Chapter 11

‘Shut it, Rhys,’ I snapped. ‘You know damn well why I broke things off. So do us all a favour and back off.’ He clocked the death grip I had on the wine bottle and caught the look in my eyes—the same look that said I wouldn’t think twice about smashing it over his infuriating head again, just like last time. Rhys froze. The look on his face was absolutely priceless. Like I’d just walked up and slapped him with a frozen salmon. He simply couldn’t compute the fact that I was no longer the starry-eyed doormat who used to treat his words like gospel. Probably still catching up from that time I’d literally slapped him during our breakup. Honestly, I don’t think his ego had recovered. Before Rhys could open his mouth again, a manager in a suit so sharp it could’ve sliced air walked over. He looked at Rhys and Catherine like they were yesterday’s expired prawns. ‘Sir, ma’am, I’m afraid you’re now on our banned list. You’re no longer welcome here. Ever.’ Rhys spluttered like a clogged kettle. ‘W-what? You can’t be serious.’ Instead of explaining, the manager waved over security. Two very large men in very small earpieces started making their way towards our table. Rhys kept yelling something about how he’d ‘file a complaint’ or whatever nonsense billionaires shout when things don’t go their way. Catherine just hissed something under her breath and followed him out, her heels clicking like angry punctuation marks. Once the chaos walked itself out, the manager turned to me with a faint, polite smile. ‘Apologies for the disturbance, miss. Your dinner tonight is on the house.’ I blinked at him. ‘That’s... very generous of you.’ ‘My pleasure,’ he said smoothly. ‘You’re a highly valued patron here at La Vache Dorée.’ ‘Highly valued’. Right. I’d been here maybe twice this past month, and both times I’d ordered the cheapest set menu and split a dessert with Yvaine. I eyed the manager, whom I’d vaguely recognised from those visits—always polite, always professional, but never this... chummy. He gave me big energy of someone who wouldn’t notice me in a line-up unless I’d set the restaurant on fire. Before I could probe into his sudden generosity, he handed me a black card embossed with the restaurant’s logo. ‘The owner asked me to pass this along. You’re welcome to dine here, anytime. No charge.’ He gave me a little bow and disappeared into the kitchen before I could so much as sputter a refusal. Yvaine gawked at the card. ‘Wait, what? Mira, do you know the owner of this place?’ I shook my head. ‘No.’ But I had a hunch who it might be. *** When I got back to my flat, still riding the high from watching Rhys and Catherine get chucked out of the restaurant like a couple of misbehaving toddlers, the universe decided I’d had enough fun for the night. My landlord was waiting by my door, fiddling with his keys like they were rosary beads. Mr Donnelly, mid-fifties, who always smelled faintly of microwaveable shepherd’s pie and wore socks with sandals, gave me a look like I’d just run over his cat. ‘Miss Vance, I’m really sorry,’ he said, scratching his head in that way men do when they’re about to say something completely shitty but want to look sympathetic while doing it. ‘There’s going to be some, ah, urgent renovations. Safety stuff. You’ll need to, ah, vacate the apartment by the end of the week.’ Right. And I was the Queen of England. I could practically hear my mother’s voice behind his. Guess she’d made good on that charming threat. I nodded. ‘I’ll be gone in two days.’ No arguments. No begging. No point. He gave an awkward nod and shuffled off, probably to microwave another shepherd’s pie. I’d expected this. Just didn’t expect my mother to move this fast. Moving wasn’t an issue. I could afford somewhere better. Bigger. With windows that didn’t jam and a kitchen that didn’t double as a sauna every time I boiled water. Hell, I could’ve offered Mr Donnelly double the rent and he’d probably have wept with joy and accepted. But that would’ve been like duct-taping a crack in the Hoover Dam. Even if I stayed, my mum knew where I lived. The calls, the visits, the threats dressed up as motherly concern—none of it would stop unless I gave in and married Leonard Shaw or whatever crusty aristocrat she dug up, or found a man powerful enough to scare her into silence. Speaking of which... I was halfway through mentally packing my jewellery tools and wondering if my next landlord would let me solder in the living room when it hit me—I’d agreed to fake an engagement with my very attractive neighbour, and I didn’t even know his bloody name. Brilliant. In my defence, I’d been a little preoccupied during that meeting, mostly with the way his shirt hugged his shoulders. And also with the very inconvenient, very vivid flashbacks to that night in the hotel room. The one with all the foggy bits and the completely uncalled-for heat. So when he started going on about the details of our arrangement, I was too busy staring at his mouth and wondering if it still tasted the same to take in much of anything else. Still. Minor detail. I scribbled a note: Hey, just a heads-up—I’m moving out in two days. Long story. Here’s my number in case you still want to go ahead with the whole fake fiancé thing. Name’s Mira, by the way. Cheers. I tucked it under his door across the hall. The lights were off, no sound from inside. He was probably out doing hot mysterious things. Like brooding on a rooftop or teaching orphans how to box or whatever handsome men do when they’re not accidentally getting roped into fake relationships. Then I went back to my flat, plonked myself on the sofa, opened my laptop, and typed ‘apartments that won’t ruin your life’ into the search bar. Rhys rang just as I was elbow-deep in a bag of cheesy crisps, trying to ignore my tragic life by watching an aggressively cheerful baking show. I answered because I was in a good mood and didn’t bother to check caller ID. Stupid of me, really. He didn’t bother with small talk. ‘Dinner. Tomorrow night. With my family.’ I leaned back on the sofa and stared at the ceiling like it owed me an explanation. ‘Rhys, we’re not together anymore. In case your memory’s as selective as your morals.’ He huffed. ‘My mother wants to see you.’