SPENCER BERKELEY, MP.

“I hate French food so fucking much. Why are you doing this to me?”

“Laurent recommended the place, and I said I’d—”

The initial disgust present on Cassandra’s face dissipated in an instant, instead replaced by amusement, and all he could do was grimace in annoyance that he had somehow ended up calling her his best friend. There was no point finishing what he was about to say. Slowly, she lifted her hand from the thankfully (in her humble opinion) foodless table, giving him a dramatic thumbs-up.

“Don’t start this shit again.”

“Ooh friend!” The blonde cooed loudly.

Too late.

“French friend!”

This time it was Nora who chimed in, and he shot her a look that very much said ‘traitor.’

The reference earned a few sniggers from the others gathered around the table—Jessica and Llewellyn, in particular—and worse, drew the attention of several onlookers. Spencer didn’t care enough to offer them any attempt at an apology for bringing literal farm animals to dinner, but tried to hush the pair of idiot blondes for his own sake.

They were a party of eight and he regretted almost every choice intensely. Cassandra and his former girlfriend, Jessica Mirzoyan, sat opposite, smirking like school girls at his expense. His two sisters flanked her new partner, his cousin, Llewellyn, to his left. Camilla’s husband, Philip, and his childhood friend, Jack, were engaged in their own conversation, entirely separate from the mess at the table, to his right. They were down two, though. Jasper and his new girlfriend—or old, if they were going to get technical about it, he supposed—were also supposed to be in attendance, but given her apparent reticence sparking concern during their vacation earlier in the month, Spencer suspected it was for the best that they weren’t being subject to whatever the fuck this was.

“You know when you lecture me about being too busy with work to socialise with you?” Spencer began, pointing a finger at Cassandra accusatorily. “Maybe it’s because you’re shit.”

“I’m actually a blessing, but okay.”

“A blessing,” Nora repeated for emphasis, taking a very ladylike sip of her champagne. “Speaking of blessings, though, where is Alexis? You better not have left her at home with the kids so you can get drunk on a school night…”

“Nah, some shit came up with Gaius. Mum is babysitting.”

“Mine, too,” Camilla added.

“She’s watching all of them?! You realise dad has the larger inheritance, right? This better not be some morbid tactic to send the woman to an early grave…”

The conversation was light-hearted, and he appreciated it given the weight his day had landed squarely on his shoulders. A meeting with Elizabeth Acton had left him reeling so spectacularly, Spencer had almost cancelled last minute so he could go home and try to figure out what the fuck he was going to do. As much as he pretended the people surrounding him were nothing more than irritants, however, the reality was that in that moment, he was more grateful for the distraction than they could begin to understand. Particularly when he was no longer sure that this could be as regular an occurrence as he’d like going forward.

Eventually, the food was delivered by a very proud looking waiter. Most displeased was he, upon returning to check on their progress, to see Cassie pushing hers around the plate like a petulant toddler who would’ve been better suited to chicken nuggets.

It was the first time everyone had been relatively quiet, though; a contrast to the otherwise bustling restaurant around them.

Until the ambience was disturbed by a shrill shriek coming from outside.

Spencer checked his Rolex. 19:39.

In typical British fashion, everyone’s eyebrows pulled into a frown, though none commented aloud. It was more an annoyance—how dare somebody mildly inconvenience their evening with such unbecoming behaviour—as opposed to concern for what may have caused the outburst. The only one seated at their table that seemed to be worried about what might be happening outside of their little bubble was Nora, typically enough, and she attempted to steal a glance through the window they were seated beside.

“It’s South Ken, Nora. Somebody was probably spotted wearing last season’s Chanel,” Jack brushed it off, though not without attempting to get a look, himself.

Spencer almost huffed out a laugh at that, but it died in his throat before it ever reached the others.

Suddenly, something just…didn’t feel right.

A few people around them had got up from their tables with similar intent to be nosy; perhaps, when they noticed the normal evening crowds making their way down the street begin to disperse in what was almost certainly not a reaction to somebody’s poor fashion choices.

It wasn’t his first time being caught up in a situation like this, but given how he reacted, one could’ve been fooled into thinking so.

It couldn’t have been more than twenty seconds between the first scream and the sound of gunshots ripping through the comfortable normality of Kensington and Chelsea. The onslaught was so loud it couldn’t have been anywhere else but right outside, and as much was confirmed as the sounds of nearby windows shattering intermittently pierced the panicked screams of the diners.

Champagne and fois gras was sent flying as people sought cover beneath their tables. Threw them aside in an attempt to get away from the room and the stray bullets finding the interior, entirely. Except it didn’t much seem like they were strays. It seemed like someone was aiming them directly at the fucking restaurant.

Pick a table by the window, Laurent had said… It’ll be fun, he’d said…

Spencer reflexively grabbed for Nora, attempting to drag her beneath the table to take cover, but she was attempting her own rescue on Cassie, and she was out of his grip before he ever truly had it. Philip was trying to pull his wife to safety, but the continuous shots in their direction made it hard to tell where was safe, and where was directly in the fucking firing line.

What were they supposed to do? Where were they supposed to go?

Glancing around for something they could all duck behind, every single sense heightened by the immediate shot of adrenaline, he took note that a woman a table over had clearly been struck. Though he could see her moving, the blood pooling around her seemed so swift in its escape, he probably would’ve wondered if her demise was an inevitability had he not been so focused on trying to help the people he loved avoid a similar fate.

Everything was a blur, eerily reminiscent of another time he’d been showered in glass at the hands of murderers.

Why here? Why now?

A Frenchman lying limp on the blood-stained pavement outside answered both of those questions, but nobody present beneath the table could’ve known that.

It felt like an eternity of ragged breathing and thumping hearts until it finally stopped.

The screaming didn’t, though. Nor did the wails of pain. Grief, in some cases, he didn’t doubt.

“What the fuck—” Jessica, always the calm and collected one, was utterly betrayed by the wavering in her voice. Spencer was surprised she could string a sentence together at all.

“What’s happening? Is everyone all right?” Camilla, then.

Cassie was practically catatonic, and he realised quickly, this was not her first encounter with a firing squad. It seemed she was even less equipped to deal with it than he felt. Maybe in some cases, experience wasn’t always such a good teacher…

“I think I’m bleeding,” Nora said shakily.

Spencer’s head shot up immediately in spite of the fact everyone else was too scared—rightfully so—to stray from their hiding spots. What was to say whoever had done this wasn’t just fucking reloading? What if this wasn’t really over as quickly as they thought it was?

“What do you mean? Where?”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“It’s just—” His sister’s attempt at an explanation was cut off as she gasped out in pain, Llewellyn attempting to place pressure on the wound. “It’s just my arm. I think it hit my arm.”

“We need to get out of here. Is everyone else good?”

“There’s blood on me, too, but I think I’m—” Philip started, his slicked-back hair dishevelled for perhaps the first time in his existence, before he was looking right at Spencer. “It’s not mine. Spencer, you’re bleeding.”

What?

Maybe it had been a mistake to assume he felt so detached from that moment because of stress, or anxiety, or pure fight-or-flight reflexes. In fact, he hadn’t felt a fucking thing until he’d looked down at himself, the faces of the others around him paling. It didn’t require too much searching when ‘you’re bleeding’ suddenly felt like the biggest understatement in the world. Evidently, when he’d jumped to his feet in an attempt to grab for his sister, he’d exposed himself to the window.

He hadn’t felt a fucking thing then but he sure did now.

The blood was soaking into his dress shirt at a terrifying speed, and he was suddenly very aware of an intense pain growing just beneath his ribcage. Oh, fuck.  

One hand reached for his upper abdomen, another for the table.

One missed and he found himself falling to the ground, body suddenly weak as though it took seeing it with his own eyes for his brain to fucking register what was happening.

It was enough to break Cassie out of her trance, though.

Might’ve laughed at her crawling toward him hurriedly on all fours like something out of a horror movie if he hadn’t felt himself starting to fade a moment later.

Maybe he hated French food now, too.