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Jack

Fuck.

I stood at the corner of The Prestige hotel, facing Newcastle’s Quayside, watching Willow enter a taxi with her – ex-boyfriend? Boyfriend? Fiancé? Ex-fiancé? I wasn’t sure what he was to her now, but I knew one thing – he sure as hell wasn’t good for her.

As she ran off stage, Cain tried to go after her, his facade cracking to reveal his rage. Mike stopped with a firm hand on his shoulder, telling him to leave.

I’d left Mike to deal with him and managed the chaos that had ensued, the crowd rumbling with the latest scandalous gossip.

I chased after her to offer her comfort, maybe offer help? Rejecting a proposal surely meant your relationship was over, right?

How would I know, I’d been tragically single since my wife had died , and certainly never had a proposal rejected.

I was worried about her, when I watched her turn in slow-motion to escape him, the fear in her eyes screamed danger. Prey fleeing predator.

I kept calling out for her to stop, to accept my help but I could only assume the adrenaline that was coursing through her, and fear that my voice was his was too much.

She’d charged through doors, twisted through corridors and stumbled over boxes in her path before falling out of a fire exit.

Frustratingly, I was always just a few steps behind her – impressive, considering she was in a dress and heels.

And here I was, watching her fall into a taxi with darkness personified.

Once she was out of sight, he stood in the door of the vehicle, placed both hands on the roof of the taxi, her purse in one, and turned his face up to stare directly at me. Holding eye contact with me, the corners of his mouth turned up into a smirk before he lowered himself into the vehicle.