Isla sat in Lady Audley's and wished that the waitress hadn't mixed up her drink.

The evening had gone horribly wrong. First, Matthew had texted to say that his flight was running late and that he'd pushed their dinner reservation to nine o'clock. Then, her mother had left a voicemail saying that their play had been cancelled ("All of the actors came down with the flu, darling! Can you believe it?"), and they were going to Lady Audley's for a drink. Would she like to meet them there?

Isla had tried to call them back.

They hadn't picked up.

Isla had thought up a variety of creative curses, pocketed her phone, and ordered a martini. The waitress had brought her red wine. She hated red wine.

She swirled her glass of merlot. It wasn't really the merlot that was bothering her, truthfully; it was the idea that her parents and Matthew Carr were about to be in the same room with a table full of steak knives.

The universe had it out for her.

Isla took out her phone.

Are you working tonight, Tiff? Turns out my parents are meeting Matthew. Might be coming in with multiple stab-wound victims.

Her phone buzzed.

Not my area of expertise, babe. Enjoy dinner xx

Isla sighed, pocketing the phone. Well. No help, there.

She leaned back in her chair, scanning Lady Audley's for an exit route. The restaurant was very posh — a Scandinavian-inspired conservatory, decorated with plush throw blankets and open fire pits — but infuriatingly large. She'd have to leap over several tables and duck under a pair of antlers if she wanted to make a run for it.

Which she did.

Badly.

"Isla!"

She glanced up. Her parents were carving their way towards her, looking tall and glamorous and glittering. Tiff had once compared Isla's parents to a set of martini glasses, and Isla had to agree: Ian and Julie Morris had slim builds and broad shoulders, and they spent most evenings loaded with expensive gin and olives.

"Mum," Isla said. "Dad."

She rose, kissing both on the cheek.

Julie frowned. "Is that red wine, sweetheart?"

"Yes."

"But you hate red wine."

"I don't hate it," Isla lied. "And anyway, I'm trying something new. Can't I change my mind about things?"

Her mother's expression changed. "Is this about Lucas?"

Oh, god. Isla dropped into her seat. Lucas was the last thing she wanted to discuss today, along with the stock market and her mother's foray into goat yoga. Isla took a long sip of merlot, wrinkling her nose. Gross, but drinkable.

"I'm fine," Isla said. "Really."

"I saw Lucas won," Ian said. "In Bahrain."

"I didn't watch."

"Shame." Her father cracked open a menu. "It was a good race. Messy, though. Carr drove right into the boards and—"

"Ian," her mother hissed. "Did you see who just walked in?"

Isla whipped around, her heart squeezing. Matthew. He was striding through the restaurant with a bouquet of roses, his blond hair neatly combed. A tattoo peeked out from beneath his white shirt. He looked proud and arrogant and unfairly handsome.

Isla took a long sip of wine. This was going to be a disaster.

Her father frowned. "Good lord. Is that Matthew Carr?"

"Speak of the devil." Julie sniffed. "I feel sorry for whatever girl he's meeting tonight. He has quite the reputation."

Ian scanned the menu. "You can't believe everything you read in the tabloids, darling."

"No," Julie agreed. "But I believe Lucas."

This, Isla thought, had not always been the case. She could still remember when Lucas first came round for dinner in secondary school; Julie hated his slouchy posture and AXE body spray. Her mother had spent most of the night stabbing at carrots and passive-aggressively waiting for Lucas to fill up her wine glass.

"A real gentleman," Julie said afterwards, viciously scrubbing at a plate, "will never let a lady touch a wine bottle."

But Isla had kept seeing Lucas anyway, and her parents had warmed to him over the years — particularly after what happened in Monaco. Now, Julie treated anything Lucas Walsh said as gospel.

If Lucas thought Matthew Carr was a callous womanizer, then Matthew Carr was a callous womanizer.

No questions asked.

Ian set down the menu, not-so-subtly squinting in Matthew's direction. "Who do you think he's looking for?"

Isla cleared her throat. "Er, actually—"

"I don't know," Julie said. "But I hope he leaves soon."

Isla tried again. "Mum, the thing is—"

"What a ghastly bouquet," Julie muttered. "Lucas would never buy something so ostentatious. That boy must have slaughtered a whole greenhouse."

"Mum," Isla said, exasperated. "Listen to me. Matthew is—"

"Oh, good heavens," Julie breathed. "He's coming over here." She snatched up a menu. "Quick, pretend to be busy."

Isla didn't have time to dignify this with a response.

"Sorry I'm late, Angel," Matthew said. "Have you ordered yet?"

He leaned down, dropping a kiss on her temple. He smelled of mint and lemon soap, mixing with the heady scent of roses, and Isla abruptly forgot how to breathe. Her parents looked as if she'd slapped them across the face. Isla fervently wished she could sink through the floor and disappear.

She swallowed. "I— not yet."

Matthew didn't miss a beat. "You must be Isla's parents." He turned to Ian, extending a hand. "I don't think we've had the pleasure. Matthew Carr."

Thankfully, Ian had the presence of mind to grasp it. "Ian. This is my wife, Julie." He paused. "We've heard a lot about you."

Matthew winked. "Only good things, I hope."

Ian dropped his hand. "How do you two know one another?"

There was no suspicion in her father's voice, and Isla's stomach clenched. Oh, god. He thought that Isla and Matthew knew each other through Lucas. Which they did. Sort of. But her parents had no idea that they—

"Oh," Matthew said mildly. "We're dating." He dropped into a chair, opening a menu. "Does anyone want sparkling water? I love sparkling water. There's something so delightful about drinking bubbles, don't you find?"

Her parents' expressions were almost comical.

"I—what?" Julie sputtered.

Mercifully, a waitress materialized to take their orders, sparing Isla further response. She ordered something at random — "the chicken one, please" — and chugged a healthy amount of wine. Matthew ordered lamb. Isla waited until her parents were distracted with asking about the specials and then seized Matthew's shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Isla hissed.

"Calm down, Red," Matthew said, amused. "Your face is the colour of your wine."

Her chest tightened. "You can't just tell my parents that we're dating."

"Why not?" Matthew nodded as a waiter deposited a bottle of sparkling water. "We're about to tell the whole world." He filled Isla's glass. "I think I did remarkably well, under the circumstances."

Isla flushed. He had a good point; in all her self-righteous fury, she'd completely forgotten that she hadn't warned Matthew that her parents would be here tonight. Which made her a world-class prick.

"Sorry," Isla muttered. "I should have told you."

"They hate me," Matthew noted.

There was no malice in his voice; only mild curiosity. Isla swirled the red wine around her glass, buying time.

"Lucas wasn't exactly..." Isla paused. "They haven't heard good things."

"Ah," Matthew said. "Well, fortunately, I love a challenge." He leaned over to top up Julie's glass, raising his voice. "That's a lovely bracelet, Julie. Matches your eyes exactly. May I ask where it's from?"

Dinner passed in a blur of conversation. Matthew fielded questions on parentage and politics, loans and lamb ("Hate the stuff," Ian said dismissively. "Much too gamey."). Isla would have been impressed if she wasn't so focused on finishing her wine. The merlot was — inexplicably — becoming even worse. Or maybe it had always been this bad. She took another sip anyway.

"So," Julie said. "How long have you two been together?"

Matthew looked to Isla. She licked her lips.

"A month," Isla invented.

Julie blinked. "A month?"

"We're keeping it quiet," Matthew said. "Considering the circumstances."

He didn't need to spell it out; her father got it immediately.

"Lucas doesn't know?" Ian asked sharply.

"Er." Isla glanced at Matthew. "We haven't exactly—"

"No," Matthew cut in. "And it's none of his business."

Ian — who had been in the process of ordering a sticky toffee pudding — set down his menu and frowned. "Well, I wouldn't say that's entirely true. Isla and Lucas were together for four years, you know."

Matthew smiled thinly. "I know how long they were dating."

"Then you know how much Lucas loved her."

"Loves her," Julie corrected.

Isla braced herself. Matthew's tongue could be sharp as glass; she'd seen him in action. But Matthew merely picked up his napkin as the waitress lay down a dessert spoon, his face very pleasant.

"I don't doubt it," Matthew said. "Isla's very loveable."

Stupidly, warmth filled her chest. He doesn't mean it, Isla reminded herself. This is fake. All of it. We're not even dating.

God.

Maybe it was a good thing she hadn't gotten that martini.

Ian's frown deepened. "Well, you should have a word with him, Isla. Before the press finds out. It only seems fair. Poor Lucas will be devastated."

"Poor Lucas," Isla said shortly, "broke up with me. Remember?"

There was an awkward pause. Ian looked horrified; Julie, appalled. Matthew looked as if he was trying very hard not to smirk. He picked up his napkin, dabbing at some invisible crumbs at the corner of his mouth.

"I'll speak with Walsh next weekend," said Matthew.

Isla set down her wine. "Next weekend?"

"At my brother's engagement party." Matthew ruffled her hair, and Isla imagined stabbing him with her dessert spoon. His smile grew. "You remember, don't you, Angel?"

No.

She didn't.

Isla gave him a look that said, "I-absolutely-will-not-be-attending-a-party-with-your-family-and-my-ex-boyfriend." Matthew gave her a look that said, "You-owe-me-for-tonight-Red." Isla sighed. Fair play.

"Of course," Isla murmured. "The party. How silly of me."

Ian leaned forward. "You can't tell Lucas at a party."

"Respectfully, Ian," Matthew said, crumpling the napkin, "Lucas broke up with your daughter in a foreign country. In public." His smile was easy. "So I don't particularly give a damn how we tell him."

Ian froze. Julie froze. The whole restaurant, Isla thought, her anxiety rising, froze. Everyone except for Matthew, who just went on smiling.

Ian frowned. "Now, see here, son—"

Isla half-rose. "Dad, don't—"

"Quiet, Isla." Ian held up a hand. "I'm speaking."

Matthew's mouth tightened. "If you continue to speak to my girlfriend like that, Ian, then we're going to have an issue."

Isla bit back a groan. "Matt—"

"I'll speak to my daughter however I'd like," said Ian.

Matthew's blue eyes were chipped glass. "Not in my presence."

"Then you can leave." Ian held out a hand. "There's the door."

"Dad!"

It happened fast.

Isla reached for her father — to swat him on the shoulder — and her hand struck glass. The wine glass toppled. Red stained the table, seeping over the dessert spoons, an impenetrable sea of poppies.

And Isla froze.

Blood. Glass smashing. The squeal of tyres. And then Sebastián's voice: Ayúdame, por favor, Mamá, me da miedo la oscuridad.

Please help me, Mamá, I'm scared of the dark.

Isla shuddered. She knew it wasn't real, knew that it was only a memory, but she couldn't stop the pounding of her heart, the sweat beading her palms. She was going to die. Right here, in this restaurant. She was dying.

"Oh, dear." Julie's hands fluttered helplessly. "Isla, please, not here. There are people watching." She rounded on her husband. "Ian, do something."

"No need," Matthew murmured. "I've got her."

A chair scraped. Isla felt a large hand on her arm, and she jerked back instinctively. But the hand was gentle, and she felt some part of herself relax.

Her father cleared his throat. "I don't think—"

"I'll take care of her," Matthew interrupted. "I promise." The hand steered her away. "We'll be back in a moment."

Cold air hit her face. She was outside, Isla realized dimly. How had she gotten outside? The smell hit her a moment later: rotten rubbish and cigarettes and greasy chips. They were standing in an alleyway outside the restaurant.

"Here." Matthew shrugged off his jacket, laying it on the ground. "Sit down."

Isla sat.

"Can you speak?"

Isla shook her head, her panic rising. Oh, god. Her lungs were giving out. She knew from medical school that a person breathed 13 pints of air every minute, and failure to do so led to respiratory distress, which could result in organ damage, which led to—

"Red?" Matthew appeared in her vision. "Look at me, okay? We're going to count to ten together. Can you manage that?"

Isla wasn't sure. Matthew took her hands.

"One," he said softly. "Two. Three..."

Isla felt her lips form the words. Felt her breathing begin to even.

"Four. Five..."

She could feel her fingers and toes again. Feel Matthew's warm hands cupping her own. The panic drained away, leaving a terrible embarrassment in its wake. He was crouching down in front of her, his brow furrowed.

"You okay, Red?" he asked.

"Sorry." Isla's voice was raspy. "God. I— sorry."

Matthew's grip tightened. "You don't need to apologize. What happened in there?"

"The red wine." Isla's cheeks warmed. "It looked like blood. And the smashing glass..." She let out a shuddering breath. "It's so stupid."

Matthew's face darkened. "You thought of Monaco."

Isla stared at their joined hands. "Most of the time, I'm okay. I can go to work and stitch people up and then go home and binge Love Island with a bowl of popcorn. But then it sneaks up on me." She lifted her gaze. "Don't you think of him, sometimes?"

Sebastián.

She couldn't even say his name.

Matthew drew back. Shadows hollowed out his cheekbones, and the moonlight leached his hair of colour. He looked like a ghost, Isla thought; the spectre of some ancient, menacing king. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

"All the time," Matthew said quietly. "I think of him all the fucking time."

Isla rubbed her forehead. "I used to have nightmares. I'd relive the crash."

"I still have them," Matthew admitted.

Matthew produced a handkerchief. Isla started. For a terrible moment, she thought her hands were covered in blood, but then she realized it was red wine. Matthew's eyes were trained on their hands as he sponged at the wine.

"I never apologized to you," he said. "For what happened."

She stilled. "Is that what you're doing now?"

"No," Matthew said. "I'm not sorry." He crumpled the handkerchief. "God help me, but I'm not sorry for what I did. Not if it saved your life."

He rose, offering her a hand. Isla took it. She looked guiltily at Matthew's jacket — lying on the floor of dirty alleyway, covered in crumbs from an open crisp packet — and bit her lip. "I ruined your jacket."

"I never liked that one," Matthew said gamely.

"Well, I ruined dinner."

"You saved dinner," Matthew corrected her. "Two more minutes, and your father would have thrown me into a fire pit."

Isla's lips twitched. "He really hates you."

She expected Matthew to smile and say something wry: I know, or not as much as he hated my lamb. But his face was unusually serious.

"And you?" Matthew asked. "Do you hate me?"

His blue eyes were intent, but there was something else in them, too. Something fragile as a spring bud. Isla felt a strange sense that she was seeing some other part of Matthew, some secret nook that he hadn't planned to show her. Not yet.

"I don't hate you, Matt," she said softly. "I never did. Not really."

He nodded. "Come on. Your parents will be worried."

They made it halfway towards the door when Isla paused.

"Matt?"

Matthew's mouth kicked up. "Red?"

"Were you serious about that engagement party?"

Matthew's smile faded. "You don't have to come." He hooked his jacket over his shoulder. "Saint Lucas will be there."

Isla ground her heel into the cobblestone. "That's the whole point though, isn't it? To make Lucas jealous?"

"Yeah," Matthew said slowly. "I guess it is."

"Then I'll come."

"Okay."

Matthew held open the door, his expression neutral. But as Isla stepped through it, she couldn't help but feel that something had changed between them — something she couldn't put her finger on. Something incorporeal as the wind, howling around the spires of Westminster, curling under old bridges and into the dark water of the Thames.

Something fragile.

Something inevitable.

Something.