Wasn’t this what I was after—passion and fire to shake me up? I got that in spades tonight.
Instead, I feel like a complete idiot. Swept up in her chaos with no regard for the inevitable fallout.
The eldest Cavendish—getting dressed down by his much younger lover in the middle of a public event. It’ll be all over the gossip columns before the night is out.
What would Millie think, if she could see me now?
Even after she died, when I was at my lowest, the loneliness didn’t hit like this.
Because loneliness, for all its sting, is a solitary affliction. It’s a burden borne solely by the one who feels it.
It doesn’t make Daisy explode with hurt and anger, doesn’t make Sophia feel betrayed. Doesn’t have my colleagues and associates whispering. It doesn’t cast shame upon the Cavendish name.
To think I’d begun to imagine a future with her. Had started to believe that her chaos might complement my order rather than destroy it. That we could build something real, something lasting, despite our differences.
I should have known better. I should have seen it from the start. We were never meant to work.
What an absolute fool I’ve been.
We may not agree on our tastes in television programs, literary preferences, or artistic inclinations.
But on this, finally, we have reached a mutual understanding.
In our case opposites may attract. But they also destroy.
Some opposites should remain precisely that: opposite and apart.
CHAPTER 43
Daisy
“You need to eat,love. I got you a sandwich from Pret—your comfort food, the posh ham and cheese one with the mustard.” Lizzie dangles the bag in front of me, her wide, worried eyes screaming,Please don’t make me stage an intervention.
“Thanks.” I attempt a smile, but my face feels stiff, like I’ve forgotten how to arrange it properly. “I’m not that hungry, though.”
Lizzie’s not buying the act. Her eyes narrow. “Have you eaten dinner?”
I pause. “Not much.”
“So nothing. Lunch?”
I stare down at my hands, noticing vaguely that I’ve picked my nail polish completely off three nails. Wardrobe will go nuts. “I just . . . my appetite’s gone. Had a banana around one, though.”
“A banana? Aroundone? Christ, that’s not a meal—that’s a sad little snack a toddler would turn their nose up at.”
Before I can muster a defense, she shoves the sandwich into my hands.
My fingers fumble around it, slow and clumsy. I peel back the wrapper—more to appease her than anything else—and take a reluctant nibble.
The bread feels dry, the cheese rubbery and flavorless, sticking to the roof of my mouth.
Normally, I’d be waxing poetic about Pret’s ham—salty, smoky perfection with that mustard kick.
Truth is, I don’twantfood. I don’t want anything. My body feels like it’s staging a protest against basic human functions. Lovesick, I guess. Or heartbroken. Or maybe just because Edward and Sophia are right, I do love the drama.
A week has passed since that nightmare at the ball.
And in all that time, I haven’t heard a word from either of them. No calls, no texts. Just the echo of that horrible night replaying in my head.
