Page 3 of Stuck

She replied almost immediately.

Welcome home Don’t worry about not driving me in—you’d be cringe anyway, old man

I’m 30 not 70, brat. But I am sorry I won’t get to see you

It’s better this way. You’re horrible when you’re jet-lagged

Oh yeah? What’s your excuse?

I’m a delight, and you know it. I take it you won’t bother coming back before your meeting-a-thon starts?

You guessed right

Bingley, I, and the other board members had an uphill struggle ahead of us to get the company ready for the acquisition we needed to secure its future. Bingley was off to Scotland on Wednesday to tackle another leg of our investment drive while I covered the meetings we had lined up in London. Then he was off to Paris the week after, and we were both heading to Copenhagen at the end of the month. Barring a few engagements pertaining to my own businesses, I’d be at the Hydro Crops offices full time for the next few weeks at least. After nearly a fortnight abroad already, that meant more than a month away from my sister.

I’ll make it up to you when I get back

No need. Although I’ll take dinner at Giuseppe’s if you’re offering

Done

Sorry this means an extra night at the flat

My gut twisted. She knew I hated staying there. I hated that she knew why.

It’s all good. Sleep tight and good luck tomorrow

Night x

By the time I’d sent quick messages to Sam Reynolds, Pemberley’s live-in house manager, and Trent to apprise them of my altered plans, the baggage had finally started trickling through the gates, and I was on my way.

A taxi dropped me off in Berkeley Square a little under an hour later. I deliberately didn’t look at the front of the town house as I lugged my bags down the exterior basement steps to my front door. The basement was where I kept rooms for my staff: Trent, or whichever of his team was driving me when I was in London; a chef, if I happened to be using one, which I rarely did; any security detail that might be required, though that was only in exceptional circumstances. It also housed the building’s security and server rooms, the original wine cellar, and the entrance to the lift to my flat on the top floor.

I wheeled my luggage into the lift and punched in the key code, taking a deep breath as the lift jerked into motion. My feelings about this house were complex, and although I’d ensured it was well appointed and comfortable for Georgiana’s sake, I never much enjoyed being here.

I owned the whole building, but some years ago, I’d had the attic converted into a roof-top flat and rented the rest of the house out as a self-contained dwelling accessed from street level. Even up in the rafters I often felt too close to the painful memories that haunted the lower floors. I should have sold the place, really, but I’d never been able to bring myself to let it go. Instead, whenever I was in London, I filled my time with other engagements so I didn’t need to be here for anything other than to sleep.

The lift doors opened, and I deposited my luggage in the hallway outside and left it there for my housekeeping service to deal with tomorrow. Unsurprisingly, the flat was dark and chilly, but that was easily resolved with the adjustment of a few controls. What couldn’t be fixed was how unbearably quiet it was compared to the laughter that used to permeate the space. The stillness seeped into my bones whenever I stayed here too long. I could feel it already, creeping over me. With a grunt, I marched through the flat, turning on lights as I went.

I spent the next twenty minutes being infuriatingly unproductive. My brain, still on Japanese time, refused to calm down enough to concentrate on work, the TV, or a book. My travel-weary limbs didn’t have the energy for exercise. I hoped Bingley’s evening was going better.

It had always been his goal to take the technology his father developed and the inheritance he left behind and create something truly sustainable with it, and that’s precisely what he’d done. But it would all be for nothing if his main competitor, Vertex, ran him out of the market before he got past the implementation phase. The plan was to buy them out before that happened, and tonight’s drinks reception was a big opportunity for him to impress some of his most promising potential investors.

I was sure he was working his usual magic; winning people over was his particular forte—and my idea of hell. Hence why I hadn’t planned to go. Yet, as I lay on my sofa, staring at the ceiling, wide awake, it occurred to me that now I was here in London, and at a loose end, I could.

Within another twenty minutes, I was showered, changed, and headed to the Tremaine Lounge, where the prospect of an evening spent making small talk with a hundred strangers was preferable to staying for another minute in the insidious quiet of my flat.

3

ELIZABETH

Vanity and pride were weaknesses no self-respecting Gen-Zedder should admit to, but alone in the unforgiving grey marble of the ladies’ toilets with no witnesses, I gave in to both. If I had to be out for the evening, then I would have preferred to look nice. I did not want to look like an anaemic hot dog in a giant legwarmer. Why I’d allowed myself to be persuaded that the dress looked okay, I truly couldn’t recall.

The lighting didn’t help. The Tremaine Lounge was a weird venue, designed for corporate events, so despite being exclusive, it had soulless three-star hotel vibes and toilets like airport bathrooms. In the bright white glare, my skin looked sallow and the bags under my eyes deep purple. Laughing helplessly at my reflection, I shoved my fingers into my hair to give it more bounce and smacked my lips together to even out the reapplied lippy. It would have to do. At least I didn’t have to worry about impressing my date.

Bingley was waiting for me outside the toilets, looking far more the part in his jacket and chinos with his blond curls flopping over his forehead and a nervous but cute smile dimpling his cheeks.

“Everything okay?” he asked. “King didn’t ask you anything inappropriate, did he?”