Chapter Eight: June

I know I look ridiculous in an oversized t-shirt, bandages on my arms, and disheveled hair, standing outside the café window like some lost puppy. People glance my way, their expressions a mix of curiosity and pity. But I shove the embarrassment aside. My mind is consumed with one thought: Jackson. How do I make him pay for what he did?

Should I go to the police? Would they even care? Jackson has this squeaky-clean reputation, the kind of man everyone in the community praises—a successful businessman, a charming neighbour. Never mind his history of three failed marriages. Is he trying to build a harem or something?

Before I spiral further, Harper’s arrival snaps me out of my thoughts. She strides toward me, her casual sweatpants and oversized tee screaming "comfy era." When she sees me, her expression shifts from confusion to concern. Without hesitation, she shrugs off her coat and drapes it over my shoulders.

“What the hell happened to you?” She demands, her sharp eyes darting over the bruises peeking from my sleeves. “Why are you covered in bandages? Who did this to you? Should we call someone?”

I grab her hand gently, trying to calm her. “Relax, Harper, I’m fine. Just a stupid accident. I lost all my things, including my clothes. But I’m okay now.”

Her expression hardens with a mix of anger and worry as she follows me inside the café. We take a seat, and before I can settle in, she’s already firing questions.

“Where were you going? And why didn’t you tell us?”

Crap. My mind scrambles for an excuse. “Uh… I was going to tell you guys,” I stammer, avoiding her gaze. “I got this amazing job offer in London, and I thought I’d explain once I got there. Plus, Cat’s already there, so it just seemed easier to break the news later.”

Harper narrows her eyes, clearly skeptical. She knows me too well. Before she can press further, Mia bursts through the café doors like a storm. Her energy fills the room, turning every head as she rushes to our table.

“What happened to you, hon? Who dared to do this to you? Tell me, and I’ll sort them out!”

Her voice carries throughout the café, drawing everyone’s attention. Harper winces, hissing at her. “Mia, can you keep it down? People are staring.”

Mia plops down beside me, undeterred. “What’s going on? I had some free time, so I thought I’d drop by.”

I sigh, grateful when Harper slides a bag of clothes across the table. “Thanks for this. Let me go change before I attract more stares.”

I find the waitress, who looks at me like I’m a ghost before pointing me to the staff room. After changing into something less conspicuous, I return to find Mia and Harper chatting animatedly with someone at another table.

Not wanting to interrupt, I wave and text them, “Thanks for the clothes. See you later.”

I slip out of the café, my heart racing as I weave through the crowd. Just as I think I’ve made a clean escape, a firm hand grabs my wrist, stopping me in my tracks. I’m spun around abruptly, the sudden movement taking my breath away. That scent—it’s unmistakable. Musky, familiar, and infuriating.

I don’t even need to look up to know who it is. His presence wraps around me like an uninvited storm.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Watson?” I ask, my voice steady despite the wave of emotions crashing inside me.

His blue eyes bore into mine, sharp and unrelenting, like he’s trying to see past my words and straight into my thoughts.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replies, his tone low, almost dangerous.

The intensity in his gaze makes my pulse quicken, though I hate myself for letting it. I tilt my chin up, refusing to let him see me falter.

“Whatever it is you want, I’m not interested,” I snap, trying to pull my wrist free, but his grip tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to make a point.

“Too bad,” he says, his voice like a challenge. “Because I’m not letting you walk away this time.”

Every nerve in my body is screaming for me to run, but his presence has me rooted in place. His proximity is suffocating, yet somehow I can’t look away

His expression is unreadable. Behind me, Harper and Mia step out of the café, their protective instincts kicking in.

“Is he bothering you?” Harper demands, stepping between us.

“Stay away from her,” Mia adds, her voice fiery and unyielding.

Watson ignores them entirely, his focus fixed on me. He holds up the letter I left behind, his voice low but sharp. “We need to talk.”

I sigh heavily, exasperated. “Was my letter unclear?”

His grip tightens slightly, his voice steady. “We’re not done, Miss Luper. Not even close.”

Harper and Mia exchange confused glances, and Harper blurts out, “Wait, is this your husband? I thought you were just dating!”

I shake my head, the weight of the situation pressing down on me. “Not anymore. As of today, he’s not my husband.”

All three voices—Harper’s, Mia’s, and Watson’s—call my name in unison as I turn to walk away.

I snap, “What now?” Watson’s grip tightens as his eyes lock onto mine. “Our contract isn’t over until you repay me. And I need you for one last thing.”

He thrusts an invitation card into my hand. It’s for an exclusive event, the kind only the upper crust of society gets into.

“Why not take Miss Stella?” I ask, bitterness lacing my voice. “She’d be perfect, wouldn’t she?”

His jaw tightens, and for the first time, he looks genuinely frustrated. “She’s pregnant. She can’t drink, and I need someone who can handle the social aspect. That someone is you.”

"You can take one of your assistants," I suggest, my tone casual, but the moment the words leave my lips, I see his jaw tighten.

His expression darkens. "Will you come with me or not?" he snaps, his voice sharp enough to make me flinch.

"Okay, fine," I reply, exhaling heavily. The words taste bitter in my mouth, but I know this is the fastest way to end the conversation. It’s not because he’s particularly handsome—although, annoyingly, he is—but because I just want this over with.

He doesn’t wait for me to change my mind, turning on his heel and expecting me to follow. As we walk out, the sound of raised voices drifts through the air. I glance toward the source and freeze.

It’s Mia, and she’s in the middle of a heated argument with someone. Her hands are flying as she gestures angrily, her voice cutting through the café’s ambient noise like a knife. Whoever she’s arguing with looks equally fired up, their arms crossed, their posture rigid.