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Authors: C.J. Fallowfield

31 Days of Autumn

31 Days of Autumn

By C. J. Fallowfield



Kindle Edition


Version: 1




Copyright © 2015 C. J. Fallowfield


All Rights Reserved Worldwide


Any unauthorised reprint or use of this material is
prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form,
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission
from the author.


This book
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations and places
or events, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.


I am a
British author who writes in British English


Image Copyright © 2015


Editing by Karen J


Proofreading by Jasmine Z


Cover Art by Kellie Dennis at
Cover by Design


Book content pictures
purchased from Dollar Photo Club, iStock & Shutterstock




Thank you so much for buying
31 Days of Autumn


This is the final book in the
31 Days Trilogy
combining romance, erotica, and humour. The series is designed to be read in
the following sequence:


31 Days of Winter

31 Days of Summer

31 Days of Autumn


holds the most comprehensive
information about me, as well as my current and up and coming releases.



Monday 9


I touched down in Heathrow and stretched my tired
limbs. I hated long-haul flights, especially now that I couldn’t afford to go
first class. Once I’d claimed my suitcase and cleared customs, I headed for a
much-needed coffee and looked again at the headline on the newspaper I’d
spotted and purchased yesterday. A headline that had prompted this last-minute
flight to England. A picture of the billionaire former recluse, Oliver
Davenport, with his new bride, Ellie Baxter, and their fifteen month old son.
It was on every newspaper, probably all around the world. Reporting on his
disappearance and continued rise to fame, along with his reasons for going
public again, was a journalist’s wet dream. I’d known I’d catch a lucky break
and find them at some stage. It was the only reason I’d come back. My lips
curled into a smile. Suddenly my shitty life seemed a little brighter. I downed
my coffee and carefully stowed the paper in my carry on, then caught the tube
to Victoria.

I managed to find a private room in a hostel in
Tower Hamlets, barely larger than a prison cell. Private room made it sound
nicer than it actually was. It was fucking squalid. At least prisoners got a
toilet and sink, I didn’t even get that. There was mould on the windows, the
wallpaper was damp and peeling, and the brown stained carpet was threadbare. I
inspected the single bed, expecting to find bed bugs. Instead, I uncovered a
ripped mattress with broken springs and even more stains than the damn floor.
The yellow duvet and pillows caused me to run to the communal shower room
opposite to be sick, and the stench from the toilet made me heave even more.
I’d sold most of my designer suits and shoes for cash when I was really
desperate, along with my expensive watch and cufflink collections, so I had
some money in my back pocket. I also had my carry-on with my laptop and a small
suitcase that contained the rest of my life, namely a couple of pairs of shoes,
some jeans, and all that remained of the designer clothing I’d kept back to
keep up appearances. I unpacked it all and put in into the broken chest of
drawers, carefully hanging my last remaining suit, in its protective clothes
bag, in the wobbly splintered single wardrobe.
I used to live in a fucking
penthouse and stay in five star hotels and this was what I’d been reduced to?

I headed out and found a cheap stationers where
I purchased a cork notice board and some pins, a pair of scissors, a hammer,
and a hook. I then went searching and found a discount store, where I managed
to get some cheap bed linen and a new duvet and pillows, before heading back to
my dank new home. After stripping the bed and ditching the old supplies in a
waste container at the back of the building, where a rat as big as a bloody dog
shot past, I hung up the notice board. I carefully extracted the newspaper from
my carry-on, smoothing it out on my lap. I slowly cut around the picture of
them and pinned it to the centre of the board, then sat back on the bed and
focussed on it. I’d been so tempted, after the last year, to just give up, not
able to see a way out of this damn mess I was in. I’d lost my wealth, my
apartment, my bloody Porsche, and my fiancée and there
were, all
fucking loved up with their billions. If Oliver Davenport thought he could take
what was mine, without retribution, he was in for a shock.

I opened my suitcase again, carefully cut the
stitching of the lining in the corner, and pulled out my last stash of coke. I
needed to get a damn job if I wanted another fix, and if I was going to come up
with a plan to dig myself out of this mess. I tipped it onto the chest of
drawers and used my debit card to form two neat long lines, then rolled a ten
pound note and snorted it up. I sat back on the bed and sniffed, waiting for it
to take effect. Pretty soon I was buzzing. I lurched over to the notice board,
reached up, and traced my finger over her face.

‘So beautiful,’ I chuckled, then muttered
‘lucky bastard,’ as I jabbed at his face with my fingertip. Taking her would
probably give me a pretty decent bloody payday, but to hit the fucking jackpot,
I needed that kid. No one held back when a kid was taken, especially not when
an emotional mother was involved. I’d lay odds on him forking out a damn
fortune for his brat, especially if she was sobbing on his shoulder.

I chuckled again as I lay back on my bed with my
hands behind my head, ignoring the spring poking into my back. At last I had a
direction, something to focus on, a way to dig myself out of this depressing
fucking hovel and back to the lifestyle I’d become accustomed to. I didn’t care
how long it took me to find them, months or even years, I had nothing but time.
I’d find them eventually. I’d track them. I’d play it slowly and work out their
routines to find their weak points. Everyone had them, no matter how much
wealth they had. Then, when they were least expecting it, BAM, I’d hit them
right where it hurt and laugh all the way to the bank. I looked back over at
the kid in the shot. He was my golden bloody ticket. And just for kicks, one
last “screw you” for what I’d lost, once I got my payday, I wouldn’t fucking
give him back.


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