And it’s tough now, Christ, it’s brutal. Training with a heart that’s torn down the middle, smiling for the press when all I want to do is crawl into bed and stay there.
But I’m going to make it work. I’ll pull my shit together. I’ll bag another brand, a proper one. If I bring in a deal, I prove I’m not dead weight. Not to the team, not to the agency. And not to the woman who saw something in me before I knew it was there. Even if she doesn’t want me, I’ll be around. I’ll be here for her.
I toss the pizza crust in the box.
I’ll show her I’ve got loyalty in me too. Theo’s loyalty is relentless. She bleeds for people, cleans up after them, and makes sure the carpet doesn’t stain. I want to be the kind of man who deserves that.
Who deserves her.
And I can’t be that man in Marseille.
The telly howls into the silence. I stab the remote, and the flat collapses into quiet. I scroll on my phone and let the algorithm spoon-feed me other people’s nights out and filtered lives.
Scroll. Swipe. Double tap.
And then I see him.
Kit Lascelles-Finch.
I should’ve blocked that motherfucker. But I didn’t. And now Kit’s face fills my screen. He’s leaning on wrought-iron railings – cigarette in hand, velvet jacket slung over his shoulder – outside a tall, nondescript Georgian townhouse with pillars. A single plaque on the wall reads Members Only in matte brass.
The tagged location: The Wolf Room. Edinburgh New Town.
So that’s where he’s slithering right now. I’ve heard the name before, a place where the rich go to misbehave and never get caught.
I watch the story one more time.
My pulse is in my teeth. The room’s too small to hold the heat boiling under my skin. There’s nothing I can fix with Theo. No undoing it, no rewinding the last few days. But I can do this.
So I grab my keys.
* * *
There’s the brass plaque, a velvet rope, and a wall of silence behind it. Two doormen in matching suits guard the entrance like it’s MI5. Not bulky lads either. Lean, quiet, and dead serious. You don’t get bounced from this place, you get erased.
I clock the scanner wand tucked behind the door frame. No one’s walking in here with a phone or an ounce of shame.
I nod once. ‘Evenin’.’
The one on the left gives me a once-over, not impressed. The one on the right narrows his eyes as if he’s trying to place me but can’t decide if I belong in the papers or on the list or both.
‘You on the book?’ Left one asks.
‘Not officially,’ I say.
Then the bouncer on the right recognises me. His mouth stays still, but I see the little click behind his eyes when the penny drops. ‘Finn Lennox?’
‘Aye, the very one.’
‘My wee brother’s a fan. Strong season.’
‘Thanks, man.’
He nods, reaching for the drawer behind him. I don’t have to flash anything, my face does the job.
‘Phone,’ he says, and I hand it over. He locks it in one of those rubber sleeves with a snap, drops it into the drawer, and unhooks the rope. ‘No photos. No names. No trouble.’
‘No promises.’ I say with a wink. Can’t help myself.
