Excuse after excuse haunted my thoughts, but all it took to silence them was the thought of Kate—her sweet voice, her sparkling laughter, and the soft feel of her skin beneath my fingertips.
I unlocked my phone, opened the photo gallery, and tapped on the last photo of Kate. It had been taken on the rooftop terrace of The Darlington. After theINsiderhad agreed to take down Randell’s interview, we had gone up to the bar to toast the small victory. We had snuggled up together next to a heater, sharing a blanket.
In the photo, I had my arm around Kate, and she was nestled against my chest. Her hair was tousled from my hands, and her lips were slightly flushed from my kisses. And though I had been horrendously stressed that day, I was smiling blissfully at the camera. All because of Kate—because she was with me.
I heard a knock. For a brief moment, I thought it was just the pain hammering in my head, but then I realised someone was actually at the door of my apartment. I had left work early, the withdrawal symptoms having got the better of me, and had asked Rakesh to cover for me. I’d told him I was coming down with a cold, and he had believed me without question—probably because I looked just as exhausted and wrecked as I felt.
There was another knock.
I groaned as I pushed myself up, and debated whether I should open the door. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with my mum, much less my dad. I’d barely seen him since our fight about Kate, but I wouldn’t put it past him to turn up and make my life hell just for daring to take half a day off work—especially so close to the gala.
The charity event was only three days away. Things were finally coming together—from the decor and catering to the stars we’d booked for the red carpet. Everything was organised, even if this year’s celebrity lineup was far less impressive than in previous years.
This time, the knock, when it came, was more forceful and insistent, as if someone were trying to break down the door.
“Are you having a wank, or why aren’t you opening up?” said a deep, muffled voice.
I froze. “Logan?!”
“Yes!”
I leapt to my feet—a mistake. Everything went black, and for a moment, I felt like I was falling back onto the sofa. But then my vision cleared, and I steadied myself before hurrying to the door and opening it. Although I’d heard his voice, I was still surprised to see Logan standing there. Were hallucinations a side effect of withdrawal? He stood in the corridor outside my apartment, wearing dark jeans and a brown leather jacket. His blond hair was tied back in a ponytail, and his undercut had been freshly shaved.
“What... what are you doing here?”
“Making sure you’re still alive. You haven’t been answering my messages.”
“Sorry, I can’t look at screens for long right now.” It wasn’t a lie—screens made my head explode, like striking a match near a gas canister. Though that hadn’t stopped me just now from staring at the photo of Kate.
Logan grunted and pushed past me into my apartment, looking around with curiosity. He had never been here before and only knew my penthouse apartment from the photos I’d shown him. His gaze landed instinctively on the shelf with myLondon Has FallenDVD collection, which triggered a small, self-satisfied smirk. Kate’s DVD was in my bedroom next to the bed, where I kept rereading her words.
“You’re at The Darlington,” I said, stating the obvious.
“And I’m not happy about it,” Logan replied dryly. He hadn’t set foot in the hotel for years, rejecting every invitation I’d ever extended. I had been certain I’d never see him here again, in this place filled with so many shared memories. But he was here now, despite his aversion and reservations—because he was worried about me.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Shit,” I answered bluntly.
Logan knew everything. On the day Kate had left me, she had driven to see him and told him about my problem. That same evening, Logan and I had met at a pub. At first, he had ranted furiously about how reckless I’d been, but then we’d talked. For a long time. Eventually, he had understood—mostly. I’d had to promise him I would stop taking Vitalyn, which I had already planned to do anyway. If I wanted a future with Kate—which I did, more than anything in the world—I had to get clean. I couldn’t put her through the same hell she’d endured with her mum. I wanted to make her life easier and brighter, not fill it with worry and pain.
“Because of the withdrawal or Kate?” Logan sank onto the sofa with the ease of someone who had done so countless times, as if him being at the hotel right now weren’t a total mindfuck.
“Both. The withdrawal is killing me here,” I said, pointing at my head, “and the situation with Kate is killing me here.” I gestured at my heart, which hadn’t stopped hurting since she’d left The Darlington. I’d been through a few breakups, but none of them had felt this bad. I may have been sad afterwards, but I’d never felt so lost, as if someone had removed a part of me.
“So she hasn’t been in touch?”
I shook my head. I didn’t even know if she was reading my letters. Grace had promised to give them to her, but whether Kate opened them was another matter.
“You know where she’s staying though, right?”
I collapsed onto the sofa next to Logan. My exhausted body relaxed. I felt like a man in his sixties, not mid-twenties. I wasn’t even sure if it was the withdrawal or if the exhaustion of the past few months was catching up with me now that the Vitalyn was no longer keeping me going.
“Yes. In Shadwell, with one of the other room attendants.”
“Why don’t you go and see her?” He asked the question as if I hadn’t considered it myself a hundred times.
“I don’t want to bother her. I hurt her pretty badly, and she needs time to process everything. She’ll come to me when she’s ready to talk. Until then, I’ll just keep sending her letters.”
