AI The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest pulsed a steady rhythm against the Soho drizzle, casting a watery sheen across the pavement. Inside, the usual Friday night hum settled in. Rory Carter polished the same spot on the dark wood counter for the third time, the cloth rough against the grain. Silas Blackwood, a quiet presence behind the bar, wiped condensation from a row of tumblers, a faint clink punctuating the jazzy murmur from the speakers tucked in the corners. Rory’s delivery shift had ended an hour ago, but the lull of the Nest, the comforting scent of aged wood and stout, kept her rooted. She took a slow sip of her ginger ale, watching the faint reflection of the old maps unfurl on the opposite wall.
A gust of wind rattled the entrance door chime. Cold sliced through the warmth for a fleeting moment. Rory lifted her gaze, the movement lazy, expecting another rain-soaked regular or a tourist seeking refuge. The woman who stepped inside defied both.
She moved with an effortless grace, her charcoal suit tailored to an impossible sharpness that belied the damp evening. A silk scarf, the colour of amethyst, draped over one shoulder, catching the dim light. Her hair, once a wild tumble of auburn curls, now lay in a sleek, severe bob, framing a face Rory almost recognised. Her bright blue eyes narrowed , searching the woman’s features. There was a confidence in her stride, a certain polished veneer that seemed alien, yet hauntingly similar to someone she once knew. The woman paused, her gaze sweeping the room, then landing on Rory. A ghost of a smile, thin and precise, touched her lips.
“Rory? Aurora Carter, I don’t believe it.” Her voice, though softer than Rory remembered, carried an unfamiliar edge, an almost imperious tone.
Rory’s glass met the counter with a soft thud. A jolt, cold and sudden, sliced through her. The name, the cadence of her speech, the ghost of a freckle on the bridge of her nose. Seraphina. Seraphina Doyle. Her stomach tightened.
“Sera? Is that really you?” Rory pushed herself off the barstool, her movements stiff, unpractised. The years peeled back, revealing glimpses of a vivacious, ambitious girl with a laugh that filled every room. This woman, cool and composed, wore her past like a discarded skin.
Seraphina moved towards her, traversing the distance between them with a deliberate stride that suggested power, not reunion. Her gaze, once wide and earnest, now held a calculating glint .
“It is. Though I suppose you wouldn’t have expected me here.” She stopped before Rory, extending a manicured hand. Her grip was firm, brief, cold. “In London, I mean. Or a place like this.”
Rory’s eyes flickered across Seraphina’s immaculate ensemble, then to her own worn jeans and the faint stain on her Golden Empress t-shirt. The unspoken comparison hung heavy in the air , a silent judgment. “No, I… I didn’t. What brings you to this part of town?”
“A rather tedious arbitration case this week.” Seraphina waved a dismissive hand, her movements economical. “Client insisted on a meeting near Mayfair. Decided to indulge myself with a walk afterward. Found your little haven.” Her gaze drifted around the dimly lit bar, lingering on the eccentric decor, a faint, almost pitying curve to her lips. “Still working, I see. Or is this a new venture?”
Rory bristled, a slow heat rising in her cheeks. It had been years. Years since they’d last spoken, since that bitter, tear-soaked argument in a Cardiff pub. Sera had always had a way of cutting straight to the bone. “This is Silas’s bar. I live above it. And I was just finishing a shift.”
“Right. Good old Silas.” Seraphina nodded towards Blackwood, who offered a curt, unsmiling nod in return. “Still playing the enigmatic host, I see. So, the courier gig, then? After all those promises of chambers and courtrooms.” Her tone managed to convey both surprise and disappointment, a casual barb cloaked in feigned concern.
Rory’s jaw tightened. “Things change, Sera. People change.”
Seraphina let out a short, hollow laugh. “Indeed they do. Though I always imagined you’d be the last one to stray from the path. Remember all those late nights, cramming for tort law? You practically memorised the textbooks.”
“I remember.” Rory forced the words out. She remembered trying to outrun the echoes of Evan’s anger in those textbooks, losing herself in the minutiae of legal precedent until her head throbbed . Seraphina had seen it as dedication, not an escape.
“And now this.” Seraphina gestured vaguely, encompassing the bar, Rory's clothes, her current life. “Delivering spring rolls, I assume?”
“Peking duck, mostly,” Rory said, her voice dry . “And occasionally a few harsh truths for people too comfortable in their own assumptions.” The retort felt childish, but it tasted sweet on her tongue.
Seraphina’s smile thinned further. “Hard words for old friends, Rory. Or perhaps you’re simply reflecting your current clientele.” She leaned against the bar, her posture still impeccable, a stark contrast to Rory’s slightly slumped shoulders. “Last I heard, you’d gone completely off the grid. Worried everyone, you know.”
“Worried everyone?” Rory’s voice rose, edged with incredulity. “You were the last person to call, Sera. Or text. Or even send a pigeon after I packed up my life and left Cardiff with less than a week’s notice.” Her hands clenched into fists , the crescent scar on her left wrist a pale ridge against her skin. The memory of her flight, the desperation, the shame, still raw beneath the surface.
Seraphina’s finely sculpted eyebrows arched, a picture of feigned innocence. “One must pick their battles, Rory. You made your choices. We all do. I had my own career to focus on. Not everyone gets to simply disappear into obscurity. Some of us have responsibilities.”
“Right.” Rory scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her . “Responsibilities. Is that what you call it now? Leaving a friend when she was falling apart?”
“Falling apart?” Seraphina’s voice adopted a soft, almost pitying drone. “You were seeing that… what was his name? Evan. The one who was practically suffocating you. We tried to warn you. You chose to ignore us, chose to stay.”
The accusation twisted in Rory’s gut. “He wasn’t suffocating me. He was…” The words caught in her throat. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, picturing the quiet terror, the careful steps, the endless nights spent walking on eggshells. “It doesn’t matter now. I left. I got out. That’s what matters.”
“And look where it got you.” Seraphina swept her hand around, the gesture encompassing the bar again, an implicit declaration of failure. “A barmaid. A delivery girl. After all that potential . After all those dreams we shared.”
“My dreams didn’t involve grey suits and sterile courtrooms, Sera. Not entirely, anyway. I wanted more than that. Something real.” Rory met Seraphina’s cool gaze, refusing to back down. Her current life, simple as it was, felt far more authentic than the polished facade Seraphina presented.
“Real?” Seraphina’s tone dripped with unconcealed disdain. “Is this real? This… quaint little establishment? What about the law firm, the partnership track, the impact we talked about making?”
“Impact?” Rory echoed , a sharp edge in her voice. “You truly believe you’re making an impact? Or simply serving the highest bidder, polishing corporate rhetoric for another faceless entity?”
A muscle in Seraphina’s jaw tightened. The composure, for a fleeting second, cracked. “That’s incredibly cynical, even for you, Rory. I’m a barrister. I uphold the law. I build cases. I protect my clients’ interests.”
“Did you ever think to protect ours?” Rory watched her, the silence stretching between them, thick with unaddressed grievances. Seraphina’s gaze darted away, to a framed black-and-white photograph on the wall, one of old London street scenes. She meticulously adjusted her scarf, a small, nervous habit Rory recognised from their university days.
“Some things are beyond protection, Rory,” Seraphina finally said, her voice tight, controlled . “We all grow up. We all make choices. And sometimes those choices take us down very different paths. You left. I stayed. I built a life. I succeeded.”
“Succeeded at what?” Rory challenged, stepping a little closer. “At forgetting? At letting go of anything that didn’t fit into your perfect little plan?”
Seraphina turned back, her eyes flashing, a fire in their depths Rory hadn’t seen in years. “Don’t you dare, Aurora. Don’t you dare imply I abandoned you. I had my own battles, my own climb. I didn’t have the luxury of running away and starting fresh in a new city with no fixed address or proper employment.”
“No fixed address?” Rory’s lip curled. “I live above this bar, Sera. I have a roof over my head. I pay my bills. I work hard. And I don’t owe anyone an explanation for getting out of a situation that was making me miserable and dangerous.”
Seraphina crossed her arms, a defensive gesture. “And I suppose you expected me to drop everything to follow you? To unravel my entire life because you had a crisis of conscience?”
“I expected a phone call, Sera,” Rory said, her voice softer now, but with an underlying current of pain. “A single message. Something. Anything. After everything we went through. After all those promises.”
The jazz music from the speakers seemed to swell, then fade, leaving the quiet hum of the bar in its wake. Seraphina looked at her then, truly looked at her, and Rory saw a flicker of something in her eyes — not regret, perhaps, but a recognition of the chasm that had opened between them.