⇚ 3 ⇛

❚ ❙ Absolutely Marbles ❙ ❚

"You're kidding me, right?"

The young cashier at the Starbucks inside Heathrow Airport swiped the black steel card again.

Once.

Twice.

A third time with the kind of optimism only minimum-wage workers and idiots possessed.

Then she handed it back to me with an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry, miss. It's not going through."

"Putain de merde..."

"Sorry?"

"Nothing," I sighed. "I'll pay cash."

I opened my purse and handed her a fifty-pound note for a four-pound espresso.

The poor girl stared at it like I had offered her a live animal.

Wonderful.

It looked like Frederick had gotten to Timothée.

He had sworn he loaded money onto the burner card, which meant if it was blocked now, two things had happened.

First:

Frederick knew Timothée had helped me.

Second:

Frederick now had my location from the second I tried buying this stupid coffee.

Fantastic.

Nothing said successful escape quite like being betrayed by caffeine before breakfast.

I took the espresso and stepped away from the counter, scanning the airport terminal over the rim of the cup.

Too many people.

Too much glass.

Too many cameras.

Heathrow moved around me in waves of luggage wheels, announcements, perfume, coffee, and exhausted strangers dragging their lives behind them. Everyone looked temporary. Everyone looked like they were either leaving something or returning to something.

I was doing both.

Escaping the villa had already been difficult enough.

I had used the hidden emergency exit known only to close family members - a route built beneath the estate for moments when dinners turned into ambushes and family meetings ended with bodies.

Ironically, surviving the guards had been the easy part.

The hard part was walking for what felt like eternity toward the beachside storage unit where Timothée had hidden my motorcycle, then driving through the night with nothing but fake documents, a burner phone, and a level of paranoia that made every passing car look suspicious.

He had helped me more than he should have.

And honestly?

I was worried for him.

Timothée was not just our legal advisor. He had been André's closest friend - the closest thing I had to a normal uncle, if normal uncles forged passports and helped mafia daughters vanish across borders.

Helping me escape could get him into serious trouble.

The kind involving broken fingers, missing teeth, and men asking the same question until you gave them the answer they wanted.

Luckily, Timothée had prepared for Frederick blocking my accounts.

Hidden beneath the motorcycle seat had been a reasonable amount of cash.

Not enough for a year.

Possibly not even enough for a month.

But enough to start over.

At least, that was what I kept telling myself.

I pulled out my new phone - purchased with cash in Paris and connected to a British SIM card - and stared blankly at the screen.

Now what?

There was no handbook titled How to Start a New Life While Escaping Organized Crime.

I had no bank account.

No legal identity.

No home.

Just cash hidden inside my Hermès bag, a fake name printed on documents I desperately hoped were convincing, and an espresso that tasted like burnt regret.

A whole year.

That was how long I planned to disappear for.

Though calling this a vacation felt ridiculous.

Vacations did not require burner phones, forged passports, and checking reflections in glass doors every five seconds.

No.

I was not taking a break.

I was running.

And deep down, I already knew I had no intention of going back.

"Need a ride, sweetheart?"

I looked up.

A woman leaned out of a black cab near the taxi rank, waving at me with the aggression of someone trying to save me from myself.

"I'm alright, thanks."

"Oh, come on! I'll get ya to your hotel in record time!"

Before I could answer, she hopped out of the taxi and hurried toward me, curly bob bouncing around her face.

She was not old.

She was not young either.

She was simply... loud.

Energetically loud.

Spiritually loud.

The kind of woman who looked like she had never whispered in her life.

"Do you have an address?" she asked.

"I don't," I admitted carefully. "I'm just travelling around, so I won't be needing-"

"Oh! You're a tourist!" she interrupted, already reaching for my suitcase. "Do ya at least know the name of your hotel?"

"It was spontaneous," I said reluctantly. "I didn't plan that far ahead."

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"No hotel. Expensive bags. Gorgeous accent. Looks like she might stab me if I touch the wrong suitcase." She nodded to herself. "Right."

I stared at her.

"Was that supposed to be internal?"

"Usually is." She grinned. "Central?"

"No."

If Frederick discovered I was in London, the first places he would search were our usual circles.

Luxury hotels.

Private clubs.

Embassies.

Restaurants André used to frequent.

Anywhere polished enough to make sense for someone like me.

I could not risk being seen somewhere familiar.

"I'd rather stay somewhere quieter," I said.

"Quiet?" The woman laughed like I had told a joke. "In London?"

"Less obvious, then."

She studied me again.

Really studied me.

For one uncomfortable second, I wondered if she saw too much.

Then she shrugged.

"I know somewhere. Bit artsy. Bit weird. Loads of places to hide if hiding's what you're doing."

My grip tightened around my coffee.

"I'm not hiding."

"Course not, sweetheart." She smiled brightly. "Hop in."

One half of my brain screamed that trusting random strangers was how people ended up dead in alleyways.

The other half was too exhausted to care anymore.

So I got in.

The cab smelled faintly of peppermint gum, rain-damp upholstery, and something fried.

London unfolded beyond the windows as we pulled away from Heathrow - grey sky, wet roads, red buses, rows of brick houses pressed together like gossiping old women. The city looked nothing like France.

France was elegant even when it was cruel.

London looked alive even when it was miserable.

There was something comforting about that.

"Where you from then?" the driver asked.

"France. Lyon."

"Leo?"

"No. Lyon."

"Lee-on?"

"Lyon."

"That's what I said. Leo."

I closed my eyes.

"Perfect."

"What's your name?"

I hesitated half a second too long.

"Camille."

At least that part was true.

"Pretty. I'm Donna."

Of course she was.

Donna suited her.

Loud. Warm. Invasive. Impossible to ignore.

"Well, Camille from Leo," she continued, "how long you staying?"

"A while."

"That means either two weeks or forever."

I looked out of the window.

"Something like that."

Donna talked for nearly the entire journey.

About traffic.

Her ex-husband.

Her sister's dog.

A man named Gary who apparently owed her forty pounds and emotional compensation.

By the time London grew denser around us, glowing through rain-streaked glass in neon signs, old brick, crowded pavements, and music leaking from open bar doors, I had considered jumping out twice.

Maybe three times.

But then the city changed.

It became sharper.

Brighter.

Graffiti bloomed across walls. Restaurants spilled warmth onto wet streets. People smoked beneath awnings, laughing too loudly, kissing too messily, living too openly. Bass thudded somewhere nearby, vibrating faintly through the cab floor.

London was not elegant here.

It was electric.

Chaotic.

Unbothered.

It did not ask permission to exist.

For reasons I could not explain, I liked it immediately.

"Here we are!" Donna announced proudly. "Best bit."

The cab stopped beside a lively street washed in neon and rain.

I stepped out quickly, breathing cold air like I had just survived captivity.

The street buzzed with nightlife.

Music drifted from bars.

Steam rose from food stalls.

Wet pavement reflected pink, blue, and amber light beneath my heels.

People moved past me in leather jackets, oversized coats, glittering dresses, ripped jeans, tattoos, perfume, cigarette smoke, laughter.

No one looked twice at me.

That was the first miracle.

Donna hauled out my suitcases with a cheerful grin.

I placed money into her palm.

She waited.

I stared back.

"Next time," I said calmly, "you should learn to read the room. I would have tipped you if you had stopped talking during the journey."

Her mouth fell open.

I was not trying to be cruel.

I genuinely thought the feedback might help her professionally.

Leaving her speechless behind me, I turned toward two neighbouring shops.

A crowded pub with warm yellow light spilling from its windows.

And a tiny flower café beside it.

The café won instantly.

I stepped inside and was greeted by warmth, soft lighting, and the scent of fresh flowers.

The noise outside dulled as the door shut behind me.

Tiny hanging plants decorated the ceiling. Glass vases lined wooden shelves. Decorative marbles glittered in shallow bowls near the counter. Bouquets of roses, lilies, and wildflowers crowded the room in careful, colourful chaos.

It felt...

Safe.

Which immediately made me suspicious.

"Excuse me?" I called softly.

An elderly woman appeared from the back carrying roses in her arms. Her hair was entirely grey, pinned neatly away from her face, yet her skin held the smooth warmth of someone who had aged beautifully out of pure stubbornness.

"How can I help you, sweetie?" she asked.

Sweetie.

I almost flinched.

"I'm new here," I admitted. "Do you know any nearby hotels where I could stay tonight?"

"Well, hotels around here can be expensive."

"I don't mind."

Her eyes flicked briefly to my luggage. Then my handbag. Then my face.

Not greedy.

Just observant.

"Oh, well-"

"Oi oi oi! What've we got here then?"

The voice shattered the peaceful atmosphere instantly.

I turned.

Five men stumbled into the shop laughing obnoxiously, bringing cold air, cheap alcohol, and violence in with them.

My body reacted before my mind did.

Exit behind them.

Counter to my left.

Old woman beside me.

Glass everywhere.

Potential weapons: vase, scissors, marble bowl, scarf.

The woman straightened.

"What do you boys want?" she snapped. "You're too loud for my shop."

"Aww," one of them mocked. "Cute little grandma."

Another stepped forward.

"Open the till."

My pulse slowed.

That was always how it happened before violence.

The world narrowed.

The old woman inhaled sharply.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Till," he repeated. "Now."

Quietly, I slipped the silk scarf from the handle of my Hermès bag and picked up several decorative marbles from the counter, dropping them neatly into the fabric before tying it closed.

Improvised weapon.

Ridiculous.

But useful.

"Leave right now before I call the police!" the old woman snapped.

"Go ahead," the leader sneered. "And while you're at it, call your lawyer grandson too. We've got words for him."

Interesting.

He grabbed a vase of roses and hurled it across the room.

Glass shattered.

The others laughed.

I calmly bent down and removed my heels, placing them neatly beside the wall.

That finally caught their attention.

"And who are you?" the leader asked, eyeing me differently now.

I stared at him silently.

One of the men near the entrance grabbed my suitcase.

"She's loaded," he laughed. "Look at her bag."

"The handbag, sweetheart," the leader ordered.

The old woman stepped in front of me despite trembling slightly.

"Leave her alone, you bullies. Didn't your parents teach you manners?"

One of them shoved her hard.

That was it.

Something inside me snapped instantly.