AI The neon green sign of The Raven's Nest buzzed, a sickly glow reflecting in the slick Soho pavement. Rory navigated the narrow street, rain plastering her hair to her forehead. Another delivery for Yu-Fei. She jammed the insulated bag tighter against her hip, the scent of ginger and star anise clinging to her coat. Silas would be glad of the business, tonight at least. The bar felt quieter than usual, the murmur of conversations muted, almost hushed.
She spotted him immediately.
Leaning against the bar, nursing a drink—something amber and expensive-looking—was a man who could have been Rhys Morgan. Except… not. The Rhys she remembered, the Rhys of late-night card games and shared dreams of escaping Cardiff, was a whirlwind of unruly brown hair, perpetually ink-stained fingers, and a grin that could charm birds from trees. This man was sculpted, sharp angles replacing soft curves. His hair, coiffed and dark, barely hinted at the wildness she recalled. He wore a tailored suit, the fabric expensive, the cut impeccable. An expensive watch glinted on his wrist.
He looked… powerful. Distant. Unrecognisable.
Rory froze, halfway to the bar. Years evaporated, replaced by a sudden rush of memories—shared secrets whispered in the Cardiff rain, the naive arrogance of youth, a promise made, then broken. A knot tightened in her stomach .
He turned, his gaze sweeping over the room. His eyes, the same warm hazel she remembered, landed on her. Recognition flickered, then widened into a cautious smile.
“Rory? Is that really you?”
She forced a smile back, feeling clumsy and exposed. “Rhys. Wow. I… I didn’t know you’d be here.”
He gestured to the stool beside him. "Please," he said, his voice deeper than she recalled, polished and controlled. "Join me."
Rory approached, placing the delivery bag on the counter with a thud. Silas, wiping down the bar, gave her a barely perceptible nod. She slid onto the stool, the worn leather cool against her skin. "What are you doing here?" she asked, feeling unusually awkward .
"Business," Rhys said, swirling the liquid in his glass. "I’m in London for the week. A merger. Tedious, but lucrative."
Mergers. Lucrative. The words sounded alien coming from him. “Right. A merger.” She glanced at his hand, the one cradling the glass. No ink stains. No worn rings. Just a pristine expanse of tanned skin. “You always hated business.”
He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “People change, Rory. Circumstances change.”
A waitress materialized, asking for her order. "Just a water, thanks," Rory said, avoiding Rhys’s gaze. She watched the waitress pour the water, the ice clinking softly against the glass. The sound felt amplified in the quiet bar.
“So,” Rhys prompted, his voice laced with an unsettling formality, "what have you been up to?"
“Nothing much,” she shrugged, picking at a loose thread on her coat. “Delivery work. Living above the bar.” She gestured vaguely around the room.
He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Above the bar? Still drifting, I see.”
The word stung. “Someone’s got to keep Silas afloat,” she retorted, then immediately regretted the defensiveness in her tone.
He didn’t respond immediately, taking a slow sip of his drink. "You always were fiercely loyal."
"Someone had to be." Rory met his gaze, and for a moment, the years seemed to collapse between them. She saw a ghost of the boy she remembered, lurking beneath the tailored facade .
"Remember that summer after A-Levels?" Rhys asked, a wistful note creeping into his voice . "We swore we’d leave Cardiff, conquer the world, become writers."
Rory’s smile faded. “Vividly.” That summer felt like a lifetime ago . A different person entirely. "You, of course, went to Oxford. English Literature. I... I went to Cardiff. Pre-Law. Didn't stick with it."
“You were always the practical one,” he said, but there was a touch of regret in his voice. A past conversation they hadn't finished.
She laughed, a short, brittle sound. "Practicality doesn’t pay the bills, Rhys. Not always." She looked away, remembering Evan, the anger, the fear. The scar on her wrist throbbed faintly beneath her sleeve.
He seemed to notice her discomfort. "Is everything alright, Rory?"
“Fine,” she lied, taking a long swallow of water.
He studied her for a moment, his gaze lingering on her face. “You seem… different.”
“We all do,” she said, her voice flat .
"Did you ever write anything?" he pressed, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort.
“A few short stories,” she mumbled. “Nothing anyone would read.”
He nodded slowly . "A wasted talent, perhaps."
Rory bristled. “Maybe. Or maybe I just grew up. You know," she paused, gathering her thoughts, "sometimes those promises we make when we're young—they're just that. Promises.”
He sighed, placing his glass on the counter. "I suppose you're right." He reached into his inside pocket and produced a sleek, silver business card. "Here's my contact information. If you ever find yourself in London on business, look me up. We could… catch up properly."
She stared at the card. Rhys Morgan, CEO, Sterling Investments. The embossed lettering seemed to mock her.
"I don't think so," she said quietly, handing it back to him. "I'm quite busy where I am.”
He didn’t argue, but his expression clouded over. The practiced charm seemed to slip, revealing a flicker of something raw and vulnerable.
“It’s a shame,” he said softly . “We could have been something.”
Rory met his gaze, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air between them. “We were young, Rhys,” she replied.
He nodded, acknowledging the truth of her statement. “Yes. We were.” He glanced at his watch . “I should be going. Another meeting.” He stood, smoothing down his suit. "It was... interesting, seeing you again, Rory."
“You too, Rhys.”
He turned to leave. As he reached the door, he paused, his hand on the handle. He looked back at her, a fleeting expression of… sadness? Regret? – crossing his face before he disappeared into the rain-slicked street.
Rory watched him go, the green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest reflecting in her eyes. She felt a profound sense of loss, not for what they had been, but for what they might have been . She took another sip of water, the icy liquid a stark contrast to the warmth of the memory that lingered. Her gaze drifted to the delivery bag on the counter, the familiar scents of ginger and star anise grounding her in the present. Silas was watching her.
He gave a slight inclination of his head.
"Everything alright, Rory?" Silas asked, his voice a low rumble .
“Yeah, Silas,” she said, forcing a smile. "Just... a blast from the past.”
Silas nodded knowingly . He seemed to understand more than she let on.
“Some ghosts are best left undisturbed,” he said, returning to his wiping.