Page 27 of Unravelling: Aria & Crispin
On the way back to her flat, she reached for his lips with a hopeful glance.
He had turned his head so the kiss landed on his cheek.
He wasn't being cruel, it just wasn't what this was about. He thought she understood that. She got her red herring, and he got to keep his precious diamond in the rough from the public eye. His Aria.
Her expression shuttered and said nothing. But there was a calculating gleam in her eyes which made him wary.
Later, in the quiet of his penthouse, he stood under the spray of the shower, the water too hot, scrubbing Helga's perfume from his skin. Of late, he felt grimy whenever he was with her. He towelled off, tugged on an old shirt, and stared at his phone.
His thumb hovered before he started typing.
Coming over now.
He paused. Swore softly.
Lule.
Of course. Aria had said her sister was coming over. He deleted the message.
Can't see you this week. Swamped. Next week maybe?
Sent. There! He needed to keep his distance, maintain boundaries, even it felt like he was dying. Over the last few years, he realised he had a type. And only Aria fit the mould. No one else would do. Only a few more months before...
He sat at the edge of his bed, phone face down, hands braced on his knees.
This was getting dangerous. He needed to pace himself.
Control.
Starve the addiction.
But his heart clenched with something close to panic. Like a premonition. Something was going to go wrong. Somehow, he knew.
It felt like his life was unravelling, a thread caught on some unseen nail, pulled from a beloved sweater.
Too late now.
Too late to stop it.
Chapter 18
Crispin
The week slid by like a lace glove peeled off a slender hand.
Crispin navigated it smoothly, as if on autopilot. He woke up on time and shrugged on his clothes, laundered and pressed by invisible hands. Smiled at his colleagues, made easy conversation in elevators, flirted harmlessly with Mrs. Trevelyan-the octogenarian shareholder who wore pearls like a medal of honour, a surprise gift from her late husband when they were on their honeymoon. He crossed off tasks on his to-do list like a man winning a race he didn't care to run.
He attended back-to-back meetings, signed papers, laughed at the right times.
He took Helga to dinner at a new Japanese place in Mayfair, where the chef flamed salmon table-side and the waitstaff bowed low. She looked stunning in her midnight-blue silk blouse, and she knew it. Crispin gave her compliments mechanically, opened her door, listened as she discussed a recent art acquisition and her brother's upcoming wedding. He played his part with the talent of a true professional.
But even as he nodded, his thoughts drifted.
It was time, he realised, to find someone new. Someone new to keep up this charade. Helga had grown sharp around the edges, more watchful. She made it clear that she wanted more, and he had nothing to give. All his secret moments belonged to Aria.
Still, not before the party on Sunday.
Dorian would be there. After his initial disparaging comments about Aria, he seemed more accepting, and their friendship have moved back from rocky to steady again. He hadn't seen Dorian in weeks, and Alice had been moody as of late. They needed a moment, the three of them, like in the old days, before the strain of the performance had sunk its claws into them.
