Chapter 26 Table Fourteen
LAWRENCE
It takes me hacking into Kieran Black's personal calendar to find out where he's taking Scarlett tonight.
Italian Delight.
That's the place.
I take a quick look at the restaurant's reservation page—they still use an outdated backend that's laughably easy to poke around in— send a polite email pretending to be his assistant confirming "Mr Black's table for two," and within minutes I have the details:
Black, Kieran – Table 14 – 7:30 p.m. – Window view – Romantic setup requested.
He's a major investor in the place, a silent partner, so I can't simply buy out the entire restaurant and cancel every booking for tonight.
They won't sell out his slot.
So I sit in the lavish suite I've been staying in since I arrived in New York, plotting quieter ways to ruin their evening.
All day I've been impatient.
Restless.
Every hour that draws closer to 7:30 feels like someone aggressively running sandpaper on my skin.
No scenario hasn't run through my head on how I can sabotage their date: giving an anonymous tip to the health inspector on a rat problem so they'd shut down the place, or spreading a rumour about a sudden plumbing emergency so all the patrons would be asked to leave.
And a million more.
But I discard them all.
Innocent people would suffer for it. Staff just trying to earn a living, chefs, cooks who have been up for hours making dishes.
I can be cruel, but not that cruel.
By 6:50 p.m. I'm slouched in my leather chair in front of my multi-monitor setup, a glass of scotch untouched on the side table. The main screen shows the live feed from the street camera outside Scarlett's apartment.
At 7:01 exactly, Kieran's black Aston Martin DB11 pulls into the driveway.
I scoff under my breath, taking a sip from my glass.
He can't even upgrade to the latest model. Pathetic.
He steps out in a tailored midnight-blue suit, holding a bouquet of pale pink tulips. Tulips.
"Her favourites are white long-stemmed roses, you silly idiot," I say aloud, swirling my drink.
I know because Scarlett mentioned it on a post she made sometime in 2020.
The bozo clearly didn't bother to find out.
A minute later, the door opens, and Scarlett steps out.
My swirling stops.
She's wearing the dress I sent her on Wednesday night.
As expected, it looks glorious on her, clinging to her every curve.
Her red hair is loose, falling in curls over one shoulder. Minimal makeup is done on her face—smoky eyes, red lips that provide a sharpness against the violet of her dress.
I have no words to describe her beauty… her effortless seduction in that dress.
My blood turns to fire.
I know she chose to wear it most definitely out of spite.
To wear it for him. To show me she doesn't need me, doesn't want me, doesn't care.
I watch her smile at Kieran, before leaning in to kiss his cheek.
Scarlett inhales the tulips, nods appreciatively, then disappears inside to set them down.
When she reappears, Kieran slides an arm around her waist and guides her to the passenger side.
I'm brimming with fury watching him open the door for her like a gentleman.
As she gets in gracefully, the slit rides high up to show a long, smooth leg.
Suddenly, I hate myself for getting that dress. I should've gotten something uglier.
Something that covered up every inch of her, not this.
The Aston pulls away, the taillights disappearing down the street.
Then I switch feeds.
Italian Delight has a dozen publicly accessible exterior and lobby cameras.
Routing them all to my secondary monitor, I settle in to wait for them to arrive.
My phone rings. It's Laura.
I answer immediately, my heart pounding fast with the same dread that's lived there for weeks. Every call from her these days feels like it could be the one. The one that ends with "she's gone."
I left London because I couldn't breathe in that hospital room anymore. I couldn't watch Mum shrink smaller every day, her skin yellowing, her eyes vacant half the time, violent the other half.
I hated the helplessness. I hated the disgusting smell of antiseptic and dying.
I hated that no amount of money or experimental trial could stop it.
I'll keep going back, I've already redrawn my schedule so I'm there for her final days, every weekend if I have to. But I needed air, and the distance.
I needed Scarlett.
Laura's voice comes through, tired.
"Mother's been asking for you. She won't let me rest until she talks to you." She says, reducing her voice to a whisper. "And she still thinks you're ten years old, so just play along, okay?"
My throat tightens. "I will. Give her the phone."
I wait, my eyes shifting back to the monitor. The Aston hasn't pulled up yet, meaning they're running a bit late. Good.
There's rustling on the other end, then my mother's thin voice comes on the line.
"Lulu, honey?"
My chest breaks, and I get up slowly, on impulse.
"Hello, Mother," I say softly. "Good evening."
There's a brief pause, and I can hear her shallow, laboured breathing.
"Lulu… where are you? You didn't come home from school."
I close my eyes for a second.
"I'm sorry, Ma. I got held up. I'm on my way now."
She makes a small, pleased sound.
"Good boy. Don't forget your coat. It's cold out."
"I won't forget."
Another pause ensues.
"Are you eating? You're too skinny," she says slowly. "You have long legs. I always tell you to eat so you don't look too lanky."
A small smile cracks across my face.
"I'm eating, Ma. Promise."
"Good. Good." Her voice softens. "You… you're my good boy, Lulu. Always. I love you."
I swallow the lump in my throat.
"I love you too, Ma."
The line goes quiet for a moment. Then Laura's voice returns, gentle.
"She's drifting again. I'll let her rest."
"Thanks, Laura."
"Take care over there, okay?" She says. "Don't be too hard on yourself, Lawrence. I know you."
"I won't."
The call ends.
I set the phone down carefully and sink back into my chair, my heart aching.
Fuck dementia. And fuck cancer. They didn't have to choose a completely sweet, innocent, hardworking woman.
A good soul.
On the monitor, the Aston finally glides into frame, pulling up to the valet stand.
I focus so it distracts me from my grief.
Kieran steps out first, then goes over to open Scarlett's door.
She smiles up at him, takes his hand and emerges from the car.
Some heads turn to stare at her.
Even the valet stiffens for a moment.
Kieran offers his arm, and she takes it, giving him that soft smile again.
They disappear inside.
Leaning forward with my elbows on the desk, I stare at the feed as they get seated by the window, looking like the perfect, happy couple.
My fist clenches hard.
This isn't living.
Stalking her like this, watching grainy feeds from my room with my blood boiling because another man is touching her hair.
It's fucking pathetic.
But I don't care.
I can't stop.
I deserve every second of this torture anyway, for telling her that rubbish in my office that day.
This is the punishment, the fitting
punishment I get, watching the woman who's ever made me feel human sit with someone else, laugh with someone else… slowly slip away.
I lean back in the chair, my eyes never leaving the screen.
Close the feeds. Bury yourself in work until she's nothing but a memory.
My mind tells me.
But I don't.
I watch.
Because even if Scarlett's not mine, even if she never will be, I can't look away.