Page 1 of The Consequence of You
CHAPTER ONE
CALLIE
“I’m so sorry, I’m busy on Saturday.” It’s the third time Henry’s asked me out since he started training at my gym, and I’m running out of excuses. He’s a good-looking guy in his third year of veterinary school. During our few conversations, he’s made me laugh and we have some similar interests, but I don’t have time to date. Exam results are out later this week, and I’ve promised to help my best friend, Dahlia, and her boyfriend, Grayson, decorate their new flat after they move in at the weekend. We start university soon after that and… okay, I’m making excuses. It’s not about lack of free time at all.
It’s been a few years since I dated anyone and I have no intention of changing that, no matter who’s asking. Saying no to Henry isn’t easy, but it’s infinitely easier than saying yes. He takes my water bottle from me and refills it from the cooler before handing it back.
“Are you free the Saturday after?” He smiles hopefully, but I shake my head apologetically. His smile falters a little as it finally registers that the scheduling of the date isn’t the problem. “No worries. If you change your mind, you let me know.” I nod and feel a pang of regret as I watch him refill his bottle and head over to the treadmill in the corner. I take a long swig of cold water. He is a sweet guy and if I was looking for something, Henry would be it. I wish things were different, but they’re not.
I swallow a few more mouthfuls of water and take up a spot on the rowing machine next to Dahlia. She removes her headphones off and turns to me.
“So?”
“I said no.”
“He cornered me earlier and asked me what your favourite restaurant was.”
“Don’t. I feel bad enough as it is.” Biting my lip, I feel Dahlia’s gaze on the side of my face. “I’m not interested in him.” I start rowing, and after a few seconds, Dahlia starts again next to me.
Maybe a different friend would have told me to give him a chance, pushed me to say yes. But that’s not Dahlia. Instead, she quietly matches my pace on the exercise machines, staying alongside me as I pull and push until sweat beads on my forehead and drips between my shoulder blades. As though working harder will somehow erase my past.
My early morning gym session was supposed to set me up for the day, but all it’s done is leave me feeling restless. There’s nothing new about Henry asking me out, and hetook it well enough when I said no. My best friend didn’t push me on it. Idon’twantto date him, but it’s an unwelcome reminder of why I don’t. I throw my gym stuff into the washing machine and switch it on before heading to the kitchen.
Rossi, my family’s head of security and personal bodyguard, sits at the table with a newspaper and a mug of black coffee. He looks up as I enter the room.
“Good workout?”
“Yes, we did an hour in the gym and a Pilates session.”
“Ready to take on the world then, Miss Callie?”
“Something like that.” I offer him a small smile, pour myself a glass of juice, and help myself to the arts section of his paper. I flick through it quietly, not actually reading it, but not wanting to make small talk. Rossi finishes his crossword and gets up to fix us both an omelette. Cooking for me isn’t in his job description, but it’s a habit we’ve got into over the last few years. One or the other of us will make breakfast, and we’ll frequently eat together in the evenings.
Gabriele Rossi is in his late twenties, and he’s worked for my family for years. Our family has always had a security team, but after my mother died four years ago, my father made Rossi my dedicated guard. He doesn’t come everywhere with me but lives at the house and accompanies me if I go anywhere alone.
I’ll be starting Heathley University in a couple of weeks, and it’s part of the same prestigious private campus as Heathley Academy, which I graduated from earlier in the summer. The campus is on private grounds with top-end security measures, because some of the richest families in the country send their young people there to be educated. It all feels unnecessary and over thetop, but it means that Rossi doesn’t have to be at my side twenty-four hours a day, even if he is always on call.
If the demanding hours bother him or interfere with his personal life, he never complains. He’s a consummate professional but also feels a little like family. An older brother almost, especially as he’s the person I spend the most time with at home.
We moved to England ten years ago from Sicily. While my parents were proud of our Italian heritage, they wanted something different for us than the upbringing they’d had. My mother was a stay-at-home parent, while my father continued to run his business back home, at the same time as extending his portfolio in this country. These days, my father spends the vast majority of his time in Sicily working, and even when he is in England, he’s busy, so I rarely see him. My older brother, Luca, has been over in Sicily for the last few years, having moved back there not long after our mother died.
We fall into an easy silence as Rossi chops a red pepper and a couple of spring onions. He cracks a few eggs into a bowl and whisks them briskly, whistling ‘Cruel Summer’ as he works.
“Didn’t peg you as a Swifty, Rossi.”
“Isn’t everyone a Taylor fan?” he retorts, not phased in the slightest at my teasing.
I laugh. He’s not wrong.
I hum along with him until we’re both melodising between us. Grabbing the cutlery as he plates up, we spend the next half an hour arguing over which of her albums is her best work, all thoughts of dating out of my mind again.
ASHER
Seven hundred pounds. Not bad for a twenty-minute race. I throw the wad of cash in the glove box and peel out of the car park. It’s not about the money for me; it’s the thrill of the challenge. I’m used to solving problems, whether it’s complex math equations for my course or figuring out the right words to charm two women I just met at a nightclub into my bed that night. Both are challenging in their own way, but winning an illegal street race is all about trusting your instincts. It's about holding your nerve and following your gut. The excitement of not knowing what’s around the next bend, or if my competitor is more skilled than me, is exhilarating. The rush of crossing the finishing line first is unrivalled.
I check no one’s following me and turn onto the narrow road leading to the double garage I rent. After I pull in, I tear off my black, stretchy ski mask and shove it in the glove box, retrieving my cash at the same time. I unlock the small floor safe in the corner and add my latest winnings to my growing pile of money.
After covering the car with a dust sheet, I climb into my other vehicle. This one is worth ten times the value of the car I race in, but it’s too recognisable. I can’t have anyone know who I am. Personally, I couldn’t care less if my identity were to be revealed, but my parents would force me to stop racing. It’d cause a scandal they’d immediately try to cover up.
