This relationship will only succeed if I can allow Daisy to live her life without losing my head every time she pushes a boundary.
I should have left that club the moment I arrived. Better yet, I should never have set foot inside in the first place.
But more than that, I should have been well-rested when I stepped into the operating theater.
I didn’t make a mistake. But what if I had?
What if my fatigue had slowed my reflexes? What if my reaction time had been dulled just enough to matter?
I cannot—will not—let my personal feelings interfere with my work again.
Which begs the damn question, can I really be with Daisy without it coming at the cost of my work?
CHAPTER 37
Daisy
I wake up witha mouth like sandpaper and a skull that feels like it’s been cracked open and stuffed with regret.
Everything feels wrong.
The air in my flat hangs stale, as if it gave up circulating hours ago and decided to just sit there. The light clawing through my curtains isn’t light—it’s a pack of tiny, spiteful daggers, jabbing me right in the eyeballs.
I groan, rolling onto my back, but the second I move, my stomach lurches in protest.
Then the memories start creeping in.
Edward. Standing in that pulsing, sweaty club. Jaw tight, eyes cold. The clipped edge of his voice cutting through the bass as he told me I was drunk. That it was late. That I should come home with him. Not just annoyed. Furious. Proper, veins-popping, I-might-actually-throttle-you furious.
I squeeze my eyes shut to stint the flow of memories.
Oh god, what have I done? I dragged Edward to a nightclub, of all places.
My last memory is . . . oh fuck . . . me, swinging wildly on that bloody trapeze in the middle of the dance floor, legs flailing in the air, probably shrieking like a banshee, just as his broad back disappeared through the exit door. The grand exit of a man who’s had enough.
It felt like a brilliant idea at the time—pure, stupid fun, plastering over the sting from that awful dinner, even if the hurt was still gnawing at me under all the glitter and sweat.
I was a brat. A proper, tantrum-throwing, lipstick-smeared brat.
I just wanted to let off steam after that stressful dinner. That was the innocent plan. A few drinks with Lizzie, a quick dance, then home like a good girl.Nota full-scale descent into party bitch mayhem.
But no, I couldn’t stop there. One second, I’m sipping a cocktail, the next, I’m climbing onto a trapeze like some feral, unhinged creature who has no regard for the consequences.
And now the memories are crashing in, each one more mortifying than the last.
The conga line—me leading it, obviously, dragging strangers out.
The flaming shots at the bar, tossed back.
Trying to physically yank Edward onto the dance floor, his face grim. That was my cue to stop, wasn’t it? But did I?
Oh no. Because then—oh-ho, the pièce de résistance—the fucking trapeze.
Who puts a trapeze in a club? Who does that? It’s entrapment. It’s practically begging a disaster like me to climb up and make everything worse. And I did. I bloody well did.
But that’s my brand, isn’t it? Getting carried away, spinning wildly out of control, exhausting everyone—myself included—with my own self-sabotage. I can’t just have a quiet, sophisticated drink like a normal person. I have to turn it into a literal circus, complete with a grand finale of Edward walking out while I dangle above it all, proving once again that I’m my own worst enemy.
My greatest fear is that he thinks I’m too young and too reckless, too much of a walking bin fire to be with him.
