Chapter 42 A Cold Rain in Kensington
The tires of the private jet kiss the tarmac at Farnborough Airfield with a sharp, wet screech. I wake up instantly, my heart jumping into my throat out of pure habit, but the hands holding me tight against a soft fleece chest don't let me spiral.
"We’re down," Caspian murmurs, his voice gravelly from sleep. He kisses the top of my head, his arms slowly unwinding from around my waist. "Welcome to England, Zora."
The transition from the cabin to the outside world is a shock to the system. When the heavy cabin door seals crack open, it isn't the humid, smog-choked air of the Flats that hits my lungs. It’s cold. It’s crisp, damp, and smells faintly of old stone and petrichor. The sky overhead is a heavy, moving canvas of charcoal clouds, drizzling a fine mist that immediately coats my eyelashes.
A sleek black cab is waiting right on the tarmac. The driver, a middle-aged man in a flat cap, nods politely as he takes our bags.
"Mr. Greg said to take you straight to the flat in Kensington," the driver says, his thick British accent sounding completely surreal to my ears. "Said you’d be needing some proper rest before the showcase directors call on you next week."
Greg. I let out a breath, watching the mist rise from my mouth. Changing the guard from the Academy to Greg’s international foundation had saved our lives, but it still feels like a fever dream. We slide into the back of the cab, the leather cool against my legs.
As the car glides onto the highway, moving on what feels like the completely wrong side of the road, the London skyline begins to bleed through the fog. Red double-decker buses, towering brick chimneys, and ancient black wrought-iron gates flash past the window. It’s a city built on centuries of history, completely indifferent to the petty drama of the Vance Academy.
"It’s huge," I whisper, my forehead pressed against the glass. "It makes the Hills look small."
"It’s beautiful," Caspian says. But when I turn around, he isn't looking out the window at the Big Ben or the Thames. He’s looking at me, a soft, unburdened smile on his face. He reaches across the seat, his fingers sliding between mine, pulling my hand into his lap. "And it’s all ours. For now."
The flat Greg arranged for us is on the third floor of a white Stucco building in Kensington, overlooking a private garden square. Inside, it smells like polished wood and lavender. There are no cameras. There are no security guards in the lobby checking our IDs.
The moment the door clicks shut behind us, the silence is absolute.
I drop my gear bag on the floor and take a hesitant step onto the thick, cream-colored rug. My ankle is completely frozen, stiff as a board from the hours of sitting still on the flight. I wince, my weight shifting instantly.
"Whoa, stop," Caspian commands gently.
Before I can protest, he hooks one arm behind my knees and the other around my back, lifting me effortlessly into his arms. I gasp, my hands instinctively grabbing the shoulders of his hoodie as he carries me over to a large, plush velvet sofa by the bay window. He sets me down like I’m made of something fragile, immediately kneeling at my feet to unlace my sneakers.
"I can do it, Cas," I say, my cheeks burning. "I’m not an invalid."
"You’re a dancer with a grade-two sprain who just survived a corporate war," he corrects, gently sliding my shoe off and examining the swollen, purple tape job. "Sit back. Let me do this."
He disappears into the small kitchen and returns a minute later with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a clean dish towel. He places it over my ankle, his large hands lingering on my calf to steady the compress. The contrast between the freezing ice and the intense heat of his palms makes my breath hitch.
"Better?" he asks, looking up at me through his eyelashes.
"Yeah," I whisper. I reach down, my fingers tangling in the messy dark hair at the nape of his neck. "Thank you."
Caspian doesn't get up. He shifts, resting his forearms on the edge of the sofa right next to my hip, looking at me with an intensity that makes the room feel entirely too small.
"You know, this is the first time we’ve been in a room together where we aren't hiding from someone."
"I know," I say, my thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "It feels weird. I keep expecting Sterling to burst through the door or your father’s lawyers to hand me a non-disclosure agreement."
"They can't," he says softly. He leans in, his chest pressing against the cushions, closing the distance between us until I can taste the mint on his breath. "My father is across the Atlantic, Zora. He has no power here. Greg’s legal team blocked his access to our contracts the second the jet wheels left the ground. We’re safe."
"Safe," I repeat the word, testing it on my tongue. It feels foreign. "I don't think I’ve ever been safe, Caspian. Not since the car hit Lumi."
A shadow of pain crosses his face, and he reaches up, his large hand cupping my cheek, his thumb smoothing over my cheekbone.
"Then let me teach you how it feels. Let me be the one who keeps you safe."
He pulls himself up onto the couch, crowding over me, his lips finding mine in a kiss that is completely different from anything we’ve shared before. It isn't desperate. It isn't a reaction to a threat. It’s slow, deep, and heavy with a quiet promise.
I pull him closer, my arms wrapping around his neck as he deepens the kiss, his weight pressing me into the velvet cushions. For the first time, I’m not dancing through the trauma. I’m just a girl letting herself be loved by the one person who went to hell and back to stand by her side.
When he finally breaks the kiss, his forehead rests against mine, his chest heaving as he grips my waist.
"We need to get out of this flat," he breathes, a sudden, boyish grin breaking across his face.
"What? Why?" I laugh, breathless. "I have ice on my leg."
"Because if we stay in this room, Janitor, I’m never going to let you leave this couch," he says, his eyes dark with a heat that makes my stomach flip. "And I promised you a city that doesn't know our names. Let’s go find a coffee shop. Let’s get rained on like normal people."
An hour later, wrapped in thick wool coats Greg had left in the closet for us, we’re walking down a cobblestone alleyway in Notting Hill. The drizzle hasn't stopped, but neither of us cares. Caspian is holding a massive black umbrella over both of us, his other arm securely wrapped around my waist to keep the pressure off my bad ankle as we limp along.
The air smells like toasted coffee beans and wet brick. We find a tiny, subterranean café with steam-fogged windows and mismatched wooden chairs.
We sit in the corner, two steaming mugs of hot chocolate between us, watching the colorful houses of London melt into the gray afternoon.
"Look at them," I say, nodding toward a young couple at the counter laughing over a shared pastry. "They don't have a single clue what a pirouette on concrete feels like."
"Good," Caspian says, taking a sip from his mug. He reaches across the small round table, his fingers tracing the rim of my cup before locking onto my hand. "We don't want them to. We’re going to learn how to laugh like that, too, Zora. No debts. No ghosts."
I look at him, the golden light of the café highlighting the sharp angles of his face. He looks happy. Truly happy. The golden boy of the Vance Academy is officially dead, and the boy sitting in front of me is someone entirely new.
"I think I could get used to London," I say softly, squeezing his hand.
Caspian smiles, leaning across the table to press a quick, sweet kiss to my lips, sticky with chocolate.
"You haven't even seen the theaters yet. Just wait, Janitor. We’re going to leave a permanent stain on this city too."