But fuck him.
“You know what’s actually hilarious, Mike?” I say, locking eyes with Edward, because this isn’t about Mike. He’s just the poor sod caught in the blast radius. “I already went through this with his brother. The Cavendishes have a type—they’ll screw you in secret, treat you like a dirty little sidepiece, but they won’t even leave a hundred quid on the counter to make it honest.”
Mike clears his throat, shifting awkwardly.
“Enough,” Edward growls, and there it is—his jaw tightens, those slate-blue eyes flash, the first real crack in his ice-king routine.
He turns to walk away, but I grab his arm—my sticky fingers digging into his perfect tux—and yank him back.
“Oh no you don’t,” I cry. How dare he? He’s the one lying, parading around with Lucia. He doesnotget to walk away like this. “I’ll say when it’s enough.”
I know I sound like a screaming kid throwing a tantrum, and it’s worse because he’s so damncalmabout it. No cracks, no heat—just cold, blank detachment. And the calmer he is, the more unhinged I feel.
It makes me want to claw at him, grab him by the lapels andshakehim, anything to get a reaction, because I’m falling apart here and he doesn’t even care.
Then—god help me—helaughs.
Not a real laugh. Just a dry, humorless exhale. His head tilts slightly, the faintest shake, slow and deliberate. The kind of movement you make when you’re writing something off.
I can feel it—he’s cutting me off, snipping the last thread of whatever this was.
“Andtherelies the problem,” he says coolly. “You’re a grown woman with the self-regulation of a toddler.”
My heart twists.
“Oh, what’s this—suddenly not fun for you anymore,Daddy?” I fling it at him, loud and biting.
The crowd titters. Actual giggles ripple through the onlookers because yeah, they areeatingthis up.
I can feel their eyes, their phones, their judgment, and I don’t care. I’m a performer. I live for the spotlight, even when it’s burning me alive. Let them watch. Let them judge.
He loathes this—the chaos, the staring eyes, the fact that I’ve dragged his pristine world into the muck. I can see it in the way his shoulders stiffen, the way he’s fighting to keep that mask of control from cracking.
I’m baiting him now, practically begging him to snap—drop the gentleman act and admit this was doomed from the start. Come on, Edward, say it. Tell me I was never good enough for your gilded fucking life.
But he doesn’t. He pulls himself up, spine ramrod straight, and gives me this curt, ridiculous bow. Then he turns to Lucia, offering her the same clipped nod.
“I have an early morning,” he says, voice flat and final. “Good night.”
I want to scream. To rage. To tell him howunfairthis is. That I was never the one who kept us a secret.
But he won’t give me that. He’ll always retreat behind that wall—years of good breeding, of swallowing anything messy or real, locking it all down until he’s just this polished, untouchable shell.
“Don’t you walk away from me, Edward Cavendish!” I shout after his back.
But that’s exactly what he does.
I can’t stop myself. Something inside me has fuckingshattered.
“You and me?” I yell. “The posh surgeon and the shopping channel girl? It’s a joke. We’re a fuckingjoke.”
He doesn’t falter. He cuts through the crowd, his dark tux slicing past a figure I didn’t even clock until now.
Sophia, gripping Giles’s arm, looking like she’s just witnessed a zombie apocalypse.
CHAPTER 41
Daisy
