Page 41 of Twist of Fate
I haven’t pulled the “Money talks” card in quite some time. When I was younger, I used to flaunt my family name and the bank account tied to it as if it were my job.
It wasn’t as if I was doing my real one, after all.
I only went to the best clubs and drank the more expensive whiskey. If the clothes weren’t designer, they didn’t belong on my body. I was an absolute arsehole, and when I put all that behind me, I swore I’d never use my family name or money to my advantage again.
Until today.
All because of a girl.
But to be fair, Aisling Farrell was never just a girl, and the lie I told was for a good reason. So, on Saturday morning, I woke up at the crack of dawn, prepared to do whatever it took to furnish the empty flat that I had assured Aisling was filled with furniture.
It’s not.
In fact, since the contractors completely renovated the top floor of the building, no one has lived up here but me. I had the option to occupy the entire space, keeping the penthouse my father had when he owned the building, but I chose to divide it into two instead. At the time, I thought having a space for guests sounded like a good plan. Maybe even my mam could come and stay.
But you actually needed free time for shit like that. So the extra flat had remained empty.
Until now.
When I showed up to the shops, ready to drop a mint to get same-day delivery, things got sorted relatively quickly. Thankfully, the flat was on the small side, a modest one-bedroom to my three. So, furnishing hadn’t been a huge undertaking, aside from the timing issue, that is.
I did all this, I realized, never knowing if she would actually show.
I deleted it.
Why had I said that to her?
When she turned around that night and asked me if I still had her number, it felt like a punch to my gut. I had noticed her growing quiet during the last few miles of that cab ride, and I hadn’t understood why. As soon as I saw the hurt in her eyes, I knew why.
Any progress we had made, no matter how small, vanished the moment those words left my lips.
Ihaddeleted her number, but that wasn’t the whole story. So, why hadn’t I said that?
Because it didn’t matter.
It didn’t change what I did.
After I delivered the news that I not only ghosted her but also essentially erased her from my life, she said she would be in touch.
She hadn’t deleted my number.
I didn’t expect a response that night. Hell, I wasn’t sure I deserved one at all. But I woke up the next morning and stuck with my plan anyway, making sure the flat was ready when she was.
Last night, I finally got a reply. A one-word text.Noon.
I sent her my address, called to check in on my parents (no updates on either front), and then tried to catch up on work.
Instead, I ended up drinking whiskey and falling asleep at my desk.
I’m fairly certain that the wood grain has a permanent indentation of my face in it by now.
Now, it is nearly noon, and I’m running late, slightly hungover, trying not to think about the fact that Aisling will be here soon.
In my space. Under my roof. Surrounded by my things.
The door chimes. She is early.Of course, she is early.
I barely have my jeans buttoned, and my shirt is dangling over my shoulder. There is a hoodie somewhere…
