The Rebel's Plot

Chapter 14

Three Months Later

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.

I can still see it now, as though it's unfolding all over again. Three months ago, I'm at Los Angeles International Airport, bags packed, ready to board. Everything seems to align perfectly, and yet, I don't leave. How could I? Ava's nowhere near ready—still so raw, so unpolished. What was I even thinking, imagining she could take my place after just a year of patching things up for me? Especially with Charlotte so often about. It's reckless. Foolhardy. Dangerous.

The moment I see her, wide-eyed and eager, I know I've got it all wrong. She hasn't a clue about the game, let alone the cunning and control it takes to navigate a world built on illusions. She's utterly unprepared—more a lamb to the slaughter than someone who could carry the weight of my name. The expectations alone would crush her.

I should have been here sooner, but leaving her to fend for herself wasn't an option. She needed more than a striking resemblance and a passable front. She needed training—proper training. Confidence, finesse, the kind you can't fake.

So I delay. I buy myself time. Those three months become a crash course, a relentless effort to teach her to command a room, to mask every crack in the facade, to mirror me so well that no one would ever suspect.

That night, though—it's not simple. It never is. I concoct a story, feign illness, and craft a watertight alibi. It works, of course. Pierre's none the wiser, and no one bats an eye. Behind the scenes, I handle everything, keeping the illusion intact while Ava learns to step into my shadow.

And now, back in London, I'm ready to reclaim what's mine. Was it worth it? The deferment, the effort, the charade—was it all worth ensuring she wouldn't ruin everything? Yes. Absolutely, it was.

Pierre and I 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.