Chapter 179
The pub breathed like a living thing—thick with smoke, regret, and the scent of stale ale that clung to every splintered inch of wood. Lanterns hung low, their dim orange light wavering across the battered bar top, turning half-empty bottles into little glass relics of better nights. Outside, London was a ghost—fog rolling through the streets like it had secrets to tell, sirens wailing somewhere far enough away to ignore.
Inside The Rusty Anchor, time seemed to stall. The air was heavy, the conversations quieter now—murmurs of laughter dulled by weariness, the clink of a glass punctuating the kind of silence only the hopeless could make.
Henry Jackson sat alone at the far end of the bar, shoulders drawn in like he was trying to disappear. The man was all edges tonight—his tall frame folded over a drink, jaw tight, eyes dark with too many thoughts that refused to die down. The glow from the lanterns carved shadows along his cheekbones, tracing the fatigue etched deep into his face.
The bandage around his forearm peeked from under his rolled-up sleeve, stained faintly pink where the cut still bled through. It pulsed with every heartbeat—a quiet, persistent reminder of the wreck that had left more than just a car in ruins. He hadn’t said a word since he walked in, but he didn’t need to. The pain was written all over him, coiled tight in the space between his breath and his silence.
Some men drank to forget. Henry drank to stop remembering.
He lifted his glass, the whiskey swirling like liquid fire, and downed it in one gulp. The burn scorched his throat, but it did little to drown the voices in his head—the ones berating him for not being there, for not being the hero Eliana needed. ’Why wasn’t it me?’ he thought bitterly. ’Why does it always have to be him? Rafael, with his moody attitude and his secrets, swooping in like some dark knight.’ Another shot. The bartender, a grizzled old man with a perpetual squint, refilled without a word, sensing the storm brewing in this quiet stranger.
Across the bar, in a booth shrouded by faded velvet curtains, sat Isabella Voss—a stunning woman of 29, her porcelain skin flushed from too many martinis, her emerald-green eyes glassy with unshed tears. Her auburn hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, framing a face that could grace magazine covers: high cheekbones, full lips painted a defiant red, and a figure clad in a sleek black dress that screamed elegance even in this grimy hole. She was self-made, a tech entrepreneur who’d built an empire from a garage startup, turning algorithms into millions. But tonight, her world had crumbled, and she nursed her drink like it was the only anchor left.
Henry’s eyes wandered the room, blurry from the alcohol, and landed on her. She caught his gaze, held it for a beat too long, then looked away with a sigh that mirrored his own. He wasn’t sure what possessed him—maybe the whiskey loosening his tongue, or the shared aura of misery—but he slid off his stool, glass in hand, and approached her booth. The floorboards creaked under his steps, and the jukebox in the corner warbled a melancholic tune about lost love.
“Mind if I join you?” Henry asked, his voice rough around the edges, laced with that reserved kindness that had always defined him. He gestured vaguely at the empty seat across from her. “Looks like we’re both auditioning for the role of ’Most Miserable Patron’ tonight p>
Isabella looked up, her green eyes narrowing slightly before softening into a wry smile. She wasn’t in the mood for company, but something in his warm gaze—tired, yes, but genuine—made her nod. “Sure, why not? Misery loves company, right? Or at least a drinking buddy. I’m Isabella. Isabella Voss p>
“Henry Jackson,” he replied, sliding into the booth with a grace that belied his growing inebriation. He set his glass down with a soft clink. “Nice to meet you, Isabella. Though I gotta say, you don’t look like the type who frequents places like this. What’s a woman like you doing in a dump like The Rusty Anchor p>
She let out a bitter laugh, swirling her martini before taking a sip. The olive bobbed like a drowned hope. “A woman like me? Oh, honey, if you only knew. Let’s just say I’m celebrating the death of my illusions. What about you? You look like you’ve been through a war zone—bandages and all p>
Henry glanced at his arm, touching the bandage absently. “Car crash earlier tonight. Nothing major, just… collateral damage from someone else’s mess.” He signaled the bartender for another round, buying her one too. “But that’s not why I’m here. I’m drowning sorrows that cut deeper than any scrape p>
They clinked glasses in silent solidarity, the sound echoing like a pact between strangers. For a moment, they drank in quiet, the pub’s ambient chatter filling the gaps: a couple arguing in the corner, the bartender wiping down the counter with rhythmic swipes, the faint drip of a leaky faucet.
“So,” Henry ventured after a while, his ambition as an aspiring doctor kicking in even through the haze—he hated seeing pain unaddressed. “What illusions died for you tonight? You don’t have to spill if you don’t want to, but… talking helps sometimes. Or so they say p>
Isabella hesitated, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. Her voice, when it came, was steady but edged with raw emotion. “Alright, Henry Jackson. Since we’re both wallowing, why not? Tomorrow was supposed to be my wedding day. Big affair—white dress, vows, the whole fairy tale. I’ve been dating this guy, Marcus, for three years. Built my life around him, thought he was the one. I’m… well, I’m loaded. Self-made tech mogul, you know? Started a cybersecurity firm from nothing, turned it into a nine-figure empire. Thought he loved me for me, not the money p>
Henry leaned in, his warm eyes widening slightly. “Sounds impressive. Self-made? That’s rare. Most people inherit or luck out. What happened p>
She drew in a shaky breath, her voice dropping to a near whisper, as if the walls themselves might lean in to listen. “I’ve been out of state the past week—finalizing wedding details. The whole circus—an estate in the countryside, flowers flown in from Paris, gold-embossed invitations, the works. Everything had to be perfect.” Her laugh was brittle, humorless. “I came back early to surprise him. Thought it’d be romantic, you know? Show up at our place in Mayfair unannounced p>
Her gaze drifted somewhere far away, the memory flickering behind her eyes. “I slipped in quietly. The house smelled the same—his cologne, the lilies in the hallway. Then I heard voices upstairs. At first I thought he was on a call. But then I heard her laugh—high, breathy. Too familiar p>
She swallowed hard, her next words barely audible. “I opened the door and there he was. My fiancé. In our bed. With some girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two—long hair, nervous giggles, the kind that sound like she still believes in love p>
Her hand trembled slightly as she continued. “But it wasn’t just that. They weren’t only… doing… you know what. They were talking. Plotting. Whispering things they shouldn’t have known about. Things about me p>
“Plotting?” Henry echoed, his brow furrowing. The word hung heavy, pulling him out of his own fog for a moment. “What do you mean p>
Isabella’s lips trembled, but she pressed on, her words tumbling out like a dam breaking. “I hid in the hallway, phone out. Recorded the whole thing. He was telling her—his ’baby mama,’ apparently—how after the wedding, he’d arrange an ’accident.’ A car crash, maybe a fall down the stairs. Make it look natural so he could inherit everything I owned. Turns out she’s already got a kid by him, hidden away. A little boy, about a year old. They were laughing about it, Henry. Laughing about killing me for my money. ’She’s too trusting,’ he said. ’Won’t see it coming.’ I snapped a few photos through the door crack, then slipped out before they noticed. Drove straight here. Didn’t even pack a bag p>
Henry’s jaw clenched, a flicker of anger sparking in his eyes—raw, protective, the same instinct that had once driven him to heal others instead of himself. “Christ, Isabella he breathed, shaking his head like he could somehow make sense of it. “That’s beyond betrayal—that’s calculated.” His voice hardened, low and steady. “Please tell me you didn’t just walk away. Did you call to yell at him at least? Or call the police? Call Someone? Anyone p>
She shook her head, a single tear escaping despite her efforts. She wiped it away fiercely. “No. Not yet. I was too shocked, too hurt. Confronting him would’ve given him time to spin it, to cover up. I’ve got the evidence—pictures, audio. I’ll lawyer up tomorrow, ruin him before he even knows what hit him. But tonight? Tonight, I just needed to not think. To not feel like the biggest fool alive p>
“Hey, hey,” Henry said softly, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. His touch was gentle, reassuring, like a doctor comforting a patient. “You’re not a fool. You’re a survivor. Building what you did? That takes guts, brains. He’s the idiot for thinking he could pull this off. And you caught him— that’s power. Cry if you need to, but don’t you dare blame yourself p>
Isabella sniffed, managing a watery smile. “Thanks. You’re sweet, you know that? Most guys would’ve hit on me by now, but you’re actually listening. Your turn, Mr Doom-and-Gloom. Why are you here, looking like the world ended? Girlfriend troubles p>
To be continued p>