(POV: Raymond Kensworth Jr.)
20:00 GMT | Mayfair — The Claridge's Private Room
You know your life has derailed when the only person who makes you feel alive is the woman who threw up right after you did.
I'm Raymond Kensworth Jr., lawyer-in-training, son of a Chief Justice and a Queen's Counsel, Cambridge graduate—
and yes, I once threw up at The Belgrave Club.
That's where I met her.
Verde.
She wasn't even a waitress that night.
She was the glass washer—forced to mop the floor because the actual janitor had quit mid-shift.
And me? I was too drunk to care that someone wearing a messy ponytail and a T-shirt that read "MONEY IS A KING" had just saved my reputation from a red stain on a blue carpet.
The problem: she threw up too.
Reflex.
Right in front of the Manager on Duty.
Then she scolded me.
Didn't care who I was.
And that's when I fell in love.
Yes—right there, when two people lost their stomachs together and the world, for once, felt honest.
Cut to tonight.
I brought her to dinner with my parents at Claridge's.
The boldest move since Brexit.
She didn't know it wasn't just a casual meal.
She thought I was just treating her because I'd said, "Order anything you like. I'm paying."
And I was.
But the price turned out to be something you can't write on a bill.
My mother, Eleanor Kensworth QC, was already seated before we arrived. Gray satin gown. Low-tied hair. The living embodiment of professional ethics.
My father, Justice Ray Kensworth Sr., stared at the menu as though cross-examining a witness's credibility.
Verde arrived two minutes late.
She half-ran, slightly breathless, hair as chaotic as always. And somehow, in a room glittering with crystal and silver—she was the only thing real.
"Sorry," she said, pulling out her chair. "I thought parking in Mayfair was free after seven. Apparently not."
My mother blinked once—slowly.
"Oh. Humour. I see."
I glanced at Verde, silently pleading with her not to—
Of course, she did.
"Well, if jokes aren't allowed, I can stay quiet, ma'am. But silence feels more awkward, doesn't it?"
My father sighed—quietly deleting one clause of patience from his soul.
I knew my mother was already running her social algorithm. Her hand touched the soup spoon; her eyes scanned Verde like a bar admission interview.
"Raymond tells me you're a writer?"
Verde smiled, mischievous and innocent.
"Sometimes. When the Wi-Fi signal's good."
My father shot me a look—the kind that says "You've brought an incompetent witness to trial."
"Good," he said flatly. "Then you can document the process of Raymond's career disappearing."
"Father, please—"
My mother cut in—softly, lethally.
"Darling, if this is your idea of affection, our family lawyer needs a week off."
Verde looked at me from across the table.
Those eyes—God, they were funny.
Eyes unafraid to see me as human, unlike everyone else who saw only the heir apparent.
She leaned slightly toward me and whispered:
"Ray, I just want to know one thing."
"What?"
"Can I get the steak to go home?"
I almost burst out laughing.
No woman had ever dared ask that at a Kensworth family dinner.
My mother's gaze sliced through me.
"Something amusing, Raymond?"
"Everything, Mother. Everything is finally funny."
By the time dinner ended, I still didn't know whether I was in love or just insane.
My father stood, looked at me for a long moment, and said dryly:
"You've made a human choice, son. Not a strategic one."
My mother's eyes were cold—but honest.
"Love, Raymond, is a liability. I hope you can afford it."
Verde smiled faintly.
"Don't worry, ma'am. If Raymond's love makes him bankrupt, I won't sue for alimony."
Silence.
My father almost choked on his wine.
My mother looked at me—and for the first time in my life, she had no words.
Cut to: Exterior, Claridge's Lobby — Night.
Handheld camera. Streetlights reflecting off my jacket.
I chased her to the sidewalk.
"Verde!"
She turned.
"What?"
"They're going to hate me for this."
She laughed softly, eyes warm and dangerous all at once.
"Then we're perfect for each other."
I laughed too—for the first time in my life, not from victory, but from honest chaos.
She walked ahead.
I watched her go, hair catching the London wind, and one thought looped in my head:
I used to think justice was blind.
Now I think it just looks away when it sees love.
FADE OUT.
***
(POV: Eleanor Kensworth)
23:00 GMT | Belgravia – Kensworth Residence
(Lighting: low blue; soft piano, slow tempo)
I press play.
And the house stops breathing.
That tiny click—enough to move everything I've held still for two years.
On screen, Raymond laughs.
A young man's laugh.
A laugh I've never heard from him—not in this house, not beneath these degrees and titles, not at the dinner tables we treated like courtrooms.
God… I can't even remember the last time he laughed without asking permission.
I'm still in my barrister's jacket.
Makeup perfect, as always. But my skin feels tight—like marble cracking from within.
I unbutton one clasp.
It falls onto the desk with a sound far too loud. Funny, isn't it? I can regulate professional ethics, yet I can't control a single noise from my own body.
On screen, her.
Verde.
The woman who made my son laugh.
Her smile—playful, simple, disruptive to my entire sense of order.
I really hate her.
But how do you hate the one who resurrected your own child you can no longer touch?
I move closer.
My fingertips trace the laptop screen—careful, just beside Raymond's face.
"Raymond…"
His name leaves my mouth.
Without strategy. Without defense.
Just the sound of a mother with no one left to speak to in this world.
Tears gather—
not falling, not daring to.
In our class, tears are a confession of guilt.
I stare at the recording—their laughter frozen mid-frame.
Time stopped there. Maybe that's the only immortality this world could give my son: a captured moment of joy.
I whisper to the screen, my voice like a voided oath:
"I taught you to argue.
She taught you to feel.
And only one of us was right."
The laptop light fades.
Darkness fills the room with an unfamiliar softness. I hear the old clock ticking—the rhythm of law, the rhythm of this house, of a life that always continued but never truly lived.
I sit upright.
My hands are wet, but my face stays dry. A small smile forms—not for the public, not for victory.
The smile of a mother who finally understands what it means to lose—and not want to appeal.
"Goodnight, darling," I whisper to the air.
My left hand moves to the touchpad.
The cursor hovers over Delete.
And before I click, I realize—
I'm about to erase the only proof that my son was ever happy.
A soft click.
The file disappears.
Light dies.
All that remains is my reflection on the black screen—
and in my eyes, something I've never allowed to surface before:
honesty.
FADE OUT.
(The clock ticks… tik… tik… tik… like a gavel ruling that grief, too, is admissible before God.)
—To be Continued—