AI The rain had been falling against the concrete of Soho in sheets, slicking the pavement into a dark, mirrored glaze. Above the heavy oak door of The Raven’s Nest, the distinctive green neon sign sizzled and spat in the damp air, casting an eerie emerald glow over the street. Aurora Carter pushed her shoulder against the wood and slipped inside, bringing a gust of wet October wind with her. She shivered, peeling the heavy nylon delivery jacket from her shoulders. It still smelled of fried garlic and sweet plum sauce, the lingering ghosts of a double shift ferrying takeout for Yu-Fei Cheung across central London.
She tossed the soaked Golden Empress jacket over the back of a wooden chair and ran a hand through her straight, shoulder-length black hair, wringing out the rainwater. The bar was comfortably dim, a sanctuary of amber light and low voices. Her bright blue eyes scanned the familiar room. Shadows clung to the corners where old maps curling at the edges and black-and-white photographs of forgotten European cityscapes plastered the walls. It was her haven. Her flat was just upstairs, a modest space where she could finally breathe, but the bar itself was the anchor she clung to.
Behind the mahogany counter stood Silas Blackwood. At fifty-eight, he carried himself with a quiet, immovable authority, a mountain of a man at six foot one. He was methodically wiping down a highball glass with a white cloth. The dim light caught the grey-streaked auburn hair and the matching, neatly trimmed beard that framed his sharp jawline. On his right hand, a silver signet ring clinked rhythmically against the crystal , a steady, metallurgic heartbeat in the quiet room.
He looked up as she approached, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. He favored his left leg as he moved down the bar, a slight limp left over from an intelligence operation in Prague that had gone terribly wrong decades ago. Silas never talked about MI6, but the evidence of his past was written in every careful movement he made.
Silas reached below the counter and slid a glass of water toward her. Not a word was exchanged , nor did there need to be. Rory wrapped her cold fingers around the glass.
Then, a voice off to her right shattered the quiet.
Aurora? Is that really you?
Rory turned, her grip tightening on the glass. Sitting three stools down, illuminated by a solitary low-hanging pendant light, was a man in a sharp charcoal suit. He had short, meticulously styled hair and the polished, expectant posture of someone who spent his days commanding air in a courtroom. It took her a second to look past the expensive tailoring to find the boy she had known three years ago.
Rhys.
Christ, Carter, he said, letting out a breath that sounded like a laugh . It is you. What are the odds? In a dingy pub in Soho, of all places.
It is a small world, Rhys, she said smoothly. Her voice was steady, perfectly level. Cool-headed. It was the same tone she used to defuse aggressive drunks on her delivery route and the same tone she had once used to parse out tort law in their seminar groups.
He stood and closed the distance between them, leaning against the bar. He smelled of rain and sandalwood, a scent entirely divorced from the stale beer and cheap laundry detergent she knew now. I haven't seen you since second year at Cardiff. You just disappeared.
I moved, Rory said, taking a sip of the water.
Moved, he echoed , his eyes raking over her form. He took in her faded jeans, her damp t-shirt, the exhaustion bruised into the skin under her eyes. At twenty-five, she knew she looked worn thin. We all thought you were going to top the Pre-Law program. I saw Brendan outside the courthouse in the city center a few months back. Your dad still mentions you like you are going to take over his firm tomorrow, but he wouldn't tell me where you ended up.
He is an Irish barrister, Rory said, forcing a tight, polite smile. Admitting defeat is not in his vocabulary.
Rhys leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. The action felt invasive, demanding an intimacy they no longer shared. Was it Evan? he asked. We all knew things were getting bad between you two. One day you are the sharpest mind in the lecture hall, and the next, you are gone . Did you leave university because of him?
Rory flinched inwardly, though her outward expression remained a mask of polite indifference. Just hearing Evan’s name made the ghost of an old bruise ache. She pressed her thumb against her left wrist, feeling the raised, familiar texture of the small crescent-shaped scar there. It was from a childhood accident, falling out of an oak tree when she was nine, but grounding herself with its texture had become a ritual whenever her anxiety spiked. Eva had begged her to come to London, practically dragged her out of Cardiff to save her life. Escaping an abusive ex had cost her the degree, her father’s unblemished pride, and the trajectory of an entire life she had meticulously planned.
Life got complicated, Rhys, she said simply. London offered a clean slate.
And a thriving career in... he paused, his gaze drifting toward the sodden Golden Empress jacket draped over the chair behind her. Food delivery?
The condescension in his voice wasn't malicious. It was worse. It was pity. The heavy, suffocating weight of unrealized potential hung in the gap between them. For a fleeting second, the image of what she could have been flashed before her eyes. She could have been wearing a tailored suit, arguing cases alongside him, living the safe, structured life crafted by her mother Jennifer's strict Welsh pragmatism and her dad's soaring ambition. Instead, she was ferrying sweet and sour pork through the rain, living above a bar, guarding secrets she could never tell a man like Rhys.
Before she could craft a retort, a heavy glass thumped onto the wooden bar directly between them.
Silas stood there, his hazel eyes fixed on Rhys. The spymaster did not scowl, nor did he raise his voice. He simply projected an aura of absolute stillness that commanded the space entirely.
Is there a problem here, Rory? Silas asked. His voice was a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated through the mahogany.
No problem, Silas, she said, feeling the immediate comfort of his intervention. Just catching up with an old classmate.
Silas did not blink. He looked Rhys up and down, dissecting the lawyer in a fraction of a second. You look like a man who has finished his drink, Silas noted mildly, though it sounded precisely like an eviction notice.
Rhys straightened, suddenly hyper-aware of the towering man behind the counter. The lawyerly bravado evaporated under the weight of Silas' gaze. No, I was just leaving, actually. I have an early meeting in the City tomorrow.
He turned back to Rory, reaching into his jacket to pull out a pristine white business card. He slid it across the wet wood toward her. If you ever want to talk, Carter. Or if you need help getting back on your feet. You threw away a brilliant future. It is a shame to see it go to waste like this.
Rory stared at the card. The name of a prestigious London firm was embossed in silver lettering. The tension in the air was thick, laced with the bitter tang of unspoken regret. But as she looked from the business card to the man handing it to her, the regret began to shift. The sorrow wasn't for the life she had lost, but for the fact that Rhys would never understand what she had survived to be here. He saw a failure. He did not see the terrifying, brilliant freedom of being alive.
He did not know about the intricate network of contacts Silas ran, or the dangerous, electric thrill of the world she now danced on the edges of. He did not know about the heavy wooden bookshelf in the corner of this very bar, or the hidden back room it rotated to reveal, where clandestine meetings decided fates far more profound than petty corporate lawsuits. Rhys lived in a world of paper and rules. Rory had stepped off the map entirely.
I appreciate the thought, Rhys, she said, leaving the card untouched on the bar. But my future is exactly where I want it to be.
Rhys gave a tight, awkward nod, unable to decipher the absolute certainty in her bright blue eyes. He buttoned his expensive jacket, offered Silas a wary glance, and walked out into the London rain.
The heavy door clicked shut, leaving behind the hum of the green neon sign and the quiet, steady breath of the bar. Rory sat in silence , staring at the empty space Rhys had occupied. She picked up the business card by its corner, feeling the heavy, expensive cardstock, and dropped it into a nearby waste bin.
Silas picked up the rag and resumed wiping down the bar, his silver signet ring flashing in the low light. He didn't ask about Evan. He didn't ask about Cardiff, or the Pre-Law degree she had abandoned. He already knew everything that mattered.
Tough shift? Silas asked, his gravelly voice devoid of judgment.
Yu-Fei had me hauling orders all the way to Camden, Rory replied, her shoulders finally dropping from their defensive posture. I am soaked to the bone, my legs are killing me, and someone stiffed me on a twenty-pound total.
Silas turned around and pulled a bottle of dark, aged whiskey from the top shelf. He poured two measures into heavy crystal glasses, pushing one across the mahogany toward her.
Welcome home, Rory, he said.
She offered a genuine smile, letting the warmth of the bar seep into her bones. Outside, the rain washed the streets of Soho gray, but inside the Nest, under the watchful gaze of the old maps and the quiet protection of the man beside her, she had never felt so safe. She raised her glass, the crescent scar on her wrist pale and smooth in the amber light, and drank to the life she had chosen.