I still recall that cold winter wedding in the great hall of the Savoy, a night when I, Eleanor Finch, a weary single mother, found myself perched alone at the far edge of the ballroom. My hands clutched a nervous knot of napkins, my gaze fixed on an untouched flute of champagne perched on the tabletop before me. The faded floral dress I had borrowed, its colour washed by countless washdays, barely hid the exhaustion that lingered behind my eyes. Across the room, couples glided beneath gilded chandeliers while whispered gossip swirled around the tables like carrion birds.
Ah, a single mother, is she? a bridesmaid sneered, her voice dripping with contempt. Her husband must have left her. No wonder shes on her own, another laughed, her mirth cutting sharper than any knife.
I swallowed hard. I had promised myself I would not weepnot here, not at my cousins wedding. Yet when I watched a father and his young daughter twirl together, something inside me cracked. My thoughts leapt to my own boy, Daniel, asleep at home with the nanny. I thought of the countless nights I had pretended everything was fine.
A low, gentle voice rose from behind me: Would you dance with me?
I turned and faced a man in an immaculate black tuxedo. Broad shoulders, dark eyes, a presence that seemed to dim the chandeliers around him. I recognised him instantly: Charles Whitaker, the man whispered about in Londons underworld, reputed to be a powerful businessman from the City, though some said he was, in fact, the head of the East End syndicate.
I I dont even know you, I stammered.
Then lets pretend, he said softly, extending his hand. Pretend youre my wife, just for a dance.
The room fell silent as I hesitated, my fingers trembling at the edges of his firm grip. Murmurs of astonishment rippled through the crowd as Charles led me to the centre of the floor. The band switched to a slow, aching melody that seemed to fill the very air.
As we moved together, I noticed something strange: the snide whispers ceased. No one dared to mutter any more. For the first time in years, I no longer felt invisible. I felt seen. I felt, almost, protected.
When Charles leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper, he murmured words that would change everything:
Dont look back. Just smile.
The music faded, but the hall remained hushed. Every eye was fixed upon us: the enigmatic stranger and the lone mother who now seemed a queen. Charless hand rested lightly on my waist, his gaze sweeping the room with a sharp, calculated scan.
When the final note slipped away, he guided me away from the centre. You did well, he murmured.
I blinked, bewildered. What just happened?
Lets say, Charles replied with a halfsmile, that we needed a diversion.
We slipped to a corner table, my heart still hammering. He poured me a glass of brandy, each movement deliberate and calm. Those people wont bother you any longer, he said, casting a glance at the murmuring crowd. Theyre afraid of what they dont understand.
He studied memy jaw, the thin scar by my ear, the way I could seem both dangerous and gentle. You shouldnt have helped me.
I didnt do it for you, he said quietly. Someone in that room wanted to make a fool of me. You helped turn the tables.
I frowned. So I was just a cover?
Perhaps, he answered, his expression softening. But I didnt expect you to look at me the way you did, as if I were a man.
Before I could answer, two men in dark suits approached, whispering in low Italian. Charless face hardened. He rose abruptly. Stay here, he ordered, his tone ironclad.
Curiosity, however, urged me forward. I followed him outside, my heels clicking against the marble floor.
By the valet stand, I saw Charles speaking to another man, a pistol tucked beneath his coat. Their words were sharp, tense. The stranger slipped away in a sleek black car, and Charles turned, his eyes meeting mine.
You shouldnt have seen that, he said, stepping closer. It wasnt my intention He paused. Youre brave, or foolish.
His eyes locked onto mine. Now that youve seen me, you cant simply disappear from my life, Eleanor.
The night breeze carried the scent of roses and a hint of dread.
For the first time, I felt I had stepped into something far larger than myself.
Two days later, Charles stood at the modest door of our flat. Daniel was building Lego towers in the livingroom when he looked up and asked, Mum, is that the man from the wedding?
Charles gave a faint smile. Something like that.
I froze, unsure whether to let him in. You shouldnt be here, I said.
I know, he replied, moving closer. But I dont like unfinished business.
He noticed the peeling wallpaper, the secondhand furniture, the quiet strength in my eyes. Youve fought alone far too long, he said. You need not do it any more.
I crossed my arms. You dont even know me.
I know what its like to be judged by the world, Charles said slowly. To be the villain in everyones story.
Silence settled over the cramped room. Daniel slipped from behind the sofa, clutching a toy car. Charles knelt, admiring the little wheels. Daniels rare, genuine smile melted something in my chest.
Weeks turned into months, and Charles visited more often. Sometimes he brought groceries, other times he repaired the squeaky door lock. Occasionally he said nothing at all, simply sitting while I read bedtime stories to Daniel.
Rumours swirled about himpower, danger, bloodbut none of that mattered when he was in our kitchen, helping Daniel with his homework. He was not the monster whispered about in taverns; he was just Charles.
One rainy night, as the downpour hammered the panes, I finally asked, Why me?
He looked at me with a calm intensity. Because when everyone else turned away, you didnt.
I still wonder whether I can ever trust him completely, yet for the first time in years I no longer dread the future. The woman once scorned and pitied has reclaimed her strength, not through a fairytale, but through something raw, imperfect, and alive.
As we stood by the window watching the rain, Charles whispered, Perhaps it wasnt such a terrible idea to pretend after all.
I smiled. Perhaps not.
