Page 13 of Power Play
I hover a moment and then I hit send before I can overthink it. Then I throw the phone across the room as if that’ll stop me from obsessively checking for a reply.
Spoiler alert; it doesn’t.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SOPHIE
Murphy’s message is still sitting on my phone like a bomb I’m too scared to detonate.
“You looked beautiful last night. I’m sorry that moment got ruined.”
I read it again, and again. And then once more for good measure, like some self-inflicted emotional paper cut.
It’s stupid. It’s just a message. Words on a screen from a man who knows exactly how to charm his way out of anything. Samuel Murphy has a smile that could melt glaciers and a habit of dropping emotional hand grenades when you least expect them.
But this time it doesn’t feel like charm.
It feels like regret. Like truth, scraped raw and barely held together with full stops.
Which is why I’m currently pacing my flat in mismatched socks, clutching my phone like it holds the answer to the universe, and stress-eating leftover Bakewell tart straight from the tin.
Because apparently, that’s who I am now. A woman who kisses boys, avoids them for a month, banters her way through a gala, and then falls to pieces over a text message.
My phone buzzes again.
MIA: Coffee. Now. I’m bringing bribes.
SOPHIE: If it’s not pastries I’m blocking your number.
MIA: Pain au chocolat and hot gossip.
SOPHIE: Fine. But I’m judging you the entire time.
We meet at our usual café, a little place tucked between a yoga studio and an independent bookshop that smells heavily of cinnamon. Mia’s already there, two takeaway cups in hand and a paper bag of buttery bribery waiting on the table. “I bought emotional support carbs,” she says, sliding the bag across to me.
“You’re forgiven,” I mutter, taking a bite before I’ve even sit down. “Barely.”
She smirks. “So, are we talking about the Murphy message or are you still pretending it didn’t make your soul ache?”
“Depends,” I say around a mouthful of pastry. “Are you going to be supportive or tell me I’m being dramatic?”
“Both. Obviously.”
I groan, dropping into the chair opposite her. “It was just unexpected. I didn’t think he’d say something like that.”
Mia shrugs, stirring her coffee. “He’s always been an idiot, but he’s never been heartless. And that girl? The so-called journalist? Not his doing. She’s been trying to attach herself to anyone with a blue tick and a decent jawline for months.”
“Well, she succeeded.” I scowl at my coffee. “She ruined the moment.”
Mia arches a brow. “The moment? Sophie Hart. Were you about to have an actualmomentwith Murphy?”
“I plead the fifth.”
“This isn’t America.”
“Still counts.”
She grins. “Well, you might want to get used to being near him again. Because, and don’t throw your coffee at me, I have a proposition.”
