Page 189 of Dare to Love Me

I snort, sinking deeper into the sofa cushions. “Yeah, well, lucky Liz Bennet never showed up to his swanky ball and made it a wet T-shirt competition.”

Mum exhales through her nose, the way she does when she’s holding back a full-blown maternal intervention. “Daisy, sweetie . . .”

Here we go. The voice. The one that means she’s trying to be gentle but also trying very hard not to screamwhat the hell are you doing, you stupid girl?into my face.

I know she’s upset. Not just about my skipping the wedding, but the whole catastrophic disaster that is my personal life—Sophia, Edward, me. The fact that her daughter has somehow managed to bollocks up not just one, but two relationships with the Cavendishes. A truly impressive feat of self-sabotage.

I pretend not to notice. “You should probably get going,” I say instead, keeping my voice breezy. “Don’t want to be late.”

Mum sighs again. She’s been sighing dramatically all morning. Even during yoga. And nothing saysI’m deeply disappointed and sadquite like aggressive breathing in downward dog.

She looks beautiful, a soft pink fascinator perched delicately atop her head. As I told her, she’s still got it.

I should be dressed too. I should be at the Cavendish manor, standing beside Sophia, fussing over her dress, making sure she’s calm, making inappropriate jokes to stop her from hyperventilating.

I should be at the wedding.

But instead, I’m here.

Because I’m not wanted.

I exhale, staring blankly at the telly where Colin Firth continues to be unfairly attractive.God, I feel like shit.

Not just because I didn’t sleep, or because my emotions are still curdling in my stomach, but because I know Sophia didn’t expect me not to go to the wedding. Like it never occurred to her that dumping me as maid of honor might actuallyhurt.

I’m not doing it to hurt Sophia. I love her. God help me, I love her, even though loving her feels like repeatedly hitting myself in the face with a cricket bat.

But there’s a limit to how many times you can grin while someone scrapes you off their Louboutin sole before you sayEnough, I’m out.

That letter . . . I must’ve rewritten it fifty times. In the end, I kept it short. Honest. Simple. Because Idolove her, and I always will.

Just wished her the best—hoped her day sparkled, said sorry for the mess between us, swore there’s no drama on my end.

Mum makes a noise, glancing at the clock. “Are you really sure, love, that you won’t . . . ?”

I shake my head. My throat is too tight to speak. I can chat for hours about overpriced gardening tools on live TV but ask me to articulate my feelings about today and suddenly I’m a mime.

Edward and Sophia are both at the manor right now. Laughing. Drinking champagne. Celebrating.

Has he invited Lucia?

My stomach twists.

Maybe she’s up there right now, sipping a mimosa with his mother, making charming conversation. She seemed nice, from the brief time I met her. Not that she’ll have a good impression of me.

A sharp sting burns behind my eyes, and before I can stop it, a single tear escapes, tracing a hot, silent path down my cheek.

Jesus Christ.Not this again.

I thought I was done crying. I really did. I thought the past few weeks had drained me dry.

But heartbreak is relentless. Just when you think you’ve got a handle on it, it finds a new way to gut you. It saps at your soul until it breaks you and then keeps going just for fun.

And here I am.

A broken girl, who should know better, crying over a man who is embarrassed by her.

I didn’t answer his calls. I couldn’t.