Page 4 of Seal My Fate

“Oh, didn’t Hugh tell you?” Priya laughs. “You have your own office now.”

“I do?” I gasp in excitement.

“Right this way.” Priya shows me to a cool, funky room on the second floor, filled with a desk, potted plants, and a window overlooking the bustling street below. “Vik is spending the next few months in Islamabad, overseeing our education programs there,” she explains. “So this is all yours. On one condition: You keep the plants alive,” she adds with a grin.

“Of course!” I beam, looking around. “Thank you, this is great.”

Priya checks her watch. “I’ll find you later,” she says, and bustles off, leaving me to take in the cool, private space. There’s a comfy couch in the corner, colorful artwork on the walls, plus photos of various Ambrose Foundation staff around the world, working on their projects. I smile, pleased to be a part of the team, and hopefully contributing to our impact, too.

I settle in with my laptop, determined to focus and get some work done.

But that focus lasts all of five minutes. No matter what I do, my thoughts keep going back to Wren.

How is this even possible?

In the first days after her disappearance, my, er,ourparents and me clung to the desperate hope that she might still be alive. She left a suicide note, which they found with her purse and shoes on the beach, along with an empty bottle of prescription pills. But even after the Coastguard searched the waters nearby, they didn’t find a body.

Surely, somehow, she might have survived.

But as the days turned into weeks, our hopes faded. Nobody had seen or heard from her, not one single clue to suggest she’d made it off that beach alive. She’d been erratic and suicidal before, and it was clear the police thought she’d done it again—and was successful this time. They called off the search, closed the case file, and soon, we all accepted the heartbreaking truth.

She was gone.

Now, I sit there, trying to make sense of this new reality, the one where Wren has been alive all this time. Was she in hiding? How did she disappear so thoroughly? Why would she stay away so long?

What could have driven her to such a drastic act in the first place?

No matter how many times I turn it over in my mind, I can’t make sense of it—or why she would suddenly appear in Saint’s garden last night, revealing herself to me after all this time. She was scared. In trouble, somehow? But why the secrecy, the wig and disguise? And on top of it, demanding that I keep her return a secret—from Saint, in particular?

I shiver, chilled. The Wren I knew would never have put her family through this traumatic ordeal, so clearly I don’t know Wren half as well as I thought I did.

What does she want from me?

“Knock, knock.” There’s a tap at my door, then Hugh enters. “How are you settling into your new digs?”

“Great!” I exclaim loudly, trying to shove the thoughts of Wren aside. “I love it in here. But are you sure someone else shouldn’t be getting this office? Someone more important.”

Hugh chuckles. “Believe me, with the way this influencer campaign of yours is shaping up, you’re the VIP around here.”

“Don’t,” I roll my eyes, blushing, but he insists.

“No, really. Priya showed me the plan for the rollout, and some of the names you have signed up to participate. It’s impressive stuff,” he adds. “Of course, I don’t know who on earth LadyJaneLocks or BeastMode are, but I’m told they’re quite the celebs with the younger crowd.”

I smile, relaxing. It’s so much easier to chat to Hugh now that I crossed him off the list of suspects who might have been behind Wren’s attack. He was safely in Stockholm, giving a TED talk that weekend, so I don’t have to keep my defenses up or view him with suspicion anymore.

“LadyJane is a hair influencer,” I explain. “She has two million followers on Instagram and TikTok. And BeastMode is a gamer, he’s huge on Twitch. I saw he posted a bunch about his dog, so I figured he would be a good fit for one of the animal protection campaigns.”

“Twitch, Beasts… You ever feel old before your time?” Hugh asks with a grin.

I laugh. “Constantly. These influencers are still teenagers, and they have more of a platform than most big sports stars, or Beyonce.” I pause. “OK, well not Beyonce.”

“And since we can’t sign her up to promote the Foundation projects, I’d say you’re doing just fine with this list,” Hugh agrees. “Coffee?”

“I’d love some.”

We stroll downstairs to the kitchenette area, chatting about some of the Foundations upcoming projects. “I’ve been itching for us to expand,” Hugh confides, as he sets the expensive espresso machine humming. “And not just in scale, but also the kind of projects we support. It may be unseemly to say, but it’s easier to get people to donate money for starving orphans in some far-flung nation than it is to get them to pay attention to problems right here at home. I’m hoping in the years ahead, we can focus on issues right here in England: drug rehabilitation, food banks, the less sexy charity goals.”

“And how does your father feel about that?” I ask, before I can stop myself. Hugh’s father, Lionel Ambrose, is in the running to become the next British Prime Minister—and seems to have the votes sewn up, if the polls are anything to go by. “I just mean, he likes to paint a rosier picture of the country, that’s all. At least, judging by his campaign speeches.”

---