I’m physically incapable of resisting the jab. ‘Sexting at work is it now?’
Charlie’s my boss. But she’s also become a close friend. She’s twenty-six, only one year older than me, and I admire her. That woman has balls bigger than most of the oh-so-tough athletes she represents.
She glows, and my face does that thing where it won’t stop smiling. I’m truly pleased to see her so happy. She deserves someone who worships the ground she walks on. Someone who isn’t a manipulative, gaslighting, lying tosser. Unlike her father and her ex-fiancé, Brodie hadn’t stomped all over her heart and left it looking like roadkill.
The memory of my own betrayal still sits low in my gut and tastes awful, even a year on. Like licking a penny. Love came, conquered, destroyed me, and sent me crawling back to Scotland with shattered dreams.
‘Brodie’s picking me up later.’ Charlie fiddles with the pen in her hand.
‘Ooh, another date night. You two are disgusting. Cute, but gross.’
She chucks a crumpled paper ball at me and misses by a mile. ‘And you’re terrible,’ she says, but her grin is genuine.
‘Maybe. But he’s clearly very good for you.’
Too bad that no one had ever been that good for me. The thought sparks and dissolves. No time for self-pity.
‘He is,’ she says with a dreamy look in her eyes. ‘He really is.’
They’re moving in together, only a few months into their relationship. Makes complete sense for them. I’ve never seen anyone so head-over-heels in love as Brodie MacRae and Charlotte Harrington.
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a reputation for ruthless efficiency to uphold.’ I turn to go, smoothing down my skirt. The world might be a chaotic mess, but my life, at least, remains impeccably arranged.
‘Thanks, Theo.’
Back in my own tiny office, the faint drone of the computer sounds strangely oppressive. Ruthless efficiency – that’s the fortress I’ve cultivated, brick by painstaking brick. Made of competence, designed to keep the world at bay.
London taught me the dangers of vulnerability the hard way. Gil had promised me the world, then nuked it and handed me the ashes. By the time I realised the extent of his fucked-up game, it was too late.
No. I won’t let him haunt me, not even on a dreary Thursday in January. I have work to do, an empire to build, and reputations to polish. And if Charlie’s happy, and I had a hand in that, good. That’s enough. Love might be a superpower, as I’d told her the other day, but it’s also a volatile one. Best to admire it from a safe distance, armed with a well-organised to-do list.
Men. Who needs them? They’re a bonus, not a necessity.
I finally have a thriving career, a curated spice rack, and a cute cat who just about tolerates my existence. What more could a woman in her mid-twenties want?
* * *
‘What the fucking FUCK?!’
My mug tips, spilling matcha across the desk. Instinct kicks in before thought, and my body’s moving. I burst into Charlie’s office without knocking.
‘What on earth happened?’ I sound calm while emerging panic flurries inside. It could be anything – her father, her ex, a full-on apocalypse…
Her gaze is glued to her laptop. ‘Check this out. Unbelievable.’
She angles the screen my way. The email subject line reads:
* * *
REQUEST FOR COMMENT – FINN LENNOX SCANDAL
* * *
My stomach plummets. I scan the text, and words jump out like neon signs: tabloid…publishing tomorrow…photos attached…Swiss resort…New Year’s Eve…Lord Dalcrieff’s fiancée and her stepsister…explicit content…
I click the attachment.
Oh.
