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But the sound of the key turning reverberated through her brain like a bullet shattering a silent night. Her shoulders tensed and she tried to distract herself with thoughts of her jailer.
She wondered about that scar—it looked pretty bad. How severe had his injuries been? Newspapers had only reported that he was in a stable condition. A few horribly invasive pictures had surfaced of him in hospital immediately after the accident. There had been others as well, of Trish Nesbitt, that had turned Iris’s stomach. She couldn’t understand how someone could have taken pictures like that. Evan had pored over those images with morbid curiosity, often trying to show them to Iris—who had literally gagged after one quick glance at a picture of the—clearly dead—woman. Her friend had then mocked Iris for having the wrong constitution for this job.
She shook her head and dragged a chair out from underneath the dining table before sitting down to have the meal provided for her. She found a Post-it note with the Wi-Fi password scribbled on it beneath the bread basket, and quickly signed into the Wi-Fi while she scarfed down the delicious meal.
Trystan Abbott was a good cook.
Who knew?
She sent quick apologies to her parents and Evan—who’d finally surfaced from her hangover—explaining that she’d been without Wi-Fi for a while.
Evan threatened to cut a bitch if Iris didn’t give immediate details about where she was and who she was interviewing. Iris grimaced, wishing she hadn’t teased her friend about this big reveal. It didn’t feel right to divulge any information until she’d cleared up this misunderstanding between herself and the two powerful men.
I can’t tell you anything yet, Ev. I’m sorry. Shit got a little complicated and I have to see if I’ve actually still got the interview before I can reveal anything more.
Her friend sent half a dozen poop emojis in response and Iris grinned.
Tell me what you got up to last night? You get lucky?
‘Course I did ??
That’s my girl! Who was the lucky guy? Girl? Anyone I know?
Hooked up with a hottie at that summer charity event I told you I was going to. Haven’t seen her before. Doubt I’ll see her again. But she was fun.
Iris grinned. It was hard to keep up with Evan sometimes, and she often wondered why her friend hung out with her. Evan was cool, edgy, interesting and she knew exactly what she wanted from life. She worked as a junior executive assistant to the editor of an up-and-coming gossip magazine. And she’d once told Iris that she meant to have the woman’s job in two years, come hell or high water. Evan was such a driven and determined woman that Iris didn’t for a second doubt that she’d achieve her goals with time to spare.
It was hard not to be envious of her friend, whom she’d met at uni. They had the same dream, but Evan was miles ahead of Iris. Iris had spent so much time—during and after university—helping out with the catering business that, before she’d known it, four years had passed, and she was still in exactly the same place. Writing the occasional freelance article while working for her parents. Evan, in the meantime, had interned at Vogue, GQ and Glamour. Before landing this job at Looker magazine.
She was constantly regaling Iris with stories of glitzy celebrity parties, borrowed designer finery, dressing to the nines, and dating/sleeping with influential, beautiful people. Iris didn’t envy any of that since she’d never been interested in being on trend and knowing the “right kind” of people. All she’d ever wanted to do was the work. She didn’t care about the fast, glamorous life that came with it. She was—and always would be—a homebody. And while Evan had often inferred that Iris didn’t have the right attitude or the cutthroat mentality required for this kind of work, Iris had always felt that all she needed was an opportunity to prove what she could do.
If Evan were here instead of Iris, she would have charmed—and quite possibly seduced—Trystan Abbott out of his foul mood by now. And she’d have convinced him of her credentials and legitimacy in no time flat. She would have become his pampered guest and he would never have asked pretty, fragile Evan to hoist sandbags into a wheelbarrow.
Iris sighed wistfully. Annoyed that she was comparing herself with her best friend. Something she’d promised herself she would never do.
She was just going at a different pace. Evan didn’t have the commitments Iris did. She was from a wealthy, powerful family. She’d never been asked to sacrifice any of her needs or wants for the sake of the family business. That had been one of the many fundamental differences between them, and Iris had long ago accepted that comparing herself with Evan would only lead to grief and discontent. Instead, she celebrated her friend’s wins and achievements and tried not to come down too hard on herself for being nowhere near the same level as Evan as far as career goals went.
This was supposed to be a great—if not equalizer then at least—step up for Iris. Her big break. And it was all falling apart around her.
She scrolled through the many pics Ev had sent and smiled a little wistfully at how perfect and happy her beautiful friend looked in each picture.
It was a total celeb fest. A-listers everywhere. There was even a rumor that Trystan Abbott was coming, but he was a no-show.
Iris snorted at that text. Trystan Abbott had been too busy tormenting her last night to think about some fancy charity gala in London.
She sent a shocked emoji in response to Evan’s text, not sure what else to say or do when she knew exactly where Trystan Abbott had been last night.
She replied to a couple of texts from her mom and dad and a random one from her brother:
The fuck you do with my black sleeveless hoodie?!!!
Huh?
?????? How should I know where your hoodie is? Ask Mum.
His only reply was a middle-finger emoji, which Iris stared at for a second before shrugging and moving on from the text. She didn’t wear his clothes; they were all miles too big for her. And she shared a small flat with two other women, so she never had access to Robbie’s clothing anyway. Sometimes he’d blame her for the most random shit. But Iris liked to believe it was because he missed her and accusing her of clothing theft was his way of staying in contact with her.
She finished her—now lukewarm—stew and got up with a pained groan, picking up the tray and hobbling to the sink to do the dishes.
