Page 91 of Dare to Love Me

Never mind that I’d rather watch paint dry than sit through four hours of Italian warbling about some tragic bastard dying—it’s the principle of the thing.

I roll my eyes. “Let’s call a spade a spade, shall we?”

Or in this case, a shag a shag.

I’d respect him more if he just came out and saidWant to be my dirty little secret?At least then we’d both know exactly where we stand.

“What?” His frown deepens, his voice irritated. “For god’s sake, Daisy, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about. Must you always turn everything into a bloodyperformance? You could have just answered the damn question.”

“No thank you, Edward,” I fire back. “I think I’ll pass. Yes, I’m common as muck, I say ‘fuck’ too much, and quite frankly, sometimes I’m a bit of a cunt. But I’m not going to wet myself with excitement just because aCavendishis offering to feed me dinner before he fucks me.”

Okay, that last bit might’ve been a tad much—landed like a brick through a window. I don’t fully regret it, though. His jaw clenches hard, that muscle twitching.

“Right,” he draws out. “Thank you for that . . . colorful interpretation of my intentions. Always refreshing to be told what I want by someone who clearly has me all figured out.”

“Don’t pull that high-horse nonsense with me, Edward.” I fold my arms. “Dinner? What onearthwould we even talk about over dinner? You and your brother are cut from the same bloody cloth. Don’t pretend you want me over for a nice chat and a meal. Christ, I barely know who’s even in Parliament right now. They could replace half of them with mannequins in suits and Igenuinelywouldn’t notice for months.” I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “Might be an upgrade, actually.”

He steps closer, looming now, and I’ve got to crane my neck to keep glaring up at him.

“Daisy . . .” His voice carries a warning.

“I don’t even know what national insurance is supposed toinsureme against. Floods? Disease? The possibility of another Cavendish trying to get in my knickers?”

His jaw ticks—oh, that one stung.

“So don’t stand there acting like you’re dying to debate the weather over a roast. We both know what this is about. You once told me that me and your brother weren’t compatible. I knew what you were fucking saying, Eddie.”

Andthat—that does it.

“I see. You’ve made yourself perfectly clear.” He nods once, curtly, as though wrapping up a business deal. “And while Idon’tconsider you a ‘cunt,’ as you so eloquently put it”, youcanbe an insufferable brat when you put your mind to it. Consider the invitation withdrawn.”

He pauses. “Goodbye, Daisy.”

“Enjoy your opera box, Eddie.”

CHAPTER 22

Edward

What I love aboutmy job is that it leaves no room for distraction.

Your mind cannot stray, not even for a moment, into thoughts of deep hazel eyes and sharp retorts. Absolute focus isn’t just a requirement; it’s ingrained, running through your veins like a second heartbeat.

After Millie’s death, that focus became more than a necessity. It became my salvation. Work was the only place where grief couldn’t follow me—there simply isn’t time for it.

Because when you’re operating on a patient, their life quite literally in your hands, and you see the raw emotion etched on their faces—or worse, on the faces of their loved ones—you don’t have the luxury of dwelling on your own . . . life complications.

You’re too busy holding theirs.

Today’s patient is Ella Bailey.

Six years old. From Brixton. Diagnosed with Crohn’s disease two years ago. She’s endured more than any child should. With pediatric cases, the stakes always feel higher.

I push through the double doors to the pre-op room, rolling down my sleeves as I walk in.

Ella sits cross-legged on the hospital bed, clutching a one-eyed rabbit that looks like it’s fought just as many battles as she has. Her blonde curls tumble over her small shoulders, framing a face lit with curiosity. Her wide eyes flit around the room, taking in every detail.

At six, she understands enough to be cautious but not quite enough to grasp what’s ahead.