Prologue - Gareth
February 2022 - Rosethorne, England
“There’s nothing I can do, mate,” my boss says, voice flat with resignation as he leans against the glass partition. His tie’s loosened, his face gray and slack with defeat. “Bloody Halberd’s buying up everything in sight. Bastards are like sharks—one sniff of blood and they swarm. Every little company from here to Milton’s getting swallowed up. They’re expanding here in the coming years.”
I nod like I understand, but my mind is still catching up. Sure, Branley was barely staying afloat, but I thought we had more time. I thought… I don’t know what I thought.
“You’ll have to pack up your desk today. IT’s shutting everything down by five.”
He casts a glance over my shoulder, ensuring no one is eavesdropping.
His brow lifts. “You tell her yet?”
A slow heat crawls up the back of my neck. “Not yet.”
He whistles low under his breath and pushes off the glass. “Messy business, Gareth. Hope it doesn’t tear your home to bits.”
It probably already has.
He disappears down the hall. I stay behind, clutching the edge of my desk as the office around me hums with defeat—thumping cardboard boxes, folders slapping closed, keys clanging as they’re dropped into bowls.
I pack slowly. Every stapler and loose pen feels like a small indignity. My hand pauses when I reach for the framed photo tucked into the corner of my cubicle. Chelsea and George. She’s smiling, one hand resting on her bump. George is tugging on her hair, laughing.
God, we were happy once. Weren’t we?
I shove the photo into the box and carry it down to the car park, the cardboard corners biting into my palms. It’s already started to drizzle, because of course it has. As if the universe is determined to piss on me just that little bit more today.
My car’s parked near the loading bay—a battered old Vauxhall Astra with one fog light out and a boot that won’t close properly. I shove the box into the passenger seat and slam the door.
Messages ping on my phone. One after another, lighting up the cracked screen. I ignore them all. I already know who it is.
She can wait…
I drive home with the rain smearing across the windshield in long, greasy streaks. Traffic moves forward at a crawl. I keep the radio off.
By the time I pull into the garage, I’ve decided I’ll leave the box in the car. I can’t face the questions yet, so I enter like it’s any other evening.
“George? I’m home!” I call out, voice bright. “The game on?”
No one answers.
But they’re both on the sofa.
Chelsea sits ramrod straight, arms crossed tightly above her belly. Her large glasses have slipped low on the slope of her nose, her blue eyes an angry storm cloud. George is curled beside her, watching the telly with a blank expression.
I follow their gaze. There on the screen, in bold letters:
HALBERD ANNOUNCES STRATEGIC ACQUISITION OF BRANLEY PAPER CO.
Ah. Right. That.
I sigh and drag a hand over my scalp. “Alright, guess I’ve no choice but to come clean. Yeah, we’ve been bought out. Some acquisitions bullshit. Nothing to worry about though. I’ll find something else—you know I always land on my feet?—”
“She called again today,” she interrupts. “Hung up without even speaking.”
My blood runs ice cold.
“But she sent me everything. All the emails. The texts. Every message you’ve ever sent her.”
