Elliot Warrington adjusted the cuffs of his navy suit in the mirror of the hotel suite, the city lights of London glittering behind him like scattered diamonds. He caught his own reflection — sharp jawline, dark eyes that always promised more than they delivered, a half-smile that had disarmed women from Mayfair to Manhattan. Tonight should have been no different.
He had booked the table at The Connaught two weeks ago. Isabella had laughed when he told her, that soft, breathy laugh she used when she wanted something. "You're bloody ridiculous, Elliot," she'd said, pressing herself against him. "But I love it."
Ridiculous. He'd liked the word coming from her lips. It felt almost intimate.
Now, standing in the quiet of the suite, he felt the first thin thread of unease. She was twenty-three minutes late. Isabella was never late. She was the sort who arrived early just to make sure everyone noticed her entrance.
He poured himself a finger of whisky — Lagavulin, no ice — and checked his phone again. No message. No missed call. Only the last text she'd sent that morning: Can't wait for tonight. Wear the navy suit. You know it's my favourite.
He gave a small smile at the memory, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
When the door finally opened forty-one minutes later, she didn't sweep in. She stepped inside quietly, coat still buttoned to the throat. Her make-up was perfect, as always, but her eyes looked red-rimmed beneath the mascara.
"Darling," he said, voice low and warm, already moving towards her. "I was starting to think you'd stood me up."
Isabella didn't smile. She stayed near the door, clutching her small clutch bag like a shield.
"I'm sorry," she said. Her voice was small. Not the confident, teasing tone he knew. "I… I need to talk to you."
Elliot felt the air shift. The room, which had felt elegant and promising only moments ago, suddenly seemed too large, too quiet.
"Talk," he repeated, lightly. "That sounds rather ominous."
She swallowed. "Elliot, I've met someone."
The words hit like a slap he hadn't braced for. He gave a short, disbelieving laugh before he realised she was serious.
"Met someone," he echoed.
"He's… serious about me." Her gaze dropped to the carpet. "He wants a future. A real one. Marriage. Children. The things you always said you weren't ready for."
Elliot felt something cold settle behind his ribs. "And you? What do you want, Isabella?"
She lifted her eyes at last. They were wet, but steady. "I want to be chosen. Not kept on the side while you decide whether you're ready or not. I'm tired of being the girl you ring when you're bored of your board meetings."
He took a slow step closer. "You think I kept you on the side?"
"You never said you loved me," she whispered. "Not once."
The accusation hung there. He opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it again. Because she was right. He hadn't. Not because he didn't feel anything — he had felt a great many things — but because saying the words always felt like handing someone a loaded weapon.
"So you've chosen him," he said. His voice stayed calm. Too calm. "The chap who promises you a ring and a house in the country."
"He's kind," she said, as though that explained everything. "He's stable. He doesn't disappear for weeks and then turn up with a new watch and a smile like nothing happened."
Elliot felt each sentence like a separate small cut. Kind. Stable. The sort of adjectives people used when they wanted to describe someone safe. Someone ordinary.
He had never been called kind.
He turned away, walking to the window so she wouldn't see his face. The city looked indifferent below — cars crawling, lights flickering, people getting on with their small lives.
"How long?" he asked.
"Three months," she answered quietly.
Three months. While he'd been flying to Dubai, closing deals, thinking of her in hotel beds across continents, she'd been building something else entirely.
He laughed again, softer this time. "You've been seeing him for three months and you still came here tonight?"
"Don't," she said sharply. "Don't make it ugly."
"It's already ugly," he said, turning back to her. "You let me plan this evening. You let me think—" He stopped himself. He wouldn't finish the sentence.
Isabella took a shaky breath. "I wanted to tell you face to face. I owed you that much."
"You owe me nothing," he said. The words tasted sharp. "You made that perfectly clear."
She looked at him for a long moment — the man she had once called beautiful, dangerous, impossible to forget. Then she shook her head.
"I'm sorry, Elliot," she said. "I really am."
She turned and walked out. The door closed behind her with a soft, final click.
He stood still for several seconds. Then he crossed to the minibar, poured another whisky, and drank it down in one go. The burn did nothing to quiet the noise in his head.
He walked back to the mirror. The same face looked out — handsome, composed, untouchable. Except now he could see the cracks beneath the surface. The places where pride and rage were starting to knot together.
She had chosen kindness over him. Stability over fire. A future without chaos.
He stared at his reflection until the man in the glass looked like someone else.
Then, very quietly, he said, "You'll regret this."
He didn't shout. He didn't throw the glass. He simply spoke the words like a promise.
And somewhere deep inside, something that had been sleeping for a very long time began to stir.