London Zoo, formally known as Zoological Gardens, is the last place on the planet I wanted to visit on a cold, wintry afternoon, but Alexa Warren, ever so tenacious and inflexibly austere, demanded only the best for Dominic's first birthday.
On my behalf, Alexa took celebrations to the extreme, with an overabundance of carefully wrapped presents, an insane amount of designer clothes, an ostentatious cake with fulsome layers of dense sponge, butter icing, creme Chantilly and fondant creatures and a well-planned day trip for the vast majority of the syndicate.
It started with private dining at The Ritz restaurant, continental breakfast and overpriced specialities. Then, as if overrated food was not nearly enough torture for one day, the little minx dragged everyone to the Sealife Centre to explore aquarium zones, ocean invaders, rainforest adventures and coral reef inhabitants.
I will see venomous jellyfish and bastard sea anemones in my sleep. If gawking at aquatic plants is Alexa's idea of fun, I needed to get her out of the house more. And I know Dominic is on the same page. The little toe rag fell asleep in the pushchair before we even made it to the destination of gentoo penguins.
That's boredom in a nutshell.
Alexa is not afraid to vaunt her pregnant bump. In a grey long-sleeved dress that stretched to accommodate Bean, black knee-high boots and a classic trench coat, she walked alongside me, one hand on her stomach protectively, the other hand gesticulating to an array of exotic animals.
The zoo—the glorification of wilderness in a cage—is hardly anosmic. It reeked of wet fur and shit, exotic manure, whatever zookeepers wished to call animal excrement. Trees fringed the concrete footpath, knobbed bamboo, thick shrubbery, and fenced enclosures took an indirect course to the designated picnic tables. People talked. Children whined. Birds tweeted. Mufasa roared from somewhere. I almost fainted from sheer fright.
Dead leaves braced the weight of my footsteps. Fingers rolling a two-pound coin in my trouser pocket, I curled an arm around Alexa's waist, leaning down to whisper in her ear, the sweet smell of her perfume delicate to her soft skin. "You look good enough to eat."
"I think we are a bit overdressed." Her eyes, a storm of green, brown and gold, glittered impishly. "People stare."
My eyes jerked up, and, sure enough, park visitors locked the syndicate in careful observation.
"What can I say? I am sensational," I said with a godlike smirk as she linked our arms to huddle close. "Let them stare. It makes their day all that more interesting."
In all fairness, if I stretched out, relaxed on picnic blankets, wearing casual clothes akin to other tourists whilst admiring the Land of the Lions, and a group of sartorially tailored individuals strolled past, I'd probably stare, too. After all, the zoo is not a place for discreetly armed glamour or conceited prestigiousness. It is safe to assume that people more than likely questioned our rationale.
"I am sweating buckets," Josh complained about the imaginary heat. "All this walking just to see the lousy butterflies." His red-flustered face, misted in sweat, scrunched up in evident discontent. "I do not get paid enough for this shit."
"No, you get paid for doing fuck all." Nate's leather shoes trudged past large enclosures, where two giant Galápagos tortoises settled on an island pad, overlooking lagoon pools and mud wallows. "Look at him, rocking up late and complaining. Is he due a performance review yet or what?"
"In case you haven't noticed, I am evaluated daily." Josh bit into a wedge of watermelon. "Isn't that right, Brad?"
Josh made it difficult for me not to pull him into line. He is always late, never on time, and full of excuses. "Sailor is on his last warning," I spoke to Nate directly to undermine Josh's position. "Three strikes and out. The tosser will be back behind the bar by the end of the month. I guarantee it."
Alexa did not like the thought of demoting Josh. Having no desire to come between the brothers, to witness the dejection in Josh's eyes, she looked upon Mabel, Dominic's new nanny. "Is Dominic awake?"
Mabel peered inside the pushchair, where Dominic slept peacefully, with a thin, cotton blanket draped over his legs. "He is snoring like a trooper." Her floral, floor-length skirt blew in the wind, the slight reveal of nude-coloured sandals peeking out from underneath pleated textures. "It's best to let him rest."
I neither agree nor disagree. I am still relatively new to the life and times of fatherhood. I take every day as it comes where my son is concerned. It's gotten easier, though. I am more hands-on and involved in Dominic's daily routine. I do my utmost to be present in the morning, to dedicate thirty minutes in the evening to read him a book until he falls asleep.
Sometimes, the job gets between father and son time, but I no longer make excuses—and If I have to rush out or stay at the office, I make it up to him the following morning.
Dominic is my number one priority. I will spend the rest of my life proving to him how much I care because I do care. I care more than people realise, more than people perceive. There is not a night where I do not go to his bedroom and stand over the cot, watching, listening and admiring with prideful accomplishment. He is my only achievement, the one thing I did right.
Lately, I have pondered intensely about Dominic's mother, Chloe Stone. I lived freely, without remorse or regret, but I cannot help but wonder if our son, in adolescence or adulthood, will blame me for her death, her suicide, if he will hate me for not protecting her that night, for not interceding before she slashed her throat.
Dominic likes to fall asleep in my arms before I put him to bed. He has to feel the blanket on his cheek while sucking a pacifier.
To the sound of Chloe's faded voice, I glanced at the pushchair. His mother was right. He loves to sleep with the corner of a blanket on his cheek, soft and cuddlesome, with a dummy in his mouth, to somniferous rocking motions, either in someone's protective arms or as the pram's wheels coasted bumpy, uneven floors.
He loves bath time. Every time his feet crash against the water, he laughs so loudly. It's his favourite time of the day. Bath time.
I would not know, as I have yet to bathe him. I do everything that is required of me, changing and feeding and playtime, but the bathroom, the tub and bubbles, are Mabel's forte. Perhaps I could make an effort to help out more with his nightly routine. If it is his favourite time of the day, I should be there to witness his fun, to overcome aquaphobia, to ensure that my fears do not become his.
"Oh, look!" Mabel pointed at the giraffe. "Did you see the size of his tongue?"
Mabel applied for the live-in nanny position at the estate, and I knew within seconds of the interview that she was the right fit for the job. With thirty years of experience and previous employer references coming out of her arse, she is committed to making a positive difference and understands the importance of privacy. And most importantly, with an instinctive maternal side, diligence, patience and professionalism, Mabel loved her job.
I liked the old bird. She is the quintessential nanny, ticking all the right boxes: motivated, respectful, supportive, creative, proactive, energetic and strong-minded. Initially, Dominic never warmed up to Mabel, the grey-haired mare, as he had formed a bond with the previous employee, Alice Montgomery. Now, that's someone I haven't thought about in a while. Alice and her strange sense of humour. Alice and her old-fashioned wardrobe. Alice and her raffish seduction technique. I should probably ask Nate to keep tabs on her. Or, maybe I should forget her entirely and concentrate on more pressing issues like Emma Hughes. Emma and her outlandish dress sense and lack of structure. Emma and her love for spiritual crystals and talent for photography. Emma and her positive outlook in life, so carefree, unassuming and appreciative, a breath of fresh air, a smile for every emotion, a laugh for every situation. Emma and her perfect imperfections, her non-judgmental stance toward the unknown and her unbiased approach to the unfamiliar.
My annoying friend.
My favourite person.
My momentary happiness.
My possible future.
Maybe one day.
Just Emma.
"What is it?" Alexa's hand patted my forearm. "You look sad."
I frowned, not wanting to broach the subject. "No."
"Really?" She studied me for a few seconds. "Are we not close?"
"Of course." My fingers grazed the phone in my pocket. "But some things are better left unsaid."
"And some things should never be left unspoken," she quoted, and I nudged her shoulder with mine. "It is Emma, is it not?"
My gaze averted to the floor.
"You are the percussionist of heartstrings." Her tone was low with apprehension. "How many hearts have you broken over the years? Can you count on one hand? Two hands, perhaps."
I had no reasonable grounds to defend myself.
Alfie walked ahead to give us privacy, catching up to the other men for a round of bottled water and overpriced snacks at concession stand.
"How is she?" Alexa probed, and I simply shrugged in response. "You did not abandon her in the darkest of hours, did you?"
"No, I did not abandon her." I am still here, sleep-deprived and mentally exhausted, capsizing London to find her son. "I am trying, Alexa." My throat swelled with unspeakable thoughts. "Is he dead?"
Alexa's expressionlessness worsened my innermost anxieties. "You assume I have the answers."
"You lived it," I rasped, coming to a stop in front of her. "I need awareness."
"You know my story."
"What about them?" The pad of my thumb traced the faded scar beneath her eye. "The others."
"Others," she whispered to test the inoffensive word on her tongue. "What do you hope to achieve? Carter's fate will not guarantee a life with Emma. You must know that."
"I am invested in Carter," I told her, and her head tilted, listening. "Even if there were no Emma, I would still look for him. Everyone else ceased the search. They wait for the universe to intervene. Not me. I made a promise."
Alexa's lip twitched. "Since when did you care for promises?"
"Since I met her," I said passionately, and she arched a perfectly defined eyebrow. "What?"
"Brad." Her hands grasped my shoulders. "Love has no limits."
I made a tsking sound of disapproval. "It's not love."
"Not yet." She stepped around me to perambulate. "As for the others," she added, and I broke into a short jog to catch up. "I am not so sure. I only have assumptions. I met many children during captivity and witnessed the most unimaginable, absolutely reprehensible, but I am ignorant to the denouement of villainousness. Even if they survived, their souls departed. You do not re-emerge from the darkness as the same person who entered."
I am aware. "Emma needs her son."
"Every mother needs their son."
"Every mother is not my priority," I said frankly, not that she blinked or had an opinion. "Be straight with me. Do you think he is dead?"
Alexa's footsteps faltered. In silent reverie, she looked heavenward to watch the clouds accumulate. "How long has he been missing?"
I thought off the top of my head. "Just over two months."
"You have overturned the underworld?" she asked, and I gave her a curt nod. "And not one person has the ability to put you out of misery?"
Everyone questioned and tortured is incognizant.
"Not a shred of evidence?" she inquired, and I stared unblinkingly. "A solid lead?"
"I found Carter's details on the dark web," I explained, and she listened intently. "Auction. I sent out an attack. Took over the entire fort. He was not amongst the survivors. He is never there for salvation or deliverance. I leave, wounded, dejected, without answers or good news."
"But someone uploaded Carter's details." A line formed between her brows. "Perhaps the buyer had time to escape prior to bombardment."
"No," I disagreed with her theory. "None of those sleazy fuckers made it out alive."
"Brad." My name left her lips like a hollow whisper. "What does one do to alleviate pressure when the possibility of death or exposure is too close to home?"
My scowl hardened.
"Distraction." Her eyes widened in revelation. "You mentioned that someone texted Emma subsequent to Carter's disappearance. Did Reginald track down the IMEI number?"
The sender discarded the burner phone.
"He is playing you," she spoke with an air of confidence. "He wants the syndicate to believe that Carter is in the underworld." Her stare travelled the expanse of the zoo as if in search of validation. "You must go to Emma. Ask her about friends and family, enemies or recent acquaintances. Even the delivery guy is a suspect. Ben's Cafe? Rule out all of the customers. One of them lies to her. A master of deception."
"Your belief is plausible. I have a few untrustworthy individuals in mind. Tonight, once Dominic is settled, I will go to them. Or rather, I will break into their safe havens whilst they sleep." My cheek muscle throbbed. "Emma is unreachable, though. The syndicate is not permitted to approach her with any unsubstantiated information. Unless her son is in the arms of liberation, I want everyone to stay the fuck away from her. That rule applies to you, too," I warned, and her chin elevated in defiance. "False hope is dangerously detrimental to the heart. Do not meddle. I mean it."
Alexa re-linked our arms and led us toward the men. "Why is she unreachable?"
"She did not provide an explanation." No, she vanished off the face of the earth, never answered calls or text messages or opened the door when I knocked. Benjamin is keeping tabs on her, even though he has yet to nail her down for one conversation. "Her brother is informative. We text almost daily."
Alexa's gaze swivelled in my direction. "You have a relationship with her brother."
"I would not call it a relationship, per se. Maybe acquaintances with a mutual interest?" Although I must admit, Ben is not the worst person to be in the company of, and he is a dab hand in the kitchen. Extra bonus point for the container of sous vide duck he shoved through my car window one afternoon. I can still taste all that blissful freshness on my tongue. "He is not one of us."
"You mean, he is not an irredeemable criminal," she said with light laughter. "The question is, is the man corruptible?"
"Do not be an importunate minx." My finger flicked her in the chin. "Let's not convert the Hughes family. I like them."
Alexa was offended.
"I like you, too." My arm draped across her shoulders. "But their dynamics are refreshing. When I was seeing Emma," I said, knowing damn well that labels of exclusivity or stamps of ownership were not set in stone or predetermined. "I don't fucking know. She was easy to talk to. She never judged me or expected more from me. We just hit it off, understood each other and..."
My boss's wife waited.
"I have something in here." My hand flattened on my chest, where an irremovable strain made the days gloomier and the nights lonelier. "There is a connection. I feel it."
"Brad?" Nate's voice echoed throughout the zoo. "What the hell is this? Mother's fucking meeting." He is by the zebra enclosure with the rest of the men. "If I am expected to go through this torturous experience, so are you."
"Don't give up on her." Ignoring Nate's irritability and moodiness, Alexa stepped out before me, and, with something unreadable in her transfixing eyes, she tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "Emma, I mean. I think she might be the one."
One can dream.
Her eyes searched mine. "Any updates on Liam?"
I shook my head.
"I will not heal. But I will get stronger, with or without him." Her breath stuttered as she leaned down to pluck a wilted flower out of the ground. "I fear that someday I will hate him for ignorance, that I will be bitter and unforgiving." Her cold eyes reacquainted with mine. "I no longer cry."
For better or worse, I understood her scorn.
"What does that mean for us?" she asked, twirling the stem between pinched fingers. "It means that I am learning to live without him."
If Warren heard this conversation, he'd have a stroke. He loves Alexa more than life itself. Forever and always lies with her. "That's not necessarily a bad thing."
"Isn't it?" Her expression darkened. "And when he comes home? Am I supposed to open the door and forgive him for the pain he's put me through? For the lonely, sleepless nights? For the rejection and heartbreak? Am I expected to bow down to authority just because I agreed to be his wife? No," she said, her tone cold and uncompromising. "I am worth more than a man who disregards me."
I offered a flat smile. "Warren is only trying to protect you. The bottles of Macallan and morse code proved it."
"From whom?" There was a challenge in her eyes. "The only person I need protecting from is him." She tossed the now petalless flower to the side. It landed in a pothole of stagnant rainwater, floating in ripples of finality. "One letter. That's all I needed from him."
I had no words of wisdom or comfort.
"Anyway," she said with a sharp clap of the hands. "Vincent called last night. He is renting a private estate in the municipality of San Roque. By all accounts, he has set sail twice and played golf." Her eyebrows rose with mirthful enlivenment. "I struggle to see him with a golf club."
Vincent with a potential weapon? I see it vividly.
"When does he plan to return to London?"
"He never mentioned London."
"Perhaps you could prompt him."
"Why would I prompt him?"
"I need him at Club 11." The thought of going to the office tonight slammed with insurmountable weariness. "Why is a line of communication only extended to you?" I asked, suspicious of his motives. "I sent two emails last week with no correspondence. Ignorance runs in the family, huh?"
"Oh?" she said, and the commotion around us became gravely silent. "You know Vincent. Always one to cause annoyance or upset."
"Do me a solid. Next time he calls, tell him to touch base or I will personally fly the jet to no man's land to fuck him up." I dropped a chaste kiss on her forehead. "Thank you, Sugar Tits."
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I will be back for typos. ❤️
Thoughts on the update?
—Alexa?
—Brad?
—Josh?
—Nate?
—Alfie?
—Ben?
—Emma?
—Alice/Bleu?
—Dominic?
—Mabel?
—Liam?
—anyone I missed?
Please don't forget to vote. ⭐️