Page 81 of Audacity

She smiles fondly at my use of one of Seneca’s most famous quotes:There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.It comes not from these letters but from his play,Hercules.

‘Is this your way of saying that dirty little sinners like me won’t make it to heaven?’

‘Obviously,’ I deadpan. The truth is that there are myriad layers of meaning behind these much-debated words. Perhaps Seneca was talking about man’s ability to self-actualise. To self-improve. Perhaps it had a metaphysical meaning, as Athena just suggested. Perhaps it was a commentary on social mobility. We’ll never fully know.

But it struck me, as I mused on the right words to tell her how I felt on her birthday without scaring her off, that Seneca could have been commenting directly on our relationship. A contract like ours is as base and transactional and earthly as it’s possible to conceive of—in theory, anyway.

But look at us.

The way I see it, we could belong among the stars together if she had enough faith in us to tear down her walls.

It doesn’t have to be transactional between us when it could be transcendent instead.

‘Well, thank you.’ She hugs it to her chest. ‘I love it so much. You said it was a gift for my mind, but this is definitely one for my soul.’

‘You have a soul? That’s actually very reassuring. I have to say, I wasn’t sure.’

Her smile is dazzling, her hazel eyes sparkling as she gazes at me. ‘Stop it.’

I swallow down the emotion. ‘I want you to know, despite everything that went down this evening, your soul is my absolute favourite part of you.’

CHAPTER 42

Gabe

‘Your home is far nicer than I expected,’ Athena tells me, staring at my enormous open-plan kitchen. ‘I thought it would be far more priestly. It’s really stunning.’

‘I have George to thank for that.’ I open the enormous fridge and pull out a bottle of sparkling water. ‘He found me this interior designer who seemed to understand me better than I understand myself. She definitely had a knack for knowing what I wanted before I did.’

It’s true. While I understood the urgency of departing from what George cuttingly called my parents’ “carriage-clock chic” upon taking over this house, I had no real clue what vibe I actually wanted for my home or how to go about achieving it. Laura, the designer he contracted, steered me from a starting point of terms such asquiet luxuryandsolidityandtranquilityto the place I call home today, and the fruits of her labour are astounding.

My home is an unlikely oasis in Central London, masculine and warm. Its lack of gratuitous furnishings feels intentional, the palette of sages and caramels and tans and taupes serene without veering remotely into coldness. It’s a sanctuary in thesame way my church used to be a sanctuary, but with none of the austerity that came with being an under-funded parish.

Instead, Laura created sensory appeal through layered textures—thick rugs, and reeded oak details, and chunky slabs of marble scored with thick black veins. The lack of clutter allows these details to sing, and the result is that my home provides the space I need to breathe, to think, while cosseting me in the lap of luxury.

It’s a Saturday, and Athena has come over to work with me on pulling together the final proposed structure for our foundation. I’m hoping that taking the discussion out of the office will allow us room to be inspired.

I’m also hoping that my chimp brain will move on from the sight of Athena in skin-tight yoga pants and a loose, off-the-shoulder sweater and focus on something more altruistic, though I don’t like my chances.

Not when her russet waves are gathered up in a big, messy bun with loose tendrils framing her face.

And certainly not when it’s been business as usual over the past week, since I watched a roomful of other guys fuck her before enjoying our blissful non-date-date at the Lanesborough spa.

Athena may think that her actions at work, whether greeting me with a blow job, or anticipating every piece of analysis I need, or acting as my personal pit bull whenever anyone wants a piece of me, are borne out of her desire to excel in this unique hybrid role. But while every aspect of her professional performance is beyond reproach, a small, quiet, hopeful part of me believes that she, too, has caught feelings, even if her cognitive brain isn’t yet aware of them.

In any case, she may be here to do overtime as our deadline for firming up the foundation’s structure approaches, but she’s absolutelynoton the clock today for sex, and I absolutelywillkeep my hands to myself, and I absolutely willnotthink about how fucking amazing it would be to cup her arse through those lethal yoga pants while I kiss her rosebud mouth.

Unless she initiates something, of course, in which case, I’ll be a lost man.

It’s a testament to the infectiousness of this woman’s energy that I do manage to look beyond her arse. Soon, she has the entire kitchen island covered in a mass of sticky notes clustered in three columns of yellow, pink and green to reflect our three proposed foundation pillars: Urban Community Development, Cultural Heritage, and Environmental Sustainability.

I cast my eye down the notes, letting the headings in Athena’s neat handwriting jump out at me.Affordable Housing Initiatives. Local History Projects. Urban Farming Projects.So far, so in line with everything we’ve discussed as a family. The delineation of our focus areas is logical and tidy, and it feels actionable. This is our chance to make an incredible mark on an entire swathe of London.

So why do I feel underwhelmed?

We’ve been populating and casting our eyes over these for the better part of an hour now. She’s watching me, hands on her hips, pacing up and down the length of the island. She glances down at the sticky notes. ‘Talk out loud. Tell me what you’re thinking.’

‘I’m not sure—it’s all fine.’

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