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  Agatha is quiet, a troubled look on her face.

  “This isn’t like Philip, Charlotte. I don’t understand what my brother is thinking. He’s never this rash.”

  I couldn’t say anything, because the man she is describing is virtually a stranger to me now.

  5

  Philip

  I lean back on my chair, my arms folded across my chest, not hearing a word of what the man presenting at the front of the room is saying.

  The thin, spectacled man, wearing a suit two sizes too big for him, points at something on the colorful pie chart behind him, and I give a faint nod, knowing my assistant is taking notes.

  My mind is on the gray envelope in front of me, and my hands are itching to tear it into pieces. I can’t understand where all this fury is stemming from.

  Charlotte sent the annulment papers this morning, three days after our conversation at the café. I’d heard nothing from her in the meantime, and it pisses me off how easy it is for her to disregard me.

  The papers are still droning on about our marriage, and how both parties are not available for comment. A part of me feels guilty, knowing that if the press is hounding me so relentlessly, then they would be breathing down Charlotte’s neck even more heavily.

  However, I know that Agatha is handling the whole situation. My sister won’t let anyone get past her to Charlotte, and she has assured me of the same with great conviction.

  I eye the papers again, like one would eye a poisonous snake. If I sign these, I can put this whole thing behind me.

  My instincts tell me to do so. But, I can’t.

  I don’t know what is stopping me. But I don’t want to sign those papers.

  My mistake all those years ago cost me Charlotte’s friendship, and I gleaned enough about her intentions when we met recently to understand that, the minute I sign these papers, she wants nothing more to do with me.

  I can’t have that. Missing her is like a physical ache in my soul.

  I grit my teeth. How could one woman be such a thorn in my side?

  This is why I had never wanted to attend that damned wedding, to begin with. Seeing her brought all my unresolved feelings to the front, and I can’t control my actions when it comes to her.

  I had seen her all for half an hour, and I ended up marrying her!

  Charlotte McCoy.

  My pen taps on my knee furiously as I try to contain my satisfaction at that title.

  It suits her.

  I can see her by my side, and it infuriates me that she is making me act like a damned teenager.

  It has always been like this, ever since I came back from college.

  While I watched over her protectively when she was a child, I was blown away by the quiet woman she became, her big dark eyes now holding a different sort of awareness when they look at me.

  I was determined to enjoy my early twenties. While I flirted and dated with a wild abandon, whenever she would walk into a room, I would be drawn to her. My eyes would follow her every move and, at times, I would wonder if I had become a stalker. Her presence had drawn out a side of me that I rarely showed anyone.

  The first few times had been awkward when I had run into her, but she hadn’t said anything, just gave me that small smile of hers, the one that spoke of secrets I wasn’t aware I would yearn to know.

  Her bruises had still been there, only she had learned to hide them better, under her full-length sleeves and modest clothing.

  Charlotte held on to her pride like a lifeline, never once accepting any money or clothes, no matter how much Agatha and Grams tried to force them on her. She would wear those faded clothes that I never knew where she got from. But I did know that she was quite skilled at mending and stitching. That little secret of hers I discovered when I mourned the tearing of my favorite jersey and she asked me to hand it overto her.

  Sitting on one of the garden benches, her nimble fingers had moved deftly over the material, as I sat there shirtless. Maybe that was when we actually struck up a friendship?

  I did wonder at times how it would have been if I never acted upon the strange sensation I felt for her.

  Would we still have been friends? Would we have been more than friends?

  Well.

  I sigh, my eyes moving towards the young executive, who is flapping his arms around in an attempt to explain the financials on the screen.

  One quick glance at them tells me all I needed to know, and I stand up, my chair scraping back loudly.

  The other members of the board turn to stare at me.

  I don’t pay them any heed, nodding towards my assistant in a silent order to remain and follow the rest of the pitch. Tucking the envelope under my arms, I stuck my hands in the pockets of my pants and stroll out without so much as a goodbye.

  This investment decision could diversify my portfolio, but I am not completely sold on how high the current CEO levered the company. Nor am I in a mood to get into any discussions at this particular moment.

  My driver is waiting outside, and I slide into the backseat of the Rolls-Royce, bidding the doorman a good day.

  As the car purrs to life, I stare outside, the envelope lying on my lap. I don’t enjoy being driven around. I prefer my own hand behind the wheel, but on business-related meetings, I have to maintain my image.

  Feeling the pangs of hunger, I redirect the car to a restaurant I am quite familiar with – and for good reason.

  Fergus is lounging behind the bar, having taken over from the bartender, and he doesn’t look particularly surprised to see me.

  “You look like someone slugged you with a dead fish,” he comments from across the room when I enter, resting his elbows on the bar.

  I give him a blank stare, “Why are you so weird?” He shrugs. Taking off my coat, I sit down, “Give me something strong.”

  Fergus eyes me with an unholy gleam in his light blue eyes, “Day drinking, are we?”

  As he fixes me a long island iced tea, I stare gloomily at his black outfit, “What is with you and black? I’ve never seen you wear any other color.”

  Fergus glances over his shoulder at me, smirking, “The ladies love it.”

  I take the drink he hands me and sip at it, “It’s a wonder you haven’t contracted some nasty disease with how much you sleep around.” Fergus grins.

  “It’s my Irish luck.” He makes a face. “I had a dry month, though.” Shaking my head, I glance at the menu.

  “My condolences. Why isn’t the pasta you made the other day on the menu?”

  My friend frowns now, and one could tell that he takes his work very seriously when he wears that serious look on his face.

  “There’re a few kinks I’m still working out in it.”

  “That’s a pity,” I remark. “I have a yen for it. Give me a bowl of shrimp soup, then.”

  Fergus nods at one of the waiters passing by, and the boy rushes into the kitchen. It pays to be the boss. Leaning against the bar, he informs me, “I’m thinking of buying up the restaurant on Maine Street. Thought I would tell Ian to see if he can look at the management chain there.”

  “Ian?” My confusion must be shown on my face, because Fergus continues.

  “I know he’s a Crisis CEO, but I want to take over the whole chain of restaurants and I hate anything to do with management meetings and what not. He can deal with the upper management and I can go ahead and do what I do best.”

  I throw the remaining drink down my throat and then say, considering, “You want to take over Wellingtons? I did hear rumors that they’re edging towards bankruptcy.”

  Fergus bares his teeth in a smile.

  “Exactly. Now, what’s that?”

  I stare blankly at the envelope that I have unintentionally brought inside with me.

  I let Fergus slide out the documents and watch him carefully as my soup arrives. His face doesn’t show any flicker of reaction. Instead, he glances at me.

  “Why haven’t you signed these?”

  “Becaus
e I don’t want to.” I don’t hesitate.

  I have been friends with Fergus for as long as I can remember and right now, as he gives me an unnerving look, I know he will drag out the truth from me, if I even know what the reason is.

  “Why not?” I dig into my soup, not knowing how to answer him. “Philip, are you in love with this woman?” Am I what? In love with Charlotte?

  “She’s been around as long as I can remember. And when I saw her last week, I realized how badly I missed her. If I sign those papers, she’s not going to stick around, Fergus.”

  Fergus tucks the papers in the envelope, his brow furrows.

  “So, you want to be friends with her? What are you, five?”

  “Fuck you.” I immediately bristle at the insult, not that he is bothered. He looks amused.

  “You went to her wedding, even though any one of us could have gone as Agatha’s plus one. You married her the second she was jilted at the altar, although there could have been a number of ways to handle that situation. Then you decide not to get the marriage annulled, despite the fact that it’s the logical solution. You want to know what I think?”

  “I really don’t,” I mutter. Fergus continues as if he hasn’t heard me.

  “I think the reason you’re so desperate to tie her to you is because you’re in love with her.”

  “’Love’ is a very strong term,” I try to reason with him, but mostly myself. “I might have feelings for her—”

  Fergus stares at me as if I have suddenly announced that I want to wear a tutu and dance in his restaurant.

  “If this is how you behave with women you ‘might’ have feelings for, I’m worried about what you’ll do once you’re in love.” I turn my gaze back to my soup. “Face it. You’ve always been in love with her. You should’ve seen the way you watched her when we were young. You were like a puppy. We all had a pool going of what would happen if she actually threw you a stick—” Fergus dances out of reach as I try to hit him, howling with laughter.

  Some of the diners look over, a little taken aback at the noise.

  “I’m not in love with her.” Even I can hear the lack of conviction in my statement. My friend sobers up.

  “Would it really be that bad if you were?” I stare. Fergus pours me a glass of water and thrusts it towards me. “When she disappeared with just a note to Agatha, we all knew you had something to do with it, even if you refused to discuss it. You changed your entire life around after she left.”

  His words strike a chord in me, and I gaze at the liquid in my glass.

  The vibration from my phone makes me pick it up blindly, and I see Agatha’s text message. Frowning, I stuck the phone back into my pocket and ignore the continuous vibrations.

  “Who’s that – never mind,” Fergus grins when his own phone lights up, “Agatha says you need to decide what the hell you want, or she’s going to have me and Ian beat you up.” I narrow my eyes at him, and Fergus shrugs. “She’s the boss, man. We’re just her slaves.”

  “Just because she handles all your PR, doesn’t mean you have to bend to her every whim. That little brat needs a whooping.” Fergus raises a brow.

  “Says the brother who panicked when she sprained her wrist by falling off the bed.”

  “Like you and Ian weren’t right there next to me threatening the poor doctor,” I scoff. Fergus looks a little thoughtful.

  “Is Zayn the only one who doesn’t let her lord it over him?” I push the empty bowl away from me.

  “They’re always at each other’s throats. You’d think they were toddlers the way they fight.” I pick up the envelope and sigh. “Tell Agatha, I’ll deal with this.” Fergus abandons his light-hearted persona.

  “Think about what I said, though. If you want to keep her tied to you, it’s not friendship you’re after.” I give a curt nod, and walk out, a million thoughts racing through my head.

  An hour later, I walk into my apartment to find the last person I want to see today.

  I rub my temples.

  “Hello, Grams.”

  Jolene McCoy watches me, a displeased look in her eyes, her arms crossed against her chest, one foot tapping on the carpeted floor.

  “Where’s my granddaughter-in-law, Philip?”

  I curse Agatha under my breath, and raise my hands in surrender.

  “Let me explain.”

  6

  Charlotte

  I wipe down the last counter and put the rag in soapy water to soak overnight.

  Untying my apron, I take it off and hang it on its hook. Then I glance at the sandwich that lays unattended on one of the tables. I placed it there to eat it as my dinner, but I am not quite hungry.

  I pick up the plate and cover the sandwich with a dampened cloth to prevent the bread from stiffening. Tucking it into the fridge, I turn off the lights, and then I make my way upstairs, tired and exhausted.

  It has been a long couple of days, and I sit down on the lumpy couch that I dragged in from the street a few years ago. My feet on the faded coffee table, I switch through the channels, not wanting to go to bed just yet.

  There is an action movie playing, one that had been in the cinemas last year, but I hadn’t been able to go watch it. Settling in, I empty my mind and focus on the theatrical action sequences, not wanting to think anymore.

  However, with everything going on that is a foolish wish, and my mind drifts off.

  I haven’t heard back from Philip, and Agatha told me that he is avoiding her calls. I don’t know what is going on in his head. I am not blaming him for what he did. As upset as I was when Erik had said what he had and then left me, I was just as involved in marrying Philip as Philip was.

  And as far as what he said about getting Erik back? It worked, to some extent. One of the assistants I worked alongside with, when I was working with Erik last year, often dropped by my bakery for some baked goods for her kids. Today, she was bursting with gossip about how Erik returned from his holiday early to defend the company’s reputation because the shares had dropped. According to the woman, who looked positively gleeful, it turns out that with the reporters hounding his office and him not being present to try to contain the situation, rumors leaked and some hefty investors backed out.

  I lift the remote to raise the volume of the movie.

  I can’t say that the news didn’t make me slightly satisfied.

  When I met Erik two years ago, he was struggling in his father’s company. We struck up a friendship when I stuck my nose out and corrected one of the details on a document he was working on.

  Once he found out that I had a bachelor’s degree in management, albeit from not the best reputed school out there, he would often turn up asking for my advice on different matters. Over the months, he advanced in his father’s company, and his attitude started changing.

  My hand tightens on the remote, my blood heating with anger.

  No, he was always an asshole. I was just too swept up in the notion of somebody needing me that I let myself be played. If I had been thinking clearly, I would have noticed the signs; the hint of perfume, the late nights when he would leave me working in the office and go out to meet a colleague for ‘work stuff’ and then come back looking disheveled.

  A sigh escapes from my lips.

  I really was stupid, wasn’t I?

  Was I so desperate for affection that I ignored all the signs that he was cheating on me?

  When he was promoted to the position of the CEO a few months back, things changed again. That was the moment when he started asking me to come to his office and help out. Experience in a company would have done wonders on my CV, and he kept promising me a part time job so that I could manage both the bakery and a job in his company.

  Not that he ever gave me a job.

  My face darkens.

  I really hope Philip’s punch loosened a few of those perfect teeth he was so proud of.

  Two times. I fell in love two times, and both times, each man made it a point to humiliate me in the
worst way possible.

  I am not going to fall for it a third time, I vowed.

  I’ve bounced back from what happened on my wedding day. Well, bounced back from part of it. This situation with Philip still has to be resolved. Hopefully, when he sees the papers I sent him, he will decide to close this chapter and realize that whatever idea he is clinging to, is a foolish one.

  I recline even more, glaring at the creaking fan above me. I really need to get it fixed.

  As the movie drones on, my eyes slowly drift shut in exhaustion.

  I don’t know what time it is when I wake up, but I am sweating profusely when I do.

  The television is still blaring with some late-night show in the darkened room and I pull myself into a sitting position, ignoring my stiff muscles.

  Blearily, I look around, not understanding why it is so hot.

  The ceiling fan above me creaks at a moderate speed, the sound part of the background. The windows are also wide open, so ventilation is not a problem.

  I get to my feet, cursing myself for falling asleep in such a position that all my back muscles are cramped. A quick glance at the wall clock tells me that it is just shy of midnight.

  I am just stretching out my back when I hear a noise. It is soft, barely discernible, but I stop moving, straining my ears to hear.

  There it is again.

  It is coming from downstairs.

  I clutch the back of the couch, not knowing what to do. There is clearly an intruder downstairs, but calling the police will be useless. This isn’t a particularly good neighbourhood, and the police avoid coming here. And if they do come, they will take a lot of time.

  I hear a louder noise this time, as if something smashed, and my blood runs cold.

  All my precious equipment!

  I grab the baseball bat that I keep for security reasons from behind the door, and my heart hammers in my throat as I slowly reach for my front door to go down to the bakery.

  The sudden vibration against my leg makes me jump, and I realize it is my cell phone. Seeing Philip’s number, I cut the call.