Chapter 223
Jake's POV
The plane touched down at Heathrow just after sunrise.
I didn't sleep on the flight. Couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Liam's face—that guilty, uncomfortable look when he finally cracked and told me where she was.
University of London.
Three years. Three fucking years of searching, and she'd been here the whole time.
The driver tried to make small talk on the way to the hotel. I ignored him, staring out at the gray London morning, my phone already open to Google Maps. I'd marked every coffee shop, every library, every student hangout within a mile of campus before we even hit the M4.
The suite was nice. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames, king bed with sheets that probably cost more than most people's rent. I dropped my bag by the door and didn't even glance at it.
My fingers were already flying across my phone screen, pulling up street views, transit maps, anything that would help me find her.
I grabbed my jacket and left.
---
The first day, I thought it would be easy.
I mean, how hard could it be? College campus, finite number of buildings, finite number of places a person could be. I had her photo—three years old, but still her. Still those hazel eyes, that careful smile that never quite reached them.
I started with the main library. Showed her picture to the student working the desk.
"Have you seen this girl?"
He barely looked. "Mate, thousands of students come through here every day."
Right. Of course.
I tried the coffee shop across the street. Then the one next to it. Then every single café within walking distance of campus. I went to the student union, the bookstore, the dining halls. I stood outside lecture halls during class changes, scanning faces in the crowd.
Nothing.
By the time the sun set, my phone was down to fifteen percent and I'd walked probably ten miles. My feet hurt. My throat was dry from asking the same question over and over.
"Have you seen this girl?"
"Sorry, no."
"Have you seen—"
"Can't help you, mate."
I went back to the hotel and stared at the ceiling until my alarm went off.
---
Day two, I expanded the radius.
Hit every pub, every late-night spot, every grocery store and corner shop. I walked the residential streets, looking for any sign of her. Checked the parks, the museums, the tourist traps she'd probably never go to but I checked anyway because what the fuck else was I supposed to do?
My hands shook every time I pulled out that photo.
Some people looked at me like I was crazy. Some looked sympathetic. Most just shook their heads and moved on with their lives.
I smoked more that day than I had in months. Couldn't help it. Every dead end, every "sorry, no," every blank stare—I'd light another cigarette and tell myself the next place would be different.
It wasn't.
By evening, the photo was creased from my grip, the edges soft from sweat. I sat on a bench outside some student housing complex and just... stared at it.
Three years ago, she'd smiled at me like I was the only person in the world who mattered.
Now I couldn't even find her in a city of nine million people.
---
Day three was worse.
I barely slept. Got up before dawn and started again, this time with a thermos of coffee that went cold before I was halfway through it. I went back to places I'd already checked, just in case. Asked the same people the same questions.
A security guard at one of the dorms finally told me to fuck off or he'd call the police.
Fair enough.
I found myself back at the library around noon, sitting in the reading room, just... watching. Scanning every face that walked by. Waiting for that flash of dark chestnut curls, that particular way she held herself—careful, guarded, like she was always ready to run.
She never came.
By late afternoon, I was standing outside a campus café, chain-smoking, when a barista came out for her break.
"You're that American guy," she said. "The one with the photo."
I nodded.
"You've been here three days."
"Yeah."
She lit her own cigarette, studied me. "She your girlfriend or something?"
I didn't answer.
"Look," she said, not unkindly. "I don't know who she is. But maybe... maybe she doesn't want to be found."
I walked away before she could say anything else.
---
Day four, I almost gave up.
Almost.
I spent the morning going through the motions, but my heart wasn't in it anymore. Every "no" felt heavier. Every blank stare cut deeper. I started wondering if Liam had been wrong. If she'd transferred, or dropped out, or left the country entirely.
If I was chasing a ghost.
By evening, I found myself at the South Bank, staring at the Thames. The water was dark and choppy, reflecting the streetlights starting to flicker on along the opposite shore. Crowds moved past me—tourists, couples, students heading home from class.
I lit a cigarette. Watched the smoke curl up into the twilight.
This was stupid. I was stupid. What was I even going to say to her if I found her? Hey, remember me? The guy you abandoned without a word? Yeah, I've been losing my mind for three years, how've you been?
I took a long drag, ready to turn around and go back to the hotel.
That's when I saw her.
---
Across the river. North bank, maybe fifty yards downstream.
A girl in a beige trench coat, carrying a portfolio case. Dark curls catching the last of the sunset. Talking to some guy, her head tilted in that specific way—the way she used to tilt it when she was actually listening, not just being polite.
And then she smiled.
Not the careful, controlled smile she gave strangers. The real one. Small, soft, like it was a secret just for him.
The cigarette fell from my fingers.
I didn't think. Didn't breathe. Just moved.
Pushed through the crowd, running along the South Bank, my eyes locked on that beige coat across the water. My chest was on fire, my vision tunneling, the only thought in my head was don't lose her don't lose her don't lose her—
Waterloo Bridge. I could cut across there. Maybe a minute, two minutes tops.
I ran harder.