It should feel like a victory. It should feel like everything I’ve been working towards.
‘Go on, Theo! Cut your cute face so we can eat it.’
The smiling sugar-woman on the cake looks so put-together and so pleased with herself. This is the win. This is everything I’ve worked for since London, the proof I’m more than a pushover and someone’s gullible lackey. It’s concrete and real and comes with a contract.
But all I see is the lift doors closing on Finn’s back. The rigid set of his shoulders and how he didn’t turn back, not even for a glimpse.
I did that. I let him think he was just a job. Because it was easier than admitting he had become everything else.
I couldn’t ask him to stay. If he’d said no, if I’d seen it in his face, I wouldn’t have recovered. So I told myself that he was always leaving.
But the truth is, I was terrified.
Terrified he’d look at me and hesitate. That I’d say Do you want to stay?, and he’d go anyway. That I’d splinter in front of him, and he’d watch it happen.
Or worse, that he’d stay only for my sake. That he’d say no to Marseille and mean it at the time… But then the resentment would creep in. Every time things got hard, he’d remember the offer he turned down. And he’d blame me. I couldn’t risk that. Never in a thousand years would I dream of standing in his way, of having him stay only to wish he hadn’t.
So I stayed silent and gave him the out.
My face stares back at me, a sugary caricature. Icing Theo is far more composed than the real one currently trying not to crumble into a million tiny, heartbroken pieces. Feels good, getting to stab her. I pick up the knife. The plastic handle is cool and smooth in my palm as I press the blade into the corner of my own printed eye.
I hand Charlie a slice and take one for myself. My smile feels brittle.
‘Stop pulling that kicked-puppy face. You deserve it, and you know it,’ Charlie insists. ‘You went above and beyond. Even with the whole Finn situation. You handled that beautifully. A total pro.’
Yeah, if total pro means letting him eat me out like a trifle dish morning, noon, and night.
‘It was…a unique challenge.’ My tone is a little too tight. She has no idea what happened, and I intend to keep it that way.
‘Understatement of the century.’ She grabs a napkin to wipe a stray smudge of cake from her chin. ‘But seriously, Theo, you’ve been a rock. For me, for the agency, for everyone.’
I stare at the blinking cursor. A tiny, rhythmic, relentless pulse.
On. Off. On. Off.
Like a heart that beats mechanically, only because it has to. A pulse without a purpose.
* * *
My key sticks in the lock as it always does. I jiggle it twice, hard left, then gentle right. The door swings open.
‘Elvis, I’m home.’
I drop my purse on the floor. The thud echoes through the flat, too loud in the sudden silence. Even the air feels different, thinner somehow.
I step into the living room and freeze. His suitcase is gone, his hoodie is missing from the arm of the chair. The corner where his bag sat is just a corner again. The rugby boots, which had taken up permanent residence by the radiator, have disappeared.
It’s like he was never here at all.
His absence hits me physically, a sharp jab straight to my solar plexus. I press my palm against my sternum to ease the pressure.
Elvis appears from the bedroom, tail swishing with agitation. He yowls – a long, accusatory sound.
‘I know, he’s gone.’
My cat stalks toward me, eyes narrowed judgementally.
‘This was always going to happen.’
