But it wasn’t the whole story.
Daniel couldn’t be allowed to get close again.
Not just for Tom’s sake.
Because if Daniel ever spoke — if he ever spat the truth of what Craig had done into the light —Tom would never forgive him. He would see Craig not as a friend, but as the hand that tipped the first domino.
Craig sits with that thought longer than is comfortable, the weight of it heavy in his chest.
He doesn’t regret it. Not yet.
And if it came to it again, he knows he’d wouldn’t stop at blocking a number.
Chapter 18
TOM
I don’t know why I agreed to stay over. Actually, that’s a lie—I know exactly why.
Because when Pete asks me something, my brain doesn’t do due diligence, like one of those nodding dogs people stick in the back of their cars.
I’d told Craig earlier that Iwantedthis. That I was actively choosing to come back here. And at the time, I meant it. But walking up the drive now, away from my parked car, I have a growing urge to spin on my heels and drive myself back home.
Because I know what this is.
I know there are red flags here. Whole red bunting displays, doused in petrol and set ablaze, fluttering in the breeze.
My rational brain is holding up laminated signs sayingdanger, do not proceed.
But my emotional brain? Oh, he’s already inside the house, putting the kettle on, asking Pete how his day was, while stroking his hair.
Because Pete makes me feel wanted. Not tolerated, not managed —wanted. Desired in a way that makes my chest ache.
And that’s the bit I can’t walk away from.
Seeing Daniel earlier — appearing out of the blue, like he was watching me, before he disappeared — was just another incentive to move ahead with this, to break away from the hold he has over me.
For years, I’ve convinced myself that feeling was for other people. That I’d missed my shot.
But with Pete… maybe I haven’t.
And maybe that’s worth ignoring a few flags for?
Inside the house, Pete greets me with that grin that should be prescribed on the NHS, and suddenly I’m a little less ready to bolt. The dining table is already set, candles lit, wine breathing in some fancy decanter.
“This looks nice,” I say, trying not to sound like someone who has never seen placemats before.
He laughs, pours wine, and soon we’re eating—something involving lemon and garlic and a piece of fish that looks like it went to a very posh school. We talk, we laugh, we pretend this is just a normal date night in a normal house with no looming husband around.
And for a while, it works. I almost relax. Almost.
“So, where’s the hubby?” I can’t help asking.
“Oh, he’s out for most of the evening. Date night with Sam.”
“Date night.” I repeat, trying to sound casual but probably sounding like a man who just accidentally FaceTimed his boss from the loo.
Pete grins at my expression. “Yeah, they do that most weeks. Go for dinner, a show, complain about the price of cocktails—domestic bliss.”
