AI The fizzing pump handle bit into Rory's palm, a familiar , rhythmic ache. She pulled a pint of stout, watching the dark liquid cascade into the glass, a miniature tempest in amber light. The bar pulsed with the usual Friday night hum, a low thrum of murmurs and clinking bottles that Silas usually curated with the precision of a clockmaker.
Then the hum faltered, a discordant note slicing through the din. Rory didn't see it, she felt it, a sudden shift in the air, a cold weight pressing in. She set the full glass on the coaster for a waiting customer, her gaze drifting unconsciously towards the glass-panelled door as if drawn by a magnetic pull.
A woman stood there, paused just past the threshold, framed by the neon-green sign of the Raven’s Nest. Her tailored navy coat, cut sharp and unforgiving, seemed to drink the low light, reflecting none of it. She scanned the room, a slow, deliberate sweep that skipped over faces, over couples entangled in conversation, over the solitary drinkers hunched over their spirits. And then her eyes landed on Rory.
A flicker, a ghost of recognition, widened those calculating dark eyes. The woman's lips, painted a meticulous ruby red, stretched into a thin, slow smile. Rory felt the muscles in her jaw tighten. Her mind screamed words she hadn’t uttered in years, names she’d buried under layers of London dust and forced forgetfulness.
"Laila?"
The name was a whisper , a strange echo from a life Rory had long discarded. It felt foreign, a costume she’d shed. Even the way it was pronounced, with that soft, almost lyrical lilt , dragged her back, pulling at the edges of a grief barely contained. She clenched her free hand under the bar, her crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist tingling.
"Theresa." Rory's voice was steadier than she felt, a low murmur of surprise.
The woman, Theresa, moved then, a deliberate grace in her stride as she wove through the tables. Her leather heels clicked a sharp counterpoint to the bar’s blues track. She stopped before the bar, close enough for Rory to catch the subtle, expensive scent of her perfume, a fragrance that spoke of distant cities and high-thread-count sheets.
"Well, well, well," Theresa said, her gaze sweeping over Rory’s uniform, the dark apron, the simple black t-shirt. "Look at you. Slumming it, are we ?"
Rory met her stare, her own bright blue eyes betraying nothing.
"It pays the bills. Better than some alternatives."
Theresa's smile didn't waver, but a hardness settled in her eyes. "Always the blunt one. I remember that." She looked around The Raven's Nest, a tiny wrinkle of distaste forming between her perfectly shaped brows. "This is... quaint."
"It has character."
"Indeed. A kind of dusty, forgotten character, perhaps." Theresa placed a small, silver clutch bag on the polished wood of the bar. Its clasp gleamed under the soft lights. "Whisky. Scotch. Single malt. Something peaty."
Rory reached for a bottle without comment, her movements fluid and practiced. The clink of ice against glass, the measured pour, filled the momentary silence . Silas, from his usual corner stool, was now watching them with an unsettling intensity . His hazel eyes, usually veiled by a retiree's mildness, were sharp, a predator ’s careful assessment.
"Still pouring drinks?" Theresa took a sip, a tiny bead of amber liquid clinging to her lip. She dabbed it with a pristine napkin. "Thought you'd be... doing something more. You know. Impactful."
"Life takes turns." Rory wiped down the counter between them, a barrier of clean wood. "London's big. Hard to make an 'impact' when you're starting from scratch."
"Oh, I wouldn't know about that. Some of us manage perfectly well, even without the family name to fall back on." Theresa’s words were sweet as poison.
Rory flinched inwardly. The "family name" was a thinly veiled jab at Rory's flight from Cardiff, and, more specifically, from Evan.
"You're doing well, then?" Rory asked, deflecting.
"Excellently." Theresa’s tone softened, a practiced performance. "New firm. Head of the legal department, actually. Long hours, but the compensation is rather... suitable."
"The law firm? The one you always talked about."
Theresa chuckled, a brittle sound that grated against the warm murmur of the bar. "The very one. It's funny, actually. They almost didn't hire me. Said I lacked 'grit.' Can you imagine?" She paused. "I told them about Evan. About everything you went through. You know, to show I understood tenacity. Adversity."
Rory’s breath hitched. She tightened her grip on the cloth, the fibres digging into her palm.
"You talked about Evan?"
"Well, of course." Theresa took another dainty sip of her whisky. "It was quite the story, wasn't it? My poor friend, trapped with that monster. And then her incredible escape, leaving everything behind." Her eyes, though, were cold, devoid of sympathy. "It certainly made an impression."
"It wasn't a story, Theresa. It was my life."
"Details, details." Theresa waved a dismissive hand. "The point is, it illustrated my point perfectly . Resilience. Overcoming obstacles." She leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper . "Not everyone has such vivid examples to draw from, do they? It gave me an edge."
The air between them grew thick, charged with unspoken resentments. The bar’s ambient noise seemed to fade into a dull roar. Rory looked past Theresa, catching Silas's gaze. He raised an eyebrow, a silent question. She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
"So, you used my trauma."
"I used an anecdote," Theresa corrected, her tone sharp . "A shared experience, if you will. We were all there, weren't we ? Watching it unravel . Helpless." A flicker of genuine emotion finally broke through her composed facade , a flash of something akin to hurt, quickly masked by anger . "And then you just... vanished. Left us to pick up the pieces."
"I left *him *," Rory countered, her voice low and dangerous . "I left a man who beat me. I didn't leave you."
"Did you not?" Theresa’s voice hardened further, a fragile porcelain doll shattering. "A note taped to the fridge. That was it. No call. No goodbye. Just gone. You think that didn't affect anyone else, Laila? You think your disappearing act didn't leave a gaping hole for those of us who cared?"
A sharp pain lanced through Rory, a forgotten ache resurfacing.
"I had to go. You know what he was like. I couldn't risk him finding me."
"And what about *us *?" Theresa slammed her glass on the bar, the fragile crystal rattling. The loud thud cut through the music, stealing the attention of the nearest patrons. "What about the messes *we * had to clean up?"
Just then, a man, broad-shouldered and loud, approached the bar, his booming laugh echoing . "Oi, love! Another one of those, eh? Make it quick, the lads are thirsty!"
Theresa recoiled, her face a mask of revulsion, pulling her coat tighter as if to ward off the indignity of the interruption.
"Some things never change, do they?" Theresa murmured, her eyes flicking from the boisterous customer to Rory, a silent accusation in their depth. "You always did have a knack for finding yourself in... unsavoury company."
Rory pushed the half-filled pint towards the waiting customer, her gaze not leaving Theresa's. The familiar burn in her chest returned, an old wound reopened.
"You always had a knack for judging everyone else whilst never looking in a mirror."
"We both know who needed the mirror, Laila." The words hung in the air , heavy with unspoken history, with the raw, festering wounds of their past. Theresa’s eyes narrowed , a cold fire igniting in their depths . "And we both know it wasn't me."