Page 49 of Unravelling: Aria & Crispin
"I need space," he'd said tightly, then turned to his father. "You don't get to steer me through this. Not this time."
They hadn't taken it well.
And then, there was Dorian.
They met at the boxing gym in Chelsea like they used to. They followed the familiar rhythm of their old routine.
But from the first punch, something was off. Crispin's jabs were sharper, Dorian's mouth looser.
By the third round, Dorian was bleeding from his nose, and Crispin's breathing had turned into a low, steady growl.
Then, between hits, Dorian had to run his mouth.
"I only said what she already knew, mate. Someone like her could've had any number of sugar daddies by now. Thought I'd offer early."
Rage raced through his veins in an unstoppable drift. The next punch caught Dorian hard in the jaw. He stumbled.
They were well matched, but this wasn't sparring anymore.
This was fury.
Crispin's fists moved on instinct-left, right, shoulder, jaw. Dorian landed a few solid counters, but it was no match for his fury.
Crispin drove him back, blow after blow, until Dorian hit the mat with a groan.
"You absolute bastard," Crispin panted, his gloves still raised.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" His voice cracked. "I thought you were my friend."
Dorian, dazed and winded, blinked up at him from the floor. "You've been with dozens of women. I didn't think she was any different."
Crispin stood over him, chest heaving. "No different? No different? They were all a smokescreen...nothing," he shouted, his voice rising. "Every last one of them."
He pulled his gloves off slowly. The sound of the Velcro tearing was loud in the silent room.
"I love her so much... I can't breathe without her."
Dorian didn't answer. He just sat on the mat, rubbing his jaw. His eyes gave nothing away.
Crispin looked down at him, a shine in his eyes over a friendship that had run its course.
"I thought you were my friend," he repeated softly.
Dorian stayed silent, wiping a line of blood from his mouth.
Crispin's voice dropped, low and shaking with fury. "In my mind, she's my wife. The mother of my children. Is this how you'd treat the other half of my soul?"
The gym was still around them.
Then he turned, climbed out of the ring, and didn't look back.
He triedThe Crusty Loaf. He hated the place.
It wasn't the smell of oil, or the sticky tables, or even the clatter of cutlery and squeak of worn chairs.
It was the quiet man in the corner who watched Aria with hopeful eyes that made his hackles rise. And worse, that she smiled back-and not the distracted, mechanical smile she gave customers or colleagues.
With him, Crispin felt her whole demeanour had changed. The indifference dropped away and her shoulders softened. He imagined her tone warmer, lighter. There was something in the way she leaned in to hear him speak.
