Page 47 of Neighbor from Hell
I need space, air, a moment to untangle myself.
“I need a sec,” I murmur, my voice barely audible over the club’s hum, and slip away before he can respond. My heels echo in the quieter hallway outside. The bathroom door swings shut behind me, muffling the music, and I’m alone. The silence is a relief. I face the mirror, my reflection stark under the harsh lights—cheeks flushed, eyes wide, a curl slipping from my updo. I tug at it and try to fix it, but my hands tremble, and Raye’s voice echoes in my head.
Cecilia’s poisonous whispers about his reputation claw at me, sharp and insistent and doubt starts to gnaw, merciless and relentless. I grip the sink’s edge, the porcelain cold against my palms, anchoring me against the tide. But what about his kindness? The plumber, the lamp, tonight. They are a soft drip, a drip that makes me want to believe it’s more than an elaborate ruse to get my property.
Suddenly, the door swings open, and a woman appears in the mirror beside me, and her presence is sudden and commanding. She’s tall, her dark hair sleek, her silver dress shimmering like liquid wealth, hugs a model-like slenderness. Everything about her screams confidence. Her reflection catches my eye, and her smile is sharp as a blade.
“So you’re the new toy,” she drawls, her voice smooth, honey laced with venom. “The Duke of Beauclerk’s shiny new thing.”
My breath stops. The word toy lands like a slap, raw and humiliating. “Excuse me?” I say, my voice proud, but it shakes, betraying me.
She senses victory and steps closer, her perfume, something sophisticated and expensive, chokes me. “Take it from me. I’m Meredith, one of his discarded toys,” she says.
I don’t move, I can’t. My arms are locked at my sides. She turns to the sink and starts washing her hands, her blood-red, perfect nails. The water’s soft rush fills the silence. “He uses women like tissues,” she says, her tone almost pitying. “He pulls them out of their boxes, gets them all wet, then tosses them into the wastepaper basket when he’s done.”
She shakes her hands dry, the blood-red, perfect nails sailing around prettily. Then she reaches for a hand towel, wipes her hands with it, and tosses it into the bin with a flick of her wrist. The gesture is deliberately pointed and final. “So… enjoy it while it lasts, I guess, sweetheart. He’s handsome, generous, oh-so-charming… but you’ll end up in the trash like the rest of us. No dreams, no fantasies—just the truth.”
Her smile twists, a curl of her lips, and she glides toward the door, her heels loud on the tiles, leaving a chill in her wake. I’m shaking, my reflection pale, my knuckles white against the sink. Another woman comes in and heads straight for one of the cubicles. My chest heaves, each breath shallow, and I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
I’m not his lover, not his anything.
I’m just here for Raye, for one night of escape from toiling all the hours that God sent on my cottage. I wasn’t expecting more. I wasn’t hoping… was I? The sting is raw, real, cutting deeper than I want to admit, and I hate how it shakes me, how it makes me question every moment and motive.
I frown at my reflection. Meredith’s cruel malice collides with Raye’s sincere words in my head—he’s wild about you. Hugh’s quiet gestures, the way he looks at me, fills me, and I’m lost, adrift in a sea of contradictions. I make myself move, splashing cold water on my wrists, the shock steadying me. I smooth my dress, adjust my hair again, my fingers steadier now, and take a long breath, willing my face to hide the chaos in my head and heart. I step back into the hall, the club’s noise rushing in, and make my way to our table, each step heavier than the last. Hugh’s there, watching, his eyes catching mine as I sit, concern flickering in them, like he senses the shift in me.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, his voice gentle.
I shake my head automatically, then pause, my stomach twisting, a low growl betraying me. I’d starved myself all day to fit into this dress, skipped breakfast and lunch, barely sipped water, and now I feel quite faint; the wine’s buzz is no help. “Actually,” I say, my voice almost lost in the music, “I’m starving.”
He nods, and it seems as though he’s a little bit amused at my admission. His gaze, though, remains steady, and it makes my chest ache.
“Do you want to stay here longer?” he asks, leaning close.
“No, no,” I reply. “Somewhere quieter. A restaurant, maybe.” I need air, space, a chance to think, to sort through the mess Meredith left.
He rises, offering his arm. “Let’s go then.”
His hand hovers near my elbow, not touching but close enough for me to feel its warmth. We step into London’s night, the city sharp and alive, and the air cool against my bare shoulders. His car pulls up to the curb and in no time, we are in the thick of the restless city.
He takes me to an exclusive place called Pepisco, its subtle black signage glowing softly. Inside, it is a grotto of warmth: with stylish aubergine walls, their edges softened by sprawling ivy, and candles flickering on every table, casting golden pools that dance across cream linen and catch the delicate glassware like prisms. A saxophone’s mournful hum weaves through the air. Like VIPs, we’re ushered to an intimate corner, a window framing the street’s quiet glow, the world outside a blur.
More obsequious staff appear to serve us. Bending and bowing, their speech a reverential murmur. Nothing is too much trouble for the Duke of Beauclerk. Complimentary champagne cocktails are quietly produced as a menu without prices is respectfully handed to me.
I scan it. It is a parade of decadence—seared Scottish scallops with saffron foam, risotto with Lombardi truffle, succulent grass-fed lamb with rosemary jus. Everything looks like it would taste amazing to my sluggish mind, but eventually, I settle on a roasted duck breast, drawn to its promise of crispy skin and a tart cherry glaze. It is paired with herbed gnocchi, and I have always loved the soft and comforting feel and taste of well-made gnocchi.
Hugh chooses the rib-eye steak, and asks for an unpronounceable bottle of wine. Something that sounds French, but I can’t be sure. I’m not good with European languages. The snobbishly erect sommelier gravely nods his approval.
“Very good, Sir.”
The wine comes, a solemn, almost religious ritual in itself. Once it has been tasted, and approved, it is carefully poured by aman in white gloves into tall wine glasses. Its deep ruby catches the candlelight, and I sip the velvet liquid, aware that this much attention and courtesy must be costly. Very costly.
The candles flicker, softening Hugh’s face, the sharp edges blurred in the glow, and I feel it, the pull to let go, to sink into this night, into him.
The food follows, steaming, fragrant—my duck rich, its skin cracking under my fork, the glaze a burst of sweet and sharp, the gnocchi melting, pillowy, each bite a small salvation.
Hugh’s quiet, his eyes are on me, steady, searching, and the setting wraps us in something dangerous—romantic, undeniable. My heart whispers to live, to savor this fleeting magic, to hell with tomorrow. But Meredith’s voice claws me back—trash, like the rest.
I tense, my fork pausing mid-air.
