Page 48 of Heart of The Night

‘If you’re trying to glean whether there was ever anything more between us, I can assure you there wasn’t – at least not on my side. It was purely physical, Cara, and I wanted to keep it that way. That’s why I never let her stay beyond a night.’ He turned away, reaching into the fridge for the orange juice.

‘As I said, I was only curious,’ I replied. I wasn’t concerned about him and Francesca – my worry was solely about her. Her repeated pleas for a second chance hinted at desperation, and the desperate could be unpredictable. ‘Regardless, I suppose she’s totally out of the picture now?’

He poured himself a glass. ‘Third time’s the charm, they say. Orange juice?’

‘No, thank you. I’ve already got water.’ I took a thoughtful sip from my glass. ‘I hope she doesn’t become a nuisance.’

‘That’s my hope, too.’ He sighed, sounding weary. ‘Can we switch gears? Just her name is a real mood killer.’

I blinked, surprised. I hadn’t realised how much she bothered him.

‘Of course,’ I said, shrugging.

‘Jason mentioned he’s throwing a bash at your place this Friday,’ he said, then chugged his drink.

‘Yeah, I’ve been meaning to discuss that with you.’

He swivelled to face me, splaying his arms for a beat. ‘I won’t be able to make it. Work’s really piled up, especially since I took on Jian’s case.’

‘Actually, I wasn’t too keen on going either,’ I said. ‘I was hoping I could spend the night here, with you.’

His face softened into a warm smile. ‘You’re always welcome.’

I smiled back.

‘Just a heads-up, though,’ he went on. ‘I really will have to work, so I can’t promise a romantic evening.’

‘That’s fine. I’ve got a load of work myself.’

‘Sounds like a plan, then.’

‘Yes. And I find that romantic, too, you know.’

‘What?’

‘Us together, hard at work.’

A humoured look crossed his face. ‘You’re truly one of a kind.’

10 | a divine answer

WILLIAM

If there was a deity, a higher power beyond the veil of human comprehension, one thing was undeniably clear: they had a sick sense of humour. My future, as I had meticulously sketched it in the silent chambers of my mind, was indeed one marked by the laughter of children. But they were meant to be children born from the woman I loved, and only her.

Was this the divine retribution for my scepticism, my staunch disbelief in any celestial entity keeping vigil over us? Was it an esoteric demonstration that, indeed, a god existed, not as a benevolent shepherd but as a puppeteer orchestrating this potential tragic twist in my narrative? Or was this a game of fickle fate, an unfortunate roll of the cosmic dice? The alternatives grated on my mind. Yet, in one, I could deflect blame onto an unseen entity, whereas the other left me alone to face the mirror of self-accusation.

Taking the mantle of culpability was a bitter pill to swallow. A part of me yearned to point an accusing finger at anyone but me, for I had adhered to the conventional wisdom – I had taken every precaution apart from celibacy. The sting of unfairness marred my thoughts. What more was expected of me? Total abstinence?

A wince punctuated my thoughts as I acknowledged the inescapable reality of biology. Children, the natural consequence of sex – a risk I had faced when I chose to share the intimacy of my bed with women I bore no profound affection for. But in this modern world, the probability of such an outcome felt like a distant echo, a rare anomaly I had assumed would not dare knock on my door.

A gnawing sense of envy burrowed into my gut, envy for the choice women had – the choice to terminate an unwanted pregnancy. Such autonomy was beyond my reach; I was shackled, utterly at the mercy of Francesca’s decisions. This reality, far from providing any comfort, left me feeling exposed and vulnerable. The control I so coveted felt as remote as the stars above.

I had never imagined that my own child could potentially strip away the woman my heart had chosen. Not like this. Francesca’s revelation had plunged me into a labyrinth of thoughts, a predicament with no apparent exit. I felt as though I were wrestling with an endless riddle that my mind couldn’t solve. The only clarity amidst this tempest of uncertainty was the bitter taste of deceit on my tongue and the painful sense of failure lodged in my core.

So here I was, stranded in this purgatory, no closer to any resolution than I had been four days ago. I wasn’t sure I wanted to get out, either. Not if it meant the loss of Cara.

‘There they are,’ Andy suddenly announced, jolting me out of my introspection. His phone was swiftly concealed in the inner pocket of his immaculate navy suit, his gaze trained on the entrance of the upscale restaurant. Gerard Clifford, the head of Clifford Paints, and his son, Tom, crossed the threshold. Their punctuality, as unfailing as the ticking of an old watch, was something Andy and I had come to anticipate, so we had arrived ten minutes early. We rose simultaneously to greet them, engaging in the customary exchange of handshakes and pleasantries, a ritual we had performed innumerable times over similar business lunches.

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