And look what I did.
I proved him right.
In fact, I didn’t just prove him right—I handed him a highlighted, annotated essay titled “Why I’m a Liability” with a trapeze-shaped bow on top. I’m devoted to proving him right, aren’t I?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I shove my face into the pillow, groaning so hard it’s practically a scream, but the fabric just muffles it into a pathetic whimper.
The worst part is, I can see it all so clearly now.
The way he had stood beneath me, rigid with tension, shouting up for me to come down becauseit’s a work night, Daisy.
The way I’d laughed—actually laughed—and shouted back“I didn’t invite you here, Edward.”
I just kept on swinging.
And then he was gone. Broad back vanishing through the doors while I dangled there, mid-swing, too pissed and proud to notice I’d just torched everything.
The second he left, it shifted. The air, the night, me—all of it. Too stupid to clock it until the club lights dimmed and I was just a sweaty, swaying mess with no one to catch me. Literally, because I fell off the trapeze five minutes later.
My fingers shake as I reach for my phone. Nothing. No missed calls, no texts, just my own desperate string of messages staring back at me. Five of them.
1:47 a.m.Edward I’m sorry
2:03 a.m.Pls talk to me
2:19 a.m.I didn’t mean it I swear
3:01 a.m.I’m an idiot
4:12 a.m. (after sobbing into a kebab):Don’t hate me
Oh, stellar work, me. Really sealed the deal there.
I lick my dry lips—tastes like gin and shame—and the nausea claws higher up my throat. I’d puke but I think my stomach is too depressed to even bother.It’s like,we’ve been through enough, mate, let’s not add vomit to the mix.
I stare at the ceiling.
I was in full self-destruct mode last night. The way I always am when I know I’m going to fail at something—might as well speed up the process, right? Like Moll bloody Hackabout in that painting, watching everything slip away but too stubborn to stop it. Except Moll didn’t have a trapeze, did she?
And that rehearsal dinner—Mrs. Cavendish’s disdain, the whispers about Lucia, Edward’snothing that needs announcingcomment—had made me feel so out of place.
All I want is to feel safe. To know where I stand.
But with Edward, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the moment he kissed me.
Maybe last night, I finally kicked the damn shoe off myself.
Maybe I pushed him too far.
Maybe I let my anger over one comment spiral into something worse.
I grab my phone, heart hammering so hard it could be fear or the gin still sloshing around my bloodstream.
It rings and rings and rings, each one making my stomach twist tighter, until finally—voicemail.
This is Dr. Cavendish. I’m unavailable right now, but please leave a message.
