[Oliver’s POV]
Gemma opens her door and immediately winces.
"Christ, Oliver. You look like something the cat rejected."
Fair assessment. I haven't shaved in three days. Haven't slept properly since Lottie walked out of my flat with an ultimatum still ringing in my expensive air. Haven't changed the shirt I was wearing when everything shifted irrevocably.
"I need to talk to someone."
She studies me for a long moment. Whatever she finds apparently merits intervention rather than dismissal.
"I'll put the kettle on."
Her flat is the opposite of mine—cluttered, colourful, alive with evidence of actual living. Books stacked on every surface. Plants that somehow survive her chaotic schedule. Mismatched cushions and photographs tacked to walls without frames.
A life that doesn't require performance to feel authentic.
I sink into her sofa while she rattles around the kitchen. The fabric is worn. Comfortable in ways my curated furniture never manages.
Gemma returns with two mugs. Sets mine on the coffee table. Settles into the armchair opposite with the focused attention of someone preparing for confession.
"Talk."
So I do.
Everything spills out in fragments I haven't organised properly. Lottie's ultimatum. The impossible choice between authenticity and safety. The paralysis that's consumed me since she walked out demanding honesty I've spent a decade avoiding.
Victoria circling like a shark scenting blood. Dad mentioning her casually over roast potatoes. The tissue-thin facade I've been maintaining since I retired from a career I never actually named.
Gemma listens without interrupting. This is uncharacteristic enough to signal exactly how serious she considers the situation. Normally she'd have interjected seventeen times. Today she just holds her tea and watches me unravel with patience I didn't know she possessed.
When I finally run out of words, silence settles between us. Heavy. Expectant.
"So," she says carefully. "What exactly are you protecting?"
The question lands like a blade. Precise. Unavoidable.
"My relationship with my father." The answer comes automatically. "His respect. Whatever we've managed to build since I supposedly became legitimate."
"Have you, though?"
"Have I what?"
"Built something." Gemma sets down her mug with deliberate precision. "Because I've met Richard exactly twice. The wedding. That dinner last month. Minimal exposure, admittedly."
I wait. Something in her tone suggests she's not finished.
"Even with limited interaction, I could see the distance between you. You're polite strangers who happen to share DNA. He performs proud father. You perform dutiful son. Neither of you actually knows the other at all."
The words cut deeper than expected. Perhaps because they echo something I've been refusing to acknowledge for years.
"That's not—"
"It absolutely is." She leans forward with unusual intensity. "You perform the role of good son brilliantly. Richard performs paternal approval with equal skill. But when was the last time either of you said something genuinely honest to each other?"
I search for a counterexample. Something real we've shared. Something that wasn't scripted or designed to maintain comfortable distance.
Nothing surfaces. Just years of pleasant conversations about weather and surface-level updates that never threatened actual intimacy.
"If Richard rejects the truth about your past," Gemma continues, "what exactly is he rejecting? The real Oliver Crawford? Or the carefully constructed version you've been selling him since you were twenty-two?"
My hands have curled around my untouched tea. The ceramic feels too hot. I don't adjust my grip.
"Is that loss?" she presses. "Or is it just the end of a lie you've both been pretending serves you?"
I have no answer. The question sits in my chest like something sharp-edged and immovable.
The silence stretches uncomfortably. Gemma lets it breathe. She's remarkably patient when circumstances demand it.
"I introduced you to Lottie for a reason," she says finally. Her voice has softened. Something approaching genuine concern replacing the confrontational edge.
"Because she needed help with orgasms. I remember the brief."
"Because she'd spent years believing she was fundamentally broken." Gemma ignores my deflection with practiced ease. "Three relationships with men who convinced her she was incapable of feeling pleasure. She'd accepted it as fact. Wired wrong. Defective. Beyond repair."
My jaw tightens. The memory of Lottie's face when she admitted she'd never felt anything. The vulnerability she showed a stranger in a wine bar.
"I thought you might help her discover that wasn't true. That she just needed someone patient enough to actually work for it."
"And?"
"Turns out you might have needed the same thing."
The observation lands somewhere vulnerable. Somewhere I've been protecting with practiced charm and careful deflection for longer than I care to calculate.
"You've been hiding so long you've forgotten what you're hiding from." Gemma's voice carries unexpected gentleness. "Performing versions of yourself for everyone—clients, colleagues, family. Never letting anyone see the actual person underneath all the polish."
I stare at my tea. The surface has stopped steaming. Lukewarm now, probably. Like everything I've let grow cold through careful avoidance.
"Lottie sees you." The words are quiet. Almost kind. "The real version. The one you're terrified doesn't deserve what she's offering. That's why you're paralysed. Not because the choice is impossible—because you're afraid of what happens if you make it."
She's right. Obviously she's right. The clarity is devastating.
"The question is whether you're brave enough to accept it." Gemma stands, collecting our mugs despite mine being untouched. "She's offering you something real. Complicated and terrifying, yes. But real."
She pauses in the kitchen doorway.
"You spent ten years being paid to perform intimacy you didn't feel. Maybe it's time to try the genuine version. Even if it's harder. Even if it means risking everything comfortable you've built."
I leave her flat unsettled but clearer. The evening air carries the particular chill of London in autumn. Sharp enough to feel real against my face.
Polite strangers who share DNA.
The phrase echoes as I walk toward the tube station. Every interaction with Dad replaying through this new lens. The careful conversations. The performed enthusiasm. The mutual avoidance of anything requiring genuine vulnerability from either of us.
Gemma's right. If he rejects the truth, he's rejecting someone who doesn't actually exist. A fiction I've been maintaining out of fear rather than love.
Is that worth protecting?
Is that worth losing Lottie?
The answer crystallises somewhere between Gemma's flat and my own front door. Not comfortable. Not easy. But clear in a way nothing has been for weeks.
I pull out my phone. Stare at Lottie's contact. The cursor blinks in the empty text field like a heartbeat waiting for direction.
The words come slowly. Each one deliberate. Each one costing something I've been hoarding for years.
I need a few days. Then I want to see you.
The message sends with a soft whoosh. Irrevocable. Committed.
My flat greets me with expensive silence. I pour whiskey I might actually taste tonight. Settle into furniture that suddenly feels less like achievement and more like set dressing for a life I've been performing rather than living.
My phone buzzes.
Lottie's response glows on the screen. Three words. Simple. Devastating in their patience.
I'll be here.
I read them until the letters blur.
She'll be here.
Now I just need to figure out who I'll be when I finally show up.