Rewritten scars

Chapter 4

I plastered a smile on my face as the bald man kept talking about some golf course he wishes to visit next- like how is that my business- I didn't say that to him, obviously. This night is the worst night ever since I arrived London. Mother didn't even allow me to settle in before she start parading me like a trophy. I haven't spent forty eight hours in London and I already feel like running away. I hate these parties- I love parties, don't get me wrong- but, these ones where everybody are dressed lavishly with pretentious smile on their faces... it is a no no for me. I prefer to be real with you, that way I won't be awkward. Mother and I moved to another man and a bored looking son- the resemblance is uncanny. The resemblance between father and son was almost eerie, as if time had merely shifted between them rather than shaped them individually. Both possessed midnight-black hair, thick and unruly in a way that suggested it had a mind of its own. Their storm-grey eyes, sharp and piercing, carried the same calculating glint—cold steel behind a polished exterior.

The younger man stood tall, his presence commanding, the crisp Armani suit doing little to hide the muscular build beneath. His broad shoulders and strong jawline gave him an air of effortless dominance.

Beside him, the father was the same man aged like fine whiskey—rich with years, but softened in places. He had the same pointed nose, the same chiseled features, though his once-sculpted physique had given way to a slight beer belly, pressing subtly against the buttons of his designer suit. Yet, despite the years, he still carried himself with a confidence that made it clear—age had not dulled the fire in his veins.

I have seen him before," Zach!!" My mother's voice cut through my train of thought. "Matilda!" The older man answered and hugged her slightly, it's been long since you attended one of these parties.

His gaze- the son- was sharp, assessing, like it was sizing me up the second I entered the room. My mother smiled beside me, oblivious to the tension curling in my stomach as she and his father exchanged pleasantries.

"I thought it was time you two met," she said warmly, as if this was some casual introduction and not the beginning of something I wasn't sure I was ready for. "Harriet meet Zane and Zach, Zach and Zane meet Harriet." I smiled at the older man and stretched my hand for a handshake. "Hi, I am Harriet, nice meeting you, Mr. Zach and Mr. Zane." Zach accepted my handshake and smiled at me. "Hi Harriet, nice to meet you, and it is Zach and Zane". The man's hand is warm a stark contrast to the cold glaciers in his son's eyes. My mother and Zach ventured into business talk leaving us in silence.

Silence stretched between us like a thick, suffocating fog. He sat across from me, fingers drumming idly against the table, eyes flicking around the room like he had somewhere better to be. Maybe he did.

I shifted in my seat, finally deciding to break the awkwardness. "So, do you always sit in silence, or is this a special occasion?"

His gaze snapped to mine, and for the first time, I saw the full weight of his storm-grey eyes. They were colder than I expected. Assessing. Unimpressed.

"I don't waste time on pointless conversations," he said flatly, barely sparing me another glance.

I blinked. "Wow. Okay. That's not condescending at all."

He shrugged, unfazed. "Just being honest."

I narrowed my eyes, crossing my arms. "Did I do something to offend you, or are you just naturally an ass?"

The corner of his mouth twitched like he was amused, but the look in his eyes said otherwise. "I already know your type."

My brows shot up. "My type?"

He leaned back in his seat, studying me like he was confirming some silent theory he had. "Rich. Sheltered. Probably thinks the world revolves around her."

I stared at him, caught between disbelief and pure, unfiltered irritation. He didn't even know me. But that didn't stop him from assuming, from looking at me like I was some shallow stereotype he had no interest in knowing beyond face value.

Slowly, I lifted my hand and flipped him off, my middle finger standing proudly between us. "Go to hell."

His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smirk. "Already there, sweetheart."

The air inside was suffocating. Too thick with arrogance. Too thick with him.

I pushed back my chair with more force than necessary, the scrape of wood against tile slicing through the murmured conversations around us. My mother barely glanced up from her discussion, and neither did his father. Good. I didn't need their permission to leave.

Without another word, I turned on my heel and strode out of the room, my pulse hammering with frustration. Who the hell did he think he was? Judging me like he had me all figured out with one glance. I had barely been in London for two nights, and I was already being labeled, dismissed—like I was nothing more than some entitled, spoiled brat.

I needed air.

The grand staircase curved upward, its marble steps cool beneath my heels as I climbed. At the top, I found a set of double doors slightly ajar, leading to a balcony. The night air hit me instantly, crisp and biting against my skin. The city stretched out beyond the railing, but my eyes found the moon first—silver and full, watching me in quiet indifference.

I leaned against the railing, inhaling deeply, trying to steady the fire still simmering in my chest. The view was breathtaking, but it did little to calm the irritation clawing at my ribs. Maybe I had overreacted. Maybe he wasn't worth the energy.

Maybe—

A sudden force slammed into my back.

The world tilted.

My breath caught in my throat as my body pitched forward, the railing vanishing beneath me. For a second, my mind refused to process it—refused to accept that I was falling.

But then the wind roared in my ears, and my stomach lurched, weightless.

I was falling.

Someone had pushed me.

The ground rushed up to meet me, and all I could think was—

Wow. Second night in London, and someone already wants me dead.