AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“What’s up?” he asks, already deducing I’m not okay.
“I think I have a migraine coming on,” I fib. I do feel terrible, pathetic, and a regular fake. I just want to pull on my pyjamas and hide away.
Oscar pulls me in for a hug.“Oh, honey. You don't look great. I can imagine this hasn’t been easy,” he murmurs in my ear, “thanks for coming and for all of this. Get home.” Why is he so sympathetic? It only adds to my self-hatred.
I aim to keep a smile on my face, but it’s strained in place, awkward, and unnatural.
“Sorry, Oscar, as soon as you come back from Paris, we can all catch up,” I offer apologetically, tucking my hair back and sighing roughly.
“Sure! We’d love that,” he says to both Chloe and me, and his girlfriend nods her agreement. Why do they both have to be so understanding?
“We can get lunch?” she adds, hooking her arm through his. “I hope you feel better soon. You look really pale.” She grimaces at my face. I tentatively place my hand on my stomach. I do feel rotten.
“Have a great evening. I’ll text you guys in a bit. Night.” I peck both their cheeks and make my leave, hitting the elevator and crossing the foyer quickly. My heels clack, my breath rushes out loudly, and the second I hit the pavement, I’m battered by flashbulbs. Fuck!
As quickly as I can, I hail a taxi and manage to get in with little fuss. The press tries to follow, some rushing to their vehicles, others hanging around by the main entrance for other guests. Uttering my address, I sit back for the ride. If the press catches up, there is little I can do. I just don’t want them camped outside my home. Usually, I would ask that the driver loop around or double back, anything to throw them off, but now I know that the Russians are coming, it’s only a matter of time. I’ve been naïve to think that all this time they didn’t know my whereabouts. They have probably had someone watch me all these years, someone I’d never expect. Someone I say hello to regularly and think nothing of it. I glower at my reflection in the taxi window, my posture stiff and cold. I’m spiralling out of control into this loathsome being. Willing myself to detest every extremity of my life, I give myself permission for my inner parts to hate it all so that when death comes, no matter how vulgar, I will welcome it, egg it on, and cherish the moment. Darkness appears as an invisible being, wrapping its arm around my shoulder, feigning friendship. I welcome that in, too—bring the darkness to my doorstep—let it feast. I don’t want to feel anymore. Death can have me. The Russians can have me. Seeing Callan again has only served as an agonising reminder that I could never have him in this life or the next, so why live it at all. Living has only served as a hardship to me. At least in death, there will be peace.
Do I expect Callan to be at mine when I let myself in? Of course I do. It’s even more painful when I come to the jarring realisation that he’s not. He’s done with me, that’s for sure. What I thought was him giving me a little reminder of our month not yet being up was just him warning me the Russians were close to making their move. Silly me. I honestly thought, deep down in that minuscule part of me that has held onto the hope of a normal life, that he would be the man to fight for me. To slay my dragons, to scream at me that I was worth it, and he’d go down fighting to prove to me I was worth more than this false existence. I trudge upstairs with a cup of tea and run myself a bath. It’s hot and bubbly and exactly what I need to calm my fizzing emotions. It’s a few moments before the first tear slips free, then another before I can talk myself out of it. I’m sobbing, loud, shoulder-shaking sobs. Nothing stops them, not even when I dunk under the water to shock myself into shape. I take my tears to bed and sob into the sheets.
Zara Reid, London’s top model. I scoff at the thought. They’d laugh if they could see me now: laugh and lose interest. My life is anything but the perfect picture I portray. Times like this, I want to take a photo, run a video, and show them I’m a fraud with a dirty secret weighing me down. I tumble into a fitful and nightmare-fuelled sleep.
Chapter Twenty- Five
I’ve been numb for days. I’m not entirely sure how I am functioning. I can’t recall arriving to any shoots and meetings. Occasionally, I blink, and I’m in a room full of people staring at me, waiting for an answer. I don’t have an answer anymore. I no longer care about the concern on Miranda’s face. I’m in half a mind to reach out to the Russians and hand myself over to them, but I know, hidden in the deepest and darkest part of me, I’m scared to die. The only choice I’ve consciously made is to stay within the confines of my home.
Tonight, the power is out, and my fragile mind can't help wondering if there is a more sinister cause. Everywhere is being fuelled by candles, and despite the tiny flicker of light everywhere, it’s still dark as night in some places. Every now and then, the electricity buzzes, allowing me some proper light. I try to keep busy on my laptop, checking some photographs from shoots. Today’s date marks the end of what would have been my full month with Callan. Tonight would have been our last night—the evening our deal would end. Yet here I am home alone, not a man in sight, and awaiting the Russians’ revenge.
A creak in the hall makes me jump. I stiffen and close the lid of my laptop, blowing out the nearest few candles, sitting in silence, listening out for another sound. After a few moments, I deduce it’s nothing. For heaven’s sake, Zara, you’re overreacting. There is absolutely nothing to be afraid of. Another creak tears through the quiet, and my breathing drops to a shallow pant.
They’re here.
Dread drenches me, and my eyes fill up. I tiptoe towards the door and flatten my back, grabbing a heavy candlestick to defend myself with. I don’t want to draw attention to my whereabouts, and if I knock them out, I can run out of the front door. I don’t want Oscar’s birthday to be the last time I see the man I love. I'm watching the black gap between the doorway and hear the soft rush of breath. My whole body is shaking, and my heart is screaming at me to run. A shadow falls between the open space and blackens the room, so when a figure steps in, I swing with a scream. A quick arm deflects, but it still makes contact, and I hear a resounding crack. Yes!
“Fuck!” Callan roars.
“Oh, god, Callan!” I cry, dropping the weapon with a clang and rush to him as he staggers to the side. He must have dropped into a chair because it groans under his weight.
“Shit, Zara,” he huffs irritably.
“I'm sorry. I was scared.” The lights flicker on momentarily, like they have done on and off for most of the evening, and I find Callan with blood trickling down his face. “You’re bleeding. I'm so, so sorry, I thought… it’s just that, the Russians.” I sniff. I'm tugged forward so I fall into his lap. My hands cup his face, and I can feel the sticky liquid against my palm. He smells of alcohol. I pull back a little. “Have you been drinking?” My head becomes caged in his big hands, and he hums out a reply. “You need a hospital,” I say. Why is he so beautiful? My eyes brim with hot tears. I want to sink into him and vanish.
The lights flicker, and I lose sight of him.
“I need you. The past few weeks have been fucking horrible. We made a deal. I wasn't done yet," he tells me in a soft slur.
“Callan, I can’t do this,” I whisper, a croak of emotion audible in my voice. He only wants me because he is drunk.
“You can. Kiss me, Zara.” I can feel the weight of his stare on me, and my heart clenches and caves.
As if the electrician is now on board, the lights flicker and stay on. I get a true glimpse at his cut. It’s deep, but it’s only a small nick. I think it might need a stitch or two.
“You’re cut and drunk.” I shake my head in his large grasp, reaching to touch the gash, but he brings his mouth to mine, and my body melts. Desire explodes from my lips outwards, sending my heart to ache and pump wildly. His lips are everything I imagined, soft and hard, teasing and passionate. He is perfect in every way I need, and it kills me, but I try to pull back. I don't want him to regret this. “Callan, you’re drunk.”
“Only because I couldn’t cope with not having you.” His lips press back to mine, and he groans deeply, sending a vibration through his big chest. “Your mouth is sinful.” He grins, amused by his own enjoyment in kissing.
“Callan, stop. You’re drunk.” I sigh regretfully.
“So I gave in and had a drink.” His big shoulder lifts clumsily. “You're guilty of it,” he admonishes. I snap back, perplexed. What, when? “The club,” he mutters when I frown at him. It was one drink! Shit, has he only had one drink? How is he this affected? I could laugh at the big fool. “And I’m tipsy, not drunk,” he scoffs, frowning at me and trying to touch his weeping cut.
