Page 40 of Guys Can’t Write Romance

Chapter twenty-eight

Mansion Parties and Stepford Wives

The Peterson estate sprawled across three acres in Bel Air, a Mediterranean-inspired mansion with manicured gardens and a circular driveway currently lined with luxury cars. Valets in crisp uniforms stood at attention as Ethan’s BMW pulled up to the entrance.

“Remember,” Ethan murmured as the valet opened Daisy’s door, “Peterson appreciates people who understand their place in the hierarchy. Most of these people will be partners or on the partner track.”

“And what’s my place in the hierarchy?” Daisy asked, smoothing the unfamiliar silk of her dress as she stepped out.

Ethan placed his hand at the small of her back, guiding her toward the grand entrance. “You’re with me,” he said, as if that explained everything.

The interior of the mansion was a study in tasteful opulence, with marble floors, soaring ceilings, and chandeliers that probably cost more than Daisy’s annual salary.

Staff in black and white made the rounds with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres, while a string quartet played softly in one corner.

“Ethan Sterling,” boomed a silver-haired man in his sixties, approaching with a much younger woman on his arm. “The man of the hour! Your analysis on the Crawford acquisition was impeccable.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ethan replied, his posture straightening imperceptibly. “Mr. Peterson, I’d like to introduce Daisy Fields.”

The older man barely glanced at her. “Charmed, I’m sure. Ethan, come meet Gerald from legal. He’s had some brilliant insights on the regulatory hurdles we might face.”

Before she could say more than “Nice to meet you,” Ethan was being whisked away by his boss, leaving her with Mrs. Peterson, who looked to be at least twenty years younger than her husband.

“First time at one of our little gatherings?” Mrs. Peterson asked, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

“Yes,” Daisy admitted. “It’s a beautiful home.”

“Thank you. I oversaw the latest renovation myself,” Mrs. Peterson replied. “What is it you do, Daisy?”

“I’m a first-grade teacher,” Daisy said. “And I write romance novels. I’m hoping to be published soon, actually. There’s this contest—“

“A teacher?” Mrs. Peterson’s perfectly shaped eyebrows rose.

“How... devoted of you. Though I imagine you’ll be giving that up when Ethan moves to New York?

The wives of our senior executives have quite enough to manage with their charitable obligations.

The Rollings Jenkins Philanthropy Committee is very active. ”

“I haven’t decided about New York yet,” Daisy said carefully. “And I’d want to continue my writing, regardless.”

Mrs. Peterson’s laugh tinkled like ice. “Oh, how sweet. A little hobby to keep you occupied. Though you’ll find there’s precious little time for hobbies once you’re integrated into the firm’s social calendar. We maintain a very active presence in the right circles.”

Before Daisy could come up with a response that didn’t include four-letter words, Mrs. Peterson spotted someone across the room.

“Oh, Cynthia is here! You must meet her. She’s the wife of our London office head. She runs the most marvelous charity auction each year.”

Daisy soon found herself swept into a circle of impeccably dressed women, all wearing similar expressions of polite interest that never quite reached their eyes.

The conversation flowed around her, talk of summer homes in the Hamptons, boarding schools with ten-year waiting lists, charity galas that raised millions for causes that seemed more about social status than actual change.

“And what about you, Daisy?” asked a woman whose name she’d already forgotten. “Vivian mentioned you’re a teacher?”

“Yes, first grade,” Daisy replied, grasping at the familiar topic. “I love watching children discover their abilities and interests.”

“How admirable,” said another woman, her tone suggesting it was anything but. “Though certainly exhausting. I can’t imagine dealing with other people’s children all day.”

“I find it rewarding,” Daisy said firmly. “And I’m also pursuing publication as a romance novelist. I’ve self-published a few books already, and I’m entering a contest for a major publishing contract.”

For a brief moment, one woman, younger than the rest, with kind eyes, showed genuine interest. “Really? What kind of romance do you write?”

Before Daisy could answer, Mrs. Peterson cut in smoothly. “I’m sure that’s just a creative outlet until you and Ethan settle down. Speaking of which, how is the New York apartment hunt going? I hear you’ve found something in TriBeCa?”

The conversation shifted again, and Daisy found herself increasingly invisible, reduced to nodding and smiling as these women planned a life for her she wasn’t sure she wanted.

When Ethan finally returned to her side an hour later, Daisy had never been so grateful to see him.

“Sorry about that,” he said, not sounding particularly sorry. “Peterson wanted to introduce me to some key players.”

“It’s fine,” Daisy replied, trying to keep the stiffness from her voice. “I’ve had a lovely chat with the partners’ wives about all the charity committees I’ll apparently be joining in New York.”

If Ethan noticed her sarcasm, he didn’t acknowledge it.

“Excellent. Networking is crucial. Speaking of New York, I got some fantastic news today.” His eyes lit with genuine enthusiasm for the first time that evening.

“I found us the perfect apartment. Doorman building, sixteenth floor, views of the river. It’s a bit more than I’d originally budgeted, but with my new position’s salary—“

“You found an apartment?” Daisy interrupted. “Without me?”

Ethan blinked, momentarily thrown off his rehearsed speech. “Well, yes. These properties move quickly, and you’ve been so distracted with your writing project. I didn’t want to bother you with the details until I’d secured something suitable.”

“Suitable,” Daisy repeated flatly. “For a life I haven’t agreed to.”

“Daisy,” Ethan said, his tone shifting to one he might use with a difficult client, “we’ve discussed this. The New York position is the opportunity of a lifetime. I can’t turn it down.”

“No,” Daisy corrected, “You announced you were taking it. We never discussed it.”

A passing waiter offered a tray of champagne. Ethan took two glasses, handing one to Daisy as if the gesture might defuse the tension.

“Let’s not do this here,” he said quietly. “Tonight is important for my career. Peterson is watching how I handle myself.”

Daisy took a long sip of champagne, letting the bubbles burn down her throat. As she lowered the glass, she caught sight of a floral arrangement on a nearby table — roses, elegantly arranged in a crystal vase. Nothing like the bright, cheerful daisies that had greeted her that morning.

Daisies. Her favorite. Which Ethan had sent her when they first met the week her father died. And never since.

A suspicion that had been forming all evening suddenly crystallized into certainty.

“Thank you again for the flowers,” she said, her voice deliberately casual. “It meant a lot that you remembered how much I love roses, especially today.”

Ethan’s expression flickered from confusion at first, to what he assumed was a smooth recovery. “Of course,” he replied. “I know they’re special to you.”

The last piece clicked into place. He hadn’t sent them. He didn’t even know what kind of flowers they were.

“They weren’t roses, Ethan,” Daisy said quietly. “They were daisies. My favorite. Which you’d know if you’d sent them.”

Ethan’s composure slipped for a moment. “I... of course they were daisies. That’s what I meant.”

“No, it isn’t.” Daisy set her champagne glass down on a nearby table with deliberate care. “You didn’t send those flowers. You didn’t remember what today is. You probably don’t even know what today is.”

Ethan glanced around, clearly concerned about creating a scene. “Daisy, this isn’t the place.”

“It’s the anniversary of my father’s death,” she said, her voice steady despite the emotion tightening her throat. “Three years ago today. I’ve mentioned it multiple times.”

Comprehension finally dawned in Ethan’s eyes. “Right, of course. I’m sorry, work has been so hectic with the merger—“

“Stop,” Daisy interrupted. “Just... stop. This isn’t about forgetting a date, Ethan. It’s about you not seeing me; not really. Not as a person with dreams and ambitions and a life I’ve built that matters to me.”

“That’s not fair,” Ethan protested, keeping his voice low. “I’m trying to build a future for us.”

“No, you’re building a future for yourself and expecting me to fit into it,” Daisy corrected.

“You didn’t ask if I wanted to move to New York.

You didn’t ask if I wanted to give up teaching or writing.

You just assumed I’d follow along because your career is obviously more important than anything I might want. ”

Ethan’s expression hardened. “Is this about some silly writing contest? Daisy, be realistic. The chances of making a living as a romance novelist—“

“This is about respect,” Daisy cut in. “And about whether the person I’m with believes in me enough to support my dreams, even if they seem impractical to him.”

They stood in tense silence for a moment, the elegant party continuing around them, oblivious to the relationship fracturing in their midst.

“We’re just having a miscommunication,” Ethan finally said, reaching for her hand. “Let’s get through tonight, and we can talk properly tomorrow when we’re both calmer.”

Daisy stepped back, out of reach. “No, Ethan. We’re not having a miscommunication. We’re having a fundamental disagreement about what partnership means. And I don’t think it’s something we can work through.”

“You’re upset about your father,” Ethan said, his tone patronizingly gentle. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

Something in Daisy snapped. “Actually, I’m thinking more clearly than I have in months. We’re done, Ethan. For real this time.”

She turned to leave, then paused and looked back at him. “For what it’s worth, I hope New York is everything you want it to be. I really do.”

Before he could respond, Daisy moved swiftly through the crowd, avoiding eye contact with the curious onlookers who had undoubtedly noticed their tense conversation. She retrieved her clutch from the coatroom and stepped outside into the cool night air.

The valet looked surprised to see her leaving alone. “Would you like me to call you a car, miss?”

“Yes, please,” Daisy said, feeling suddenly exhausted. “A taxi or an Uber, whichever’s faster.”

While waiting, she pulled out her phone. Without hesitation, she opened a new text to Chad:

‘You sent the flowers, didn’t you?’

Three dots appeared almost immediately, then disappeared, then appeared again. Finally:

‘Guilty. Chloe told me about your dad last week, so I ordered the flowers yesterday. Hope it wasn’t weird. Just thought you might need something bright today.’

Tears pricked at the corners of Daisy’s eyes. Not weird. Perfect. She typed back:

‘It wasn’t weird. It was exactly what I needed. I just broke up with Ethan. For real this time.’

The response came quickly:

‘You okay?’

Such a simple question, but it hit Daisy with unexpected force. Was she okay? She’d just ended a relationship she’d invested three years in, walked out of a party full of people who could have furthered Ethan’s career, and was standing alone outside a mansion in Bel Air.

And yet...

‘Actually, yes. I think I am. But I could use a friend right now. Any chance you could meet me at my apartment? I could really use my Hallmark movie buddy.’

Chad’s reply was instant:

‘Grabbing my keys. Wine or ice cream?’

Daisy smiled through the tears that had finally escaped.

‘Both. Definitely both.’

‘On it. See you in 30.’

As her Uber pulled up, Daisy took one last look at the glittering mansion behind her, at the life she’d just definitively turned down.

Then she thought of the daisies on her desk, of the quiet understanding in Chad’s eyes when she’d mentioned her father, of the joy of standing on a surfboard for those few perfect seconds that morning.

“Where to, miss?” the driver asked as she slid into the backseat.

Daisy took a deep breath, feeling strangely light despite the emotional evening. “Home,” she said simply. “I’m going home.”