A scenario flashes before my eyes: everyone at TechRumble hearing about this, seeing the photos, just like that day at the office. This time an entire auditorium full of spectators to my downfall. My legs begin to furiously shake.
“I think I’ll see how you do in the final round.” He shrugs, pursing his lips in thought. “The further Wyst gets, the bigger my story gets.” We both briefly glance to the end of the road, hearing noises of a group of people begin to echo around the corner.
He steps in again, not quite touching me, but the bile rises in my throat like he is. His wretched mouth whispers near my ear, “Good luck in Vienna,Violet.”
He turns away, stalking down the street at a quickening pace. Leaving my body cold against the February air. My whole body starts to shake as I watch him walking like he’s just leaving work and heading home. My fingers cling to the stone wall behind me; my chest pounds, breathing heavily until he rounds the corner. I wait a few more seconds before letting the bile claw up my throat. Heat overwhelms my chest as I vomit onto the drain embedded in the street, one hand still clinging to the wall. My hair hangs over my face, but I can hear the footsteps of a group of people on the other side of the street. The male sniggering makes another wave of nausea hit me.
“She’s had a few too many!” one of the men shouts, his partner bashing him in the chest with her handbag and tutting.
“You all right, love?” Her heels click as she steps across the road.
I can’t speak so instead I nod and try to calm my breathing. I wipe my hair back over my ear and take the tissue she offers me, willing the retching feeling pulsing in my stomach and throat to stop.
My lips twist into a polite smile, my vision blurred around the edges. Eventually, I squeak out a thanks and nod at her.
The woman studies me, realizing I’m not drunk, perhaps recognizing the signs of an experience so many women go through. “Are you okay? Do you live nearby?”
Instead of explaining fully, I just say, “There,” and point to the Wyst office building. It has an old town house facade, so she isn’t fazed. Eventually, my fingers release from the wall, the muscles pulled taut and frozen in place. Pain shoots through my hand as I stretch out the muscles. As my body starts to straighten, the woman loops my arm and walks me over to the door, the rest of her group straggling behind.
My shaking hands grapple with my keys, the adrenaline of what just happened and what could have happened if this group of blissfully ignorant, unknowing vigilantes hadn’t stumbled upon the same street Malcolm had cornered me in.
The woman’s partner, seeing me struggling and taking the situation more seriously now, takes my keys. “Let me do that,” he says softly.
Once again, a tight smile forms on my face as I try and retain a modicum of grace. I blink, the blurriness not leaving my line of sight. Black dots start to appear like floating specks of dust in my vision.
The woman studies me for a final time, her eyebrows forming a concerned line in the middle of her forehead. She squeezesmy arm. “Whatever it is, things will be better after a good sleep.”
“Thanks,” I say again, stepping through the threshold. I click the automatic lock behind me, double-checking it’s shut before climbing the three flights of creaking stairs up to the office, where I sit down at my desk, make eye contact with a confused-looking Pacha, and finally let the tears come.
Chapter 24
Business Account (WYST) BALANCE: £1,062.68
Personal Account BALANCE: -£1,915.30
Recent transactions:
Welwyn Garden Florist: £35.00
Spencer and I arrive with frizzy hair and crumpled clothes in our parent’s town. It’s just enough outside of London to warrant two trains and a fifteen-minute walk uphill, as both Mum and Dad are too busy to pick us up from the station. It’s been a week since Malcolm showed up at the office, and I still feel on edge. After Pacha drove me back to Cecily’s house, I could hear them talking downstairs as I drifted into a fitful sleep.
The last thing I need right now is to get an inevitable lecture from my parents, but it’s Mum’s birthday, so this dinner feels unavoidable.
“Weird, one of them can usually pick me up,” Spencer says as our suitcases rattle against the cobblestones.
I don’t tell him they don’t make the effort for me. Back in university, I didn’t complain when they didn’t pick me up once when I was coming home, and it’s been that way ever since.Spencer must have kicked off about it, so therefore, he must be picked up.
“I don’t think I’m ready for this,” I admit.
Spencer throws a reassuring arm around my shoulders. “You need to just, you know, make-friendly. Ask questions, compliment the food, and smile.”
“Asking her how crochet club is going isn’t going to undo years of mutual resentment,” I say under my breath.
He grunts, forcing his suitcase over a rock. “Well, I need you to do something soon. Your stink is starting to rub off on me. Did you know Mum said Imight notmake the subject line on this month’s family newsletter?”
I mock a shocked expression. Even if he got cut, Spencer will no doubt still maintain a starring role in the body of the email for just existing.
The air becomes crisp as dark clouds begin to circle above us. “I think you need to just go in with a positive mindset,” Spencer advises. “Ya know, it might help you to not see everything as doom and gloom for once?”
