Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty-Six

Two weeks later…

T he sound of Kirsty’s heels echoed through the dim hallway as she stormed toward her office, with the faint odour of mouldy carpeting assailing her nose. It was in the asbestos-contaminated brutalist box next to the shiny main building.

Of course it was.

A trickle of sweat slid down her back, making her sleeveless silk blouse cling uncomfortably. A tension headache built at the base of her skull. Banging her door shut, she chucked her bag into the corner and collapsed into her ergonomic desk chair with a huff. It squeaked in protest. She kicked the tight shoes off her feet and glared at the pile of memos littering her desk, detailing endless rounds of pre-launch meetings. The cold lights above flickered and buzzed.

Kirsty pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled slowly. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Editor-in-chief of PulseJournal’s new human-interest vertical had sounded great. Like she’d finally made it.

But two weeks in and she was already knackered, crawling back home on her nipples each night to get a maximum of five hours’ sleep.

What a joke.

She should have known that it was a trap, and a part of her had. Merely an experiment to create desperately needed revenue. A flimsy content fig leaf to plaster ads onto.Probably wouldn’t last a year.

The city’s energy was like static around her while her thoughts hummed at a melancholic frequency. Kirsty closed her eyes, trying to block out the clamour of traffic and sirens drifting up from the streets below. She pictured Cairnhaven. Golden fields, green pastures, blue skies, solitary beaches, and tangy sea air filling her lungs. With its rugged charm and odd beauty.

With him.

Memories flipped through her mind like the pages of a well-thumped novel. She could almost sense the roughness of Connor’s stubble, the way it scraped against her cheek, her thighs. How his eyes crinkled, the rare smile that couldn’t lie even if he tried. Each memory tinged with the bitterness of that last conversation. The one that had sent her spinning into this new life without him.

Her temples throbbed as her phone shrilled. Reluctantly cracking her eyes open, she glanced at the screen. Charlotte, probably calling to hound her about ad revenue projections and engagement metrics again.

Kirsty licked her dry lips. Christ, she needed a drink. Or a long walk on a quiet beach far from here, gulls crying overhead and the slate-coloured waves of the Scottish sea crashing against craggy cliffs. Someplace she could breathe.

With a sigh, she reached for the phone. ‘What’s up, boss?’

After the call, Kirsty tossed her phone onto the desk. Charlotte was a control freak, asking about every single detail. This last call had been about their competition’s content. In not so veiled words, she’d told Kirsty to rip their ideas off. Which was never gonna happen. Not on her watch.

Full creative control my arse .

Kirsty stood abruptly, sending her chair skidding backwards, and paced to the window. Yanking open the blinds, she stared unseeing at the grey London skyline, all sharp angles and glass reflecting a sullen sky. In rare, slow moments like this, Connor invaded her thoughts again and again.

That wasn’t true. After all, it was impossible to invade something from the inside.

An intimate ache pulsed between her legs at the memories of his firm hands roving over her body. How he would tease until she was begging because he knew she liked it. And how he would give her exactly what she wanted – bringing her to the edge and back again until she was panting his name and clutching onto him for dear life.

And she had never been a beggar. Or a screamer.

But with him…

He knew how to move, what to say. How she wanted, needed him. Holding her. Kissing her. Telling her goodnight stories. Making her breakfast. Defending her in front of her parents.

Kirsty shook her head, willing away the flashbacks. She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t go back there.

It wouldn’t have been a problem if it was only sex.

But she’d begun to realise that Connor’s love was like the quiet hum of an Aberdeenshire lighthouse, steady and reassuring. Not loud or boastful. It just…was. Like air. All around her, everywhere inside her. He had been her anchor. Until he’d cut the rope and set her adrift.

And he’d done it out of love.

He believed they were from two different worlds that couldn’t mesh, that her dreams were too big for the small-town life he was content with. His words had struck her like hailstones in summer, hard and cold.The decision had come from him like a verdict, final and resolute. That was the thing about Connor Bannerman. Once he made up his mind, the Bens of the Highlands could be moved more easily.

How could love be so selfless and yet feel so selfish at the same time?

Because this was love, no doubt.

Kirsty drew a shuddering breath as she gazed out at the city, the lights blurred by the tears pricking her eyes. She blinked them back, refusing to let them fall.

The gaping wound in her chest was a constant companion. Even as the heat of anger flared within her, it was doused by the pain of loss.

‘Fuck,’ she muttered. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was on the wrong track somehow. She’d thought she’d wanted this – the title, the city, proving herself. Achieving success with writing.

And Connor, he’d virtually shoved her out the door to London. She remembered the shadows in his eyes that final night, his jaw welded shut as if steeling himself. The resignation in his voice. ‘Won’t stand in your way. Not this time, not again.’

Connor had tried to do right by her, in his own bull-headed, stupid way. Tried to make up for the mistakes of the past.

He was wrong, though.

Kirsty began to understand that she wasn’t looking for more, for recognition. Part of her was looking for a home. And when she’d thought she’d found it again, he’d torn it down.

A mirthless laugh slipped out. God, was this what success tasted like? Lonely nights in an overpriced flat, the relentless anonymity of London’s crowds, a writhing void in her chest where Cairnhaven and Connor used to be? What was the point of any of it, if she had nobody to share it with?

On top of that, the worries about her parents and the struggling café kept scraping their way to the surface.

Kirsty watched a flock of pigeons take flight from the pavement below, scattering like windblown ash as pedestrians swarmed past. She felt caged, a weight pressing against her sternum. This wasn’t living. This was merely existing, going through the motions. But what alternative was there for her at the moment?

None that she could see. Not a real one.

At least now she was able to send her parents some money each month. By far not enough, but a little. And she would go up to visit as soon as she could.

After the big launch party tomorrow, things should get quieter. A weekend in Cairnhaven should be doable. A trip to see her parents and Lucy.

Good that he was on that oil rig a hundred miles off the coast.

Flashbulbs strobed as Kirsty stepped onto the tiny red carpet, the din of chattering journalists and clinking champagne flutes assaulting her ears. She faked a smile, the muscles in her cheeks aching with the effort.

‘Over here!’ a reporter shouted. ‘How does it feel to start the new brand of PulseJournal?’

Yeah, how does it feel? Lame, dude. Fucking lame.

She turned toward the voice, the silk of her dress whispering around her legs. ‘It’s a fantastic opportunity,’ she lied far too smoothly for her own comfort. ‘I’m thrilled to lead our new vertical in a dynamic direction with a great team.’

Blahdy-blah. Five pounds into the bullshit jargon jar.

More camera flashes, the light searing her retinas. Kirsty blinked away the spots dancing in her vision and glided into the soaring atrium of the event space. Waiters wove through the glittering crowd with trays of canapés and sparkling wine.

A hand landed heavily on her shoulder like a damp towel. ‘Congratulations!’ Grigori looked at her with an unmoved expression. Then he briefly exposed his teeth in what she could only guess was supposed to be a smile. She’d never seen that before. They were blindingly white in sharp contrast to his black turtleneck. ‘Quite the turnout.’

‘Yes, lovely, isn’t it.’ The words were bitter on her tongue.

Grigori gestured at the well-heeled attendees. ‘It’s merely the beginning. Make it profitable and sky’s the limit.’ He actually winked and merged back into the throng.

Creepy .

Kirsty snagged a flute of Prosecco from a passing tray and knocked back half of it in one gulp. The bubbles fizzed unpleasantly in her empty stomach. When was the last time she ate an actual meal instead of a hastily scarfed energy bar between meetings or perilously old takeout?

Applause swept through the room, and Kirsty turned to see Grigori at the microphone on the small stage. ‘Let’s hear it for the brilliant Christie Monroe, the driving force behind PulseJournal’s new vertical!’

It’s Kirsty Munro, ya dunderheid, and I’m driving fuck all.

The guests clapped harder, raising their glasses in her direction. Kirsty inclined her head in acknowledgement, her smile more and more like a grotesque mask. Acid welled up in her throat and little dots danced behind her eyelids as Grigori continued to harp on about his beloved metrics, epic excellence, and opportunities.

She had to get out of here.

Muttering excuses, she wove through the crush of bodies toward the exit. Bursting into the night, she gulped a lungful of air. It stung in her chest. The dull roar of traffic enveloped her, the acrid tang of exhaust mixing queasily with the sweetness of too many people’s perfumes.

Across the street, Kirsty’s reflection stared back at her from the mirrored windows of an office high-rise. She barely recognised herself – coiffed and polished, armoured in a dress and red lipstick. An illusion, as hollow as a chocolate Easter bunny.

She hugged her arms around herself, shivering despite the warm air gusting from the subway grates. This was supposed to be her dream come true. The glitz, the acclaim, the big-city success.

So why did she feel more lost and alone than ever?

A taxi horn blared, shattering her spiralling thoughts. She bit her lip hard, copper blooming on her tongue.

To hell with it all.

She couldn’t keep pretending she wasn’t slowly suffocating in this life she’d pursued for so long.

Her phone vibrated in her clutch.

I swear, if this is Charlotte again, I’ll throw it in the Thames and move to Paraguay.

She fumbled her mobile out – Lucy. Relief spread through her. Just the right person. Perfect timing.

‘Oi, Luce. What’s up with Aberdeen’s wind farms? Found any pretty turbines to blow you away yet?’

But her best friend’s voice was eerily serious and tense. ‘Kay…there’s been an accident.’