Page 5

He’s never called me Angelique, always shortening my name down to Angel, like I’m some saint.

We stand in the gardens, silence stretching between us, but the air feels charged.

Being this close to Reign feels like standing too close to a fire, feeling the pull of the heat even when you know you might get burned.

“I didn't mean to bump into?—"

He shakes his head before I can finish. “It's fine.”

I take a moment to really look at him and realize he’s wearing standard rehearsal gear—black joggers, fitted shirt, and a duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

“Late-night rehearsal?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest and shifting on the balls of my feet. I feel awkward and stupidly exposed.

He nods but doesn’t elaborate.

Alrighty, time for an exit.

“Well… it was nice seeing you aga?—”

“Are you staying at the guesthouse?”

I pause, surprised. “Yeah,” I say. “Just for a bit.”

“And then back to New York?”

I guess Lando never filled him in on my arrival.

“No, actually,” I say slowly, carefully picking my words. “I’m back in Marlow. For good.”

His brows raise subtly. “Won’t your company need you?”

I shake my head and force out an awkward chuckle. “No, I…” I swallow. “I guess I quit.”

His brows furrow as he slowly slides his hands into his pockets. He studies my face, as if he sees right through me. I look away and wait for him to say what’s on his mind .

But all he says is, “Welcome home, Angel.”

He steps around me; the faint brush of his shoulder causing an explosion of electrical currents to run up and down my arm. I stand there beneath the stars, the scent of his cologne, musk and mint, clinging to the night air. And my hands won’t stop shaking.

The next morning, I wake to sunlight and a stiff ache in my neck. I blink up at the ceiling, disoriented, then glance around and freeze. I’m on the couch with a throw blanket tangled around my legs, and the TV is on but muted.

I push myself upright slowly, heart thudding, trying to make sense of it.

I don’t remember coming out here. I remember saying goodnight to Lando before walking back to the guest house, and I remember brushing my teeth, pulling on the oversized shirt I slept in, and crawling under the duvet.

I even remember the way the mattress dipped beneath me and the way I curled into the pillow, still slightly tipsy.

I frown as I try to piece together the gap in my memory, but before I can trace it back far enough, there’s a knock at the door, or rather, a rhythmic, theatrical pounding that sounds like someone's using their forehead instead of their hand.

I sigh and drag myself up, blanket still half-clinging to one ankle, my mind still stuck on how the hell I ended up here.

I crack the door open and find Lando looking like absolute hell in an oversized hoodie, plaid pyjama pants, and designer sunglasses comically large for his face. He's holding a paper bag in one hand and a takeaway tray with two coffees in the other, like some bedraggled saint of hangover survival.

"I come bearing croissants," he croaks, slipping inside dramatically. "Also regret, and potentially liver failure."

I step aside to let him pass, biting down a smile. "You look like you got run over by your own party."

"I did." He drops the bag on the kitchen counter like it weighs a thousand pounds. "Twice."

He slouches onto the barstool, setting down the coffees with a groan. I grab one of the cups from the tray and hand it to him, raising an eyebrow.

"Did you sleep at all?"

"Define sleep," he says, wincing at the light as he peels off his sunglasses.

His eyes are bloodshot, and his mascara is smudged just enough to give him the tragic air of a rockstar mid-bender.

"More like passed out face-first on the sofa with an empty bag of kettle chips for a pillow."

"And yet you still remembered the croissants," I say appreciatively, digging into the bag.

"I'm a mess, darling, not a monster."

He takes a long sip from his coffee as a comfortable silence settles between us. I pull apart my croissant, my thoughts drifting back to last night’s run-in with Reign.

“I know that look,” Lando says, dragging me back to the present. “Spill it, love. What’s on your mind?”

I shrug, keeping my eyes on the flaky mess in front of me. “I ran into your brother last night,” I say, trying to sound casual before taking a bite.

He groans dramatically. “Ugh. Was he a total buzzkill?”

A small laugh slips out before I shake my head. “Not exactly. I think he was just getting back from a late-night rehearsal. ”

I reach for my coffee, grateful for something to hide behind, and take a sip.

“He likes to use the estate studio at night,” Lando says, then tilts his head to the side. “But the real mystery is why you’re being so coy right now.”

I glance up to find him watching me, eyes narrowed with that knowing, teasing smile. His painted nails tap out a slow rhythm on the counter, and I know I’m caught. Leave it to Lando to see through me without even trying.

“I’m not being coy,” I say defensively, my voice higher pitched than I intend.

Lando bites his lip, trying to hold it together, but the laugh escapes anyway. “Don’t tell me you still want to get in my brother’s pants.”

“Lando!” I shriek, scandalized but also laughing as I shove his arm.

“I knew it!” he shouts before immediately wincing as he clutches his head with a groan. I bite back a smile when he slumps forward dramatically.

“Angelique Sinclair,” he mumbles into the countertop, pointing in my direction with all the gravitas of a hungover oracle. “I swear to God, if you’re still pining after my emotionally lacking brother, I’m staging an intervention. You could do better blindfolded.”

I roll my eyes. “Relax, I only brought him up because he seemed surprised to see me. You didn’t tell him I was coming?”

Lando waves a lazy hand without lifting his head. “I barely see the guy. If my father didn’t tell him you were coming, then yeah, he probably was surprised.”

“He’s still avoiding you?”

“Like the plague,” he mutters, finally peeling his cheek off the counter. “But I’m not special. He barely talks to anyone these days.”

I trace the rim of my coffee cup with a fingertip, quiet for a moment. “That sounds lonely.”

“Oh no. Don’t even go there,” he says, glaring at me.

“Go where?”

He points at me accusingly. “You’ve always had a savior complex. But he’s not some sad, abandoned puppy you can rescue. He’s a fully grown man with a brooding problem and a perfectly functioning phone. He can deal with his own damn loneliness.”

I know Lando has a point, but there was a time when Reign was different.

He used to laugh more, and let people in.

But ever since their mom walked out, something in him changed.

Almost like he decided it was safer not to need anyone at all.

And I guess I’ve always wondered if anyone’s ever tried to pull him out of it.

“Please,” I scoff, weakly. “I’ve got more than enough of my own mess to fix.”

Lando arches a brow, unconvinced.

“I’m serious,” I insist.

“Sure,” he mutters, before letting his head fall back to the counter with a dramatic thud.

I let the silence linger for a few minutes, my fingers curling around the warmth of my coffee cup. The words sit heavy on my tongue before I force them out. “Can you show me the way to the studio? I can’t remember how to get there.”

Lando peers up at me, brow arched like he’s trying to read between the lines. “Thinking about coming out of retirement already?” he asks slowly.

I shake my head instantly, the thought alone too loaded to entertain. “No,” I say, too quickly. “I was thinking maybe it’d be nice to dance again. Just for me.”

I keep my eyes on the rim of my cup, tracing it with the tip of my finger. “No rehearsals, and no corrections. Just movement, without expectation and no one telling me what it’s supposed to mean or look like.”

There’s a pause, and I finally look up to find Lando watching me with that same look he gets when he’s about to say something profound and inappropriate in equal measure.

But instead, he nods and slides off the stool with a groan, rubbing a hand down his face as if remembering the hangover all over again.

He crosses the kitchen and nudges my shoulder gently with his own.

“Come on then,” he murmurs. “I’ll show you.”

I follow him, heart already fluttering at the thought of stepping back into a space I swore I’d never return to. But this time, it’ll be different. This time, I’m not dancing for anyone but myself.