Page 17 of Dream On, Liar

We’d only dated for a few months, and after the breakup, we’d mostly drifted out of each other’s lives without much drama. Which was exactly why Samyra now looked ready to commit a felony over him appearing uninvited at our flat.

“Just ignore him.” I told her, biting the inside of my cheek.

“And what if he doesn’t go away?” She snapped, full aware that he’d done that before after a particularly bad argument, and the cold January air was not enough to deter him.

“Well, unless you want to invite him upstairs until I come home—which now that I know he’s there—won’t be before later this evening, I’d recommend you to take that risk.”

“Ugh. Fine.” She groaned, as she moved, presumably in the direction of her room. “But I expect a sweet treat from Tales & Lattes with my name on it when you get home.”

I nodded, smiling at how well my best friend knew me. Because after how my day was shaping to be? There was only one place I could unwind.

5

Rihaan

BY THE TIME I REACHED the townhouse, everything inside me felt scorched raw, emotions burning so violently beneath my skin that staying still seemed impossible. Like the hour-long drive back into the city from Surrey had given everything inside me room to intensify.

My father. Ishaan. Maeve.

And all the memories that had come crashing back the second I’d stepped into the shop and searched her name online. At first, I’d only wanted to confirm that the woman standing in front of me was the same Maeve Knox who’d written that paper about me, even though I knew in my gut that it was. It had been clear in the way she’d watched me as though I’d been some ghost.

But it wasn't until I'd seen Matt's name on her profile that a piece of the puzzle fit into my memory.

Matt Slater. A professional ice hockey player I'd met at one of Vedant's races, and we'd quickly become friends.

And somehow, seeing his name attached to hers had cracked open memories I'd not thought about in years.

The time when I’d first met Maeve years ago at a club in Manchester.

The way she’d laughed.

The way she’d felt against me when we’d dance.

The way she’d tasted when we’d kissed.

The way she’d left.

And just like that, pieces of the past I’d spent years avoiding had started slotting back into place.

I barely registered slamming the front door behind me.

The house was quieter than usual, though not silent. Soft voices drifted faintly from somewhere deeper inside the kitchen, my sister and Oliver talking low enough that they clearly didn’t want to be overheard.

I didn’t have the energy to find out whether they were talking about me or about what had happened yesterday. After Raina came back downstairs, I’d been too preoccupied watching our father turn the whole thing into a piss show to ask her what was going on.

When I’d first started seeing the headlines pour through, I’d expected—wished—that it would simply blow over, considering the paper had already been out for a month, and just hide under the radar with the Bangladesh’s tour of New Zealand, considering we’d be playing the winner of the series next. But with the matches dragging on long enough for headlines to keep breathing, his comments were still everywhere. It had already escalated to an ECB review. I’d gone to his place partly to ask what he was thinking—not just as my manager, but as the man who’d spent my entire career drilling into me and Vedant, the importance of keeping a clean image in sports.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I headed straight for my room and shoved the door shut behind me harder than necessary. For a second, I just stood there in the middle of the mess of clothes and cricket kit, chest heaving like I’d already started running.

Because if I stayed still for even a minute longer, I was going to start thinking.

And thinking felt as dangerous as talking to another human being right now.

Shoving Ma’s journal in the drawer of my side table, I changed mechanically, dragging on a hoodie and running shorts with movements that bordered on violent, like I could pull myself out of my own skin if I moved fast enough. By the time I’d tied my laces, my pulse was still hammering against my throat.

But when I reached the top of the stairs, I paused at the sight of Raina waiting by the landing. One hand gripped the railing, her gaze fixed toward the kitchen, presumably where Oliver still stood watching her.

Taking a rough breath, I kept my head down and walked down the stairs anyway.