Page 139 of The Sound Between Us

Simon slides through the café door, moving carefully, which isn’t far from the truth given the paparazzi situation. His hair is even more dishevelled than usual, and he’s wearing what appears to be three different cardigans layered on top of each other.

“Crisis management fashion?” I ask as he joins us.

“Disguise. Thought if I looked homeless enough, they’d ignore me.” He signals Flick for his usual oat milk nightmare. “Didn’t work. One of them asked if I was your stylist.”

“Clearly they haven’t seen my wardrobe.”

Simon settles beside me, moving carefully. “So. Harrison Carter.”

“So indeed.”

“And your sister.”

“Half-sister.” I correct automatically, then immediately hate myself for caring about the distinction.

“Right.” He pauses. “Did you actually find out the details, though? When this happened? Whether it was⁠—”

“Simon.” My voice could freeze helium. “Are you seriously asking me to give Harrison the benefit of the doubt right now?”

“I’m asking if you got the full story before you set fire to everything.”

The words sit between us. Because he’s not wrong, is he? I saw Henry’s smug face, heard him say those words, watched Harrison’s expression crumble into guilt, and I ran. I didn’t ask when. I didn’t ask why. I didn’t ask if Henry might have been playing a longer game than just offering me representation.

But some truths don’t need details to cut deep.

“His face told me everything I needed to know.”

Simon nods, but I can see the doubt in his eyes. My stomach twists. What if Henry timed that revelation perfectly? What if Harrison’s guilt was about the omission, not the act itself?

What if I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life?

A camera flash illuminates the café window, followed by the distinct sound of photographers clustering outside.

“Christ.” Flick mutters, pulling the blinds down. “They’re multiplying.”

I peer through a gap in the slats and count at least eight different cameras pointed at Grind’s front door. “I hope they’ll all sod off once they realise Harrison won’t be attending the shop any time soon.”

Simon’s laugh has zero humour in it. “Seren, love, they’re not here for Harrison.”

“What do you mean?”

He gestures toward the window, where I can just make out a photographer adjusting his telephoto lens. “They’re here for you. You’re the story now. Damon Rogers’ daughter, the unsigned artist who stole Harrison Carter’s heart and then had it broken by family drama. You’re tabloid gold.”

My chest goes tight. My breathing becomes shallow.

The café door bursts open, and Uncle Vinny battles his way through the crowd of photographers. Except Moses probably didn’t swear quite as creatively or threaten to shove cameras where the sun doesn’t shine.

“Seren, babe!” He collapses into the booth across from me, slightly out of breath but grinning. “Time to get your shit in order.”

“Going to be my manager, Vinny?”

“Well, actually, yes.” He straightens his leather jacket—the same one he’s been wearing since 1987—and attempts to look professional. “Vocal cords aren’t what they used to be. Probably need a new career anyway.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t need pitying.”

“Course you don’t, love. I do. Now, tell your Uncle Vinny all about it.”

And somehow, in the chaos of Flick bringing him coffee and Simon frantically checking the window for photographers, I do. I tell him about Henry’s calculated reveal, about Harrison’s guilty face, about how I can’t stop replaying every moment and wondering what was real.