Or why I suddenly feel like an irredeemable asshole.
Probably because I shouldn’t be touching this. I shouldn’t be standing here, in Edward’s bedroom, draped in a dead woman’s dress, making this entire situation about my own insecurities.
This is a fucked-up situation that I should never have put myself in.
I stare at my reflection, the dress hanging awkwardly against my body.
Millie was taller than me. This probably fell just to her knees, elegant and perfectly tailored, while it swamps me entirely.
It’s too long.
The fabric is too expensive.
It’s too grown-up.
Millie probably wore this to work at the hospital. Maybe she wore it to dinner parties, the kind where people drink expensive wine and casually discuss the state of the health service while I’d be in the corner, shoveling bread rolls into my mouth and googling who the chancellor is.
Maybe she wore it to a conference like the one Edward’s at today.
I swallow hard and carefully slide the dress back into place, wondering whether Edward would be angry if he knew I’d looked.
I close the wardrobe quickly, like slamming it shut might also shut down the uneasy feeling. Like if I don’t see them, they don’t exist.
But they do.
And they belong here.
Millie’s clothes lookrightnext to Edward’s tailored suits and cashmere.
This doesn’t change anything. Edward was married to a lovely lady. I wish for his sake she were still alive. None of this is new information. Edward talks about Millie openly, keeps her memory alive because that’swho he is.
Do Ireallythink my Topshop sale-rack wardrobe is ever going to end up inhere? Hung beside Edward’s bespoke suits? Do I really think I’ll be the one folding my Primark multipack knickers into his organized drawers?
The thought makes me want to palm my face.
I force a breath, trying to shrug it off.
It’s fine.
This is fine.
But I can hear it.
That tiny, insidious voice. The one that always knows before I do.
Be careful.
CHAPTER 33
Daisy
“You torture me inthat little skirt.”
Edward groans as he tosses his keys onto the hallway table, his voice rough, like he’s genuinely suffering—like my work uniform has been designed to torment him and not, you know, shift garden tools at unreasonable hours.
I smirk, kicking off my shoes. “Pretty sure the skirt is the only reason you come to collect me.”
These past few weeks, Edward has fallen into the habit of collecting me after my Friday night shifts because he doesn’t have work in the morning. It’s sweet, him waiting up to collect me. Every other night, he insists on booking me a cab home.“Non-negotiable, Daisy.”Oh, then I get the full London crime statistics lecture, as if I haven’t been bopping around this city just fine on my own.
