I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, I’m being ridiculous? Fuckingniece? Do you know that’s what Vivian was toherEdward?”
His brow furrows, clearly thrown by the world’s most niche movie reference. “What?”
“Pretty Woman! Vivian was a gorgeous, funny, bubbly lady who just so happened to be a hooker and had to pretend she was Edward’s niece so he wouldn’t be embarrassed by her!” I throw my hands up. “Sound familiar?”
He rubs the back of his neck, grimacing. “I apologize. I panicked.”
And that’s it.
That’s his grand explanation.
“You don’t want to be seen with me. I’m your Moll Hackabout.”
His eyes snap to mine. “That is not true.”
“Isn’t it?” I swallow hard, my voice raw. “Because that’s exactly what it feels like.”
The muscles in his cheek tighten. “Can we please not do this in the foyer of the Tate Britain?”
That tone. That sharp, warning edge.
It’s meant to shut me up.
It doesnot.
“Don’t worry, Dr. Cavendish. Or should I start calling you Uncle Edward, like Spencer? I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of all your cultured, highbrow friends.”
“Daisy. Stop this.”
I press my lips together, forcing the words past the knot in my throat. “I’m going to stay in my own flat tonight.”
He takes a slow breath, exhales through his nose, and nods. Sharp. Businesslike. Like we’re negotiating a fucking contract instead of talking about us. “Very well.”
He didn’t even try to argue. Didn’t even pretend to want me to stay.
“I’m not going to have a childish argument with you.” His voice is cool. “Come on, I’ll get you a cab.”
Childish.
The word slaps.
Is that what this is to him? A tantrum? Just another example of Chaotic Daisy failing to meet his standards of proper adult behavior?
“I can get my own bloody cab.”
“I really don’t want to argue with you any further.”
I sniff, too angry—too humiliated—to speak.
We walk out in suffocating silence.
I barely register getting into the cab.
Barely notice the driver pulling away.
But the second the door slams shut, the second I’m alone—
The tears hit.
