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No Worthington materializing with perfectly brewed Earl Grey on china so delicate I'd been afraid to breathe near it. Just me and the same chipped mug that proclaimed me "World's Best Gardener"—a joke gift from Mama three Christmases back that felt more honest than any title I'd earned in Edward's world.
The coffee maker gurgled and wheezed like it was on its last legs, which it probably was, considering Mama had bought it sometime during the Clinton administration.
In the bathroom, I caught myself checking my reflection for that polished perfection London had demanded, then barked out a laugh that echoed harsh off the avocado-green tiles from 1987.
Here, nobody gave two hoots in hell if my hair wasn't straightened into submission or if I wore the same jeans until they could practically walk themselves to the washing machine. Mrs. Patterson next door wouldn't clutch her pearls if she saw me with mascara smudged under my eyes or heard my voice crack when I said "good morning."
I pulled on my favorite vintage sundress—the yellow one with tiny daisies that seemed so stylish back here but looked like I was playing dress-up in someone else's costume party when I'd worn it to that first breakfast at Grosvenor Manor.
Edward had looked at me across the table like I was something fascinating and foreign, and I'd spent the wholemeal wondering if fascinating was just another word for inappropriate.
The kitchen smelled like bacon grease and coffee and the rose-scented dish soap Mama had used since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Real smells from a real life, not the carefully maintained lavender and beeswax that had perfumed every corner of the manor like expensive lies.
Through the window, Mama's garden sprawled in cheerful chaos—tomatoes climbing stakes held together with twine and prayer, okra growing tall enough to hide behind, wildflowers popping up wherever they pleased.
This was authentic. Messy and imperfect and genuine in ways that Edward's world could never be, no matter how much old money got thrown at maintaining the illusion. The question that kept me awake at night was whether I could ever be satisfied with authentic again, now that I'd tasted what it felt like to be treasured like something rare and precious.
My phone buzzed against the Formica counter, and I damn near jumped out of my skin. One week back in Texas, and I still wasn't used to being reachable again without the constant anxiety of wondering who might be calling and why.
The text was from Cece:
Cece:Still radio silence from the Grosvenor camp, darling. How are you holding up?
I set my coffee down with shaking hands. Cece had been my only lifeline to London since I'd run home with my tail between my legs, the only person who didn't make me feel like a complete disaster for falling in love with the wrong man at the worst possible time.
Me:Like I've been hit by a truck,I typed back.A very expensive, aristocratic truck with a pedigree dating back to the Norman Conquest.
Her response came faster than a greased pig:
Cece:Edward's been impossible to reach. James says he's locked himself in his study for days at a time.
My coffee had gone cold, but I wrapped my hands around the mug anyway, needing something solid to hold onto. Something twisted in my chest—part satisfaction that he was suffering too, part devastating concern that he was hurting because of me.
Me: Good,
I typed, then immediately felt like hell for meaning it.
Me:Maybe he's finally seeing what his family really is.
I got up and started pacing the linoleum, my bare feet silent on the worn pattern. The kitchen felt too small, too familiar, like wearing clothes I'd outgrown but couldn't afford to replace.
Cece: Victoria's been suspiciously quiet. Usually gloats more after a victory.
came Cece's next message.
I stopped pacing.
Me:She won. Why wouldn't she be quiet?
Cece:Because I know that woman. She's planning something else.
My blood turned to ice water.
Me:What do you mean?
Cece :Think about it, love. She orchestrated a complete takedown of your career, your visa status, AND your relationship with her son. But she's not celebrating at the opera or hosting dinner parties to show off her triumph. She's nervous. Even the staff at Grosvenor Manor are whispering about family tension.
I sank into one of the kitchen chairs, the vinyl squeaking in protest.