the sanctity of the lift, I can’t keep my mind blank any longer. I replay what I said to Clark before I got into the Mercedes and wish it were true. I wish I really didn’t care.
But that’s not what’s making my skin itch now. It’s not what’s making me stroke my throat because I’m struggling to breathe. I scratch my arms, and goose-bumps form at the chilling memory of Caspar’s touch on my skin.
When the lift pings, I walk quickly to my apartment, irrationally casting a glance to the door of the fire escape, feeling like I’m being followed despite knowing I’m not. I close the door of my apartment behind me and press my back against it, dropping my bag to the ground, not moving to turn on the lights. I try to take deep breaths but they come thick and shallow, and my throat is so tight I’m gripping it with two hands.
“I can’t breathe,” I croak to the emptiness of my apartment.
I know what Caspar is capable of. I know too well that his threats aren’t empty. But I need to win that tender. This is my opportunity to take back what my father worked for, and it’s my chance to stand up to that murderous bastard.
Come on, Dayna. Snap out of it. I slam my bare back against the door and slide to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. Finally, my lungs kick to life and take an enormous breath in. I hug my legs tighter and retake control of my diaphragm the way I’ve been taught to do. Silent tears stream down my cheeks.
It’s not until I’m standing under the hot spray of my shower, my skin bright red where I’ve scrubbed it relentlessly, that I take in everything that happened tonight. I close my eyes and let the water run over my face. Those dinners are always hard. It should be my father sitting at those tables, competing with those men, not me. I’m doing the best job I can, but sometimes I feel like I’m massively out of my depth. I know I’m out of my depth.
I didn’t think my adrenaline levels could get any higher in anticipation of my speech, but then I saw Clark Layton in the flesh. Not in the flesh, in a dinner suit—his hair slicked back, his blue eyes captivating. My pulse started racing the moment I felt his presence. In fact, I’m not sure my heart had been beating normally from the moment I realised that I’d picked my dress with his opinion in mind.
Clark. The man I fell in love with four years ago. The man who tore my heart to shreds, not one time but two. The man who manages to break another piece of me, no matter how small, every time I hear his name, see his picture in a trashy newspaper, or catch him groping yet another woman. My tears come again, the salt blending into the shower water. This time, there could be a thousand meanings behind them.
“DAD, I’M HOME.” I drop my handbag by the door and head to the kitchen.
I pour a glass of water from the fridge dispenser and lean across the breakfast bar, holding my drink in two hands. Dad’s wallet and keys are on the kitchen worktop.
I walk to the bottom of the stairs and call for him again. There’s no answer. In fact, the whole house is quiet. Too quiet.
The wooden boards creak under my feet as I climb the stairs. “Dad, are you up here?”
There’s still no sound other than my own breaths and footsteps.
Each time I call for him my voice is weaker.
I reach the door to his home office and whisper his name. When there’s no answer, I ease the door open. His desk chair is empty. The room is empty. I release the breath I’ve been holding.
Shaking off a feeling of unease, I head to the master bathroom. After the weekend I’ve had, a bath is exactly what I need.
Something pushes back against the door as I open it. I step inside…
