The Rebel's Plot

Chapter 14

The second I step into Heathrow, the crisp London air slips through the revolving doors and wraps around me like an old, familiar blanket. It stirs something in my chest—a cocktail of excitement and nostalgia—and suddenly I'm drowning in it, choking on an emotion I can't quite place. Is it sorrow? Euphoria? I've no idea.

Pierre's fingers weave through mine, holding tight, like he knows I might slip away if he lets go. I feel like a lost child, overwhelmed by everything but desperate not to miss a single heartbeat.

He shoots me a cheeky grin. "Welcome to London, love. What d'you fancy doing first?"

I glance around as the world bustles past—black cabs trundling down wet streets, the hiss of espresso machines from cafés, and that unmistakable whiff of rain, coffee, and exhaust.

"Honestly? Just breathe it all in," I say, my smile curling as I fill my lungs with the scent of pastries wafting on the breeze.

We plunge into the Tube, swept along with the crowd. The platform hums with life—punters checking their phones, someone groaning at the delay, and the distant rattle of the train approaching. When it arrives, we pile in, sinking into the worn seats as the doors swish shut.

The carriage sways with the motion of the train, the wheels clattering along the tracks. I sit across from Pierre, our knees brushing every time the train jolts. The flickering fluorescent lights catch his features in odd, staccato bursts, and we chat—about everything, about nothing.

His laugh escapes, carefree and loud, and before I know it, mine joins his. It feels reckless—proper belly-laughs, like the sort we used to share before I got so good at snapping at him for no reason. I realise it's been ages since we've had this. Just us, like this—two idiots on the Tube, talking rubbish and laughing so hard it makes my ribs ache.

And it's brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant.

All of a sudden, memories of my mum flit about like ghosts at the edges of my mind, reminding me why I'm here. I shift slightly, my fingers absentmindedly tracing the necklace around my neck—a little piece of her I carry with me all the time. On my wrist is the same bracelet Pierre gave me before we were separated. Dad's decision to pull me away from Mum and him all those years ago feels distant, but it's never really gone, like a stubborn bit of fluff that just won't shake off.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

I lift my head to Pierre, and everything comes rushing back. I'd nearly forgotten about the letter—well, not entirely, but it had been buried under everything else. Then there are Pierre's unresolved feelings for someone he hasn't named. I've never truly allowed myself to stay in one spot for long, I must admit; the first time I faced everything was when Biscuit died. But today, I want to take as long as I need to confront these feelings, one by one—starting with that letter this week.

For now, I just want to soak this all in, to enjoy being with Pierre, at least for a little while. I know the tears will come later, so I have to give myself a bit of breathing space before diving back into the fray.

"Love?"

"Yeah, I—I'm fine," I falter, unsure if he's really asking me whether I am or not.

"No, you're not." There's no edge to it, just quiet certainty, the kind that leaves me feeling utterly exposed. He takes my hand, bestowing a reassuring squeeze. "Everything will be alright, I promise."

I nod, not wanting to make this night revolve around me. I'll simply agree and move on. Just look at me, hopelessly distracted. There's a veritable torrent of questions I want to fling at him—so many I can hardly contain them—but my thoughts scatter like leaves in a brisk breeze. It's like trying to focus on a caterpillar transforming, all the while something catches my eye—perhaps a twig snapping or a leaf drifting down—and just like that, I'm off chasing it, completely forgetting the beauty of the metamorphosis right before me. It's frustrating, really.

"Look at that!" Pierre exclaims as we walk into the bustling Piccadilly Circus, pointing at a street performer juggling flaming torches. "Let's grab some fish and chips and find a spot to watch the world go by." The bright lights and lively buzz of the crowds floods my senses.

"Sounds perfect," I reply, letting myself get swept up in his enthusiasm. We navigate through the throng of tourists, our conversation flowing as light and easy as the breeze wafting through the streets. The scent of sizzling fish fills the air, and the rumble in my stomach elicits a laugh from both of us.

Pierre raises a chip like he's making a toast. "Here's to new beginnings."

"Cheers," I respond, clinking my food against his. A bubble of laughter escapes me—unfiltered, genuine, a rare kind of happiness. But even as I bite into the crispy golden batter, that joy carries a bittersweet undertone, a quiet reminder of what I've left behind.

"Hey, love," Pierre pinches my palm, his tone annoyingly sweet. "Don't zone out on me. I want to know what you're thinking." We're already by the statue of Eros in the heart of Piccadilly Circus, and I hadn't even clocked it. Brilliant. Just what I need—another moment of him being all gentle while he's got his heart set on someone else. What does he expect? Am I meant to spill my thoughts while he moonlights as the caring friend? It's infuriating, really. Just another delightful farce in this ridiculous little play we're stuck in.

"What time is it?" is all I can manage to utter. It's getting cold, and, just as I thought he would, he drapes his coat over my shoulders. For the love of all that's decent! Why does he always have to be like this? It's absolutely ridiculous. I glance down at my oversized knit jumper in a dull grey, its softness a welcome barrier against the biting chill. It hangs a bit too loose, but it's comfy enough for this in-between weather. I've paired it with high-waisted black jeans that hug my legs just right, and my battered white trainers, scuffed from all the bloody miles I've walked. A thin scarf flutters slightly in the breeze, and I've shoved my hair under a beanie to keep warm.

To be frank, what does he think I am? I refuse to be some bloody mistress, sneaking around behind his girlfriend's back. But hang on a tick—wasn't I here first? It's maddening! I absolutely loathe myself for feeling this way. I hate hating him, but I can't help it. He's really getting on my nerves. As far as I know, he's doing the same with his girl, and I get that, but why does it have to be with me too? It's not like I'm parading about in some flimsy silk gown, for heaven's sake.

But did he even mention he's got one? Maybe when he said he's learned what love is and can't marry me, he really just means he can't stand the thought of tying the knot with someone he doesn't love. It doesn't have to be about another woman, for heaven's sake. Pierre has always cared for me; he just doesn't love me any more than that, and honestly, it's absolutely gutting, isn't it?

I mean, it's not like he's Philip or any of the other tossers who can't seem to keep their heads straight. Pierre's raised himself better than that. He's got a righteous heart, even if it doesn't quite beat for me.

"Love, hey, I said it's past midnight."

I gulp as he grips my wrist, drawing me closer, and my body presses against his. Pierre's tall, but I'm not exactly short myself—just a fraction beneath him, really. In my flat shoes, I'm eye level with his ear, and in my platform heels, I'd have him by a good few inches. The tension crackles between us, and I can feel his breath on my face, so achingly close that if I dared to lift my chin, our lips would practically collide.

For some daft reason, I find myself leaning my head on his shoulder. It would be lovely if I were small enough to snuggle against his chest and hear his heart beating away, but that's hardly a sensible notion. How on earth could I do that to a heart that isn't mine and isn't thumping for me?

Yet Pierre, in that effortlessly charming way of his, reaches for my fingers, intertwining them with his, and they fit together like a proper match. In the blink of an eye, he's swaying me beneath the statue of Eros, the very embodiment of love and desire right in the heart of London. It feels like the whole city is in on our little moment, as if the spirits of romance are whispering that, just for now, magic is afoot.

But what if—just what if—I could be the one to change his mind? No one else has ever made me feel this alive, and it's utterly maddening. If only he could see me as I see him, could feel the spark that crackles between us. I can't help but dream of becoming the one who holds his heart. My pulse quickens with the thrill of what might be and how beautifully we could be right for each other.

"Feeling better now, love?" He chuckles in my ear, and I bite my lower lip.

"Fancy a stroll along the Thames, then?" I reply, casually brushing off his question as if it's not even worth a thought.