The treadmill slows, and I dip my head, sucking in lungfuls of artificially cooled air. I step off, wait for my heartbeat tosteady and the threat of emptying the contents of my stomach to subside.
I should eat something.
I should go home.
I should call my boss at the bar where I work part time and ask for a shift. If only to keep my mind occupied.
I should do a million things, but the one my heart is begging me to do.
My mother always said I was never good at making the right choices, and over the years, her words have become a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. I tell myself that even if I’m making the wrong choice now, it’ll hurt less than sitting alone in the stillness of my empty flat.
So, I do the one thing I shouldn’t do. I leave the gym, sweat slicked and light-headed, and hop on the bus to Kingston. To a man who doesn’t want me but is the only person who might understand what I need.
Chapter 2
Darius
“Don’t bite me, you little shit.” I shake my leg and the black cat, intent on making me its next meal, flops onto his side like he’s given up on life now that his dinner is twenty minutes late.
“Cade fed you this morning before he left, Ford,” I grumble, opening a pouch of cat food and depositing it into a clean bowl. I throw away the packaging, then place the full bowl onto the rubber mat in the corner of the kitchen. Ford saunters over, his stubby tail raised, his nose in the air like some posh twat circling a charcuterie board before sniffing the meager offering and walking off again.
I smile. Cats are such assholes. I fucking love them.
Ford especially. If I could steal him and claim him as mine, I would. But sadly, he belongs to my best friend, Caiden, and I am neither a bad friend nor a criminal.
Once I’ve topped up Ford’s water and fed Caiden’s hamster, I wash my hands, pull out my phone and order a takeaway,charging it to one of the credit cards my father pays for. When I open the fridge for a drink, I find only one can of supermarket-brand lemonade, which I take with me to the sofa.
Ford jumps onto my lap, circles three times, then rolls into a ball, his purr starting up as soon as I run my hand over his silky fur.
Kicking my feet up onto the table in front of me, I flick the television on and scroll to one of Caiden’s streaming services, find the true crime documentary that I started last night, and hit play.
“It’s the husband,” I state matter-of-factly, nudging Ford with my arm. He looks at me, licks his lips, then settles back down. He is riveting company this evening.
My phone pings, and I unlock it to see a message from my friend and colleague, Florence. We work together at a coffee shop not far from my place in Battersea. I could guess without opening the message what she wants.
Flo:Can you take my early shift tomorrow? I'll be in a little later. Something’s come up. Pretty please.
I chuckle. I knew it. Girl has something come up at least once a week.
Me:It’ll cost you.
Flo:Five hugs and a vodka cranberry?
Me:Deal. See you tomorrow.
She knows me far too well. She also knows I never say no to covering her shift or anyone else’s, for that matter.
I decided a long time ago that I wouldn’t rely solely on my father’s wealth.Solelybeing the important word here. Because,yeah, he covers my mortgage and my groceries and my holidays and, well, pretty much everything else. But I contribute. And not everything is about money.
What I get working at the coffee shop is more than that. I love that I get to see so many people every day. I like that I can make them smile and that they return the gesture while chit chatting over chai lattes.
I like the hustle and bustle of the before-work crowd who come in with bleary eyes, tired expressions and perfectly pressed suits, and the mums who stop by after school drop-off and rope me into their circle of gossip. I like the people I work with and hours that mean I have time to volunteer at the local animal rescue shelter and walk my neighbour’s dogs – Ludo and Lenny – after her hip operation. It all makes my sociable little heart happy.
I know my father – the great Ralph Thorne-Sutton, millionaire business executive and entrepreneur – expects more from me. He’s told me countless times before. Always without pushing, but with enough of an edge to make it clear. That’s why I went to uni. I got a degree. And now a copy of my Bachelor of Science in Physiotherapy sits propped up on my father’s desk. I like to think that he’s proud of me, though he never says as much. He’s not one for affection and platitudes. He was once, but now he talks in business deals and acquisitions and focuses on what people can dofor him.
I don’t like to think of myself as another commodity in his empire, but fuck if sometimes it’s hard to feel like anything but.
I reply to Florence and add the six am shift to my diary.
