And I haven’t attempted contact either, obviously. There is simply nothing further to say.
It’s over. Done. A chapter closed. In an awful, gut-wrenching, cruel kind of way, but, you know, that’s just how it is.
I’ve made my peace with it. Or I will, when I’ve gotten over the heartbreak.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I jolt like I’ve been tasered, fumbling to yank it out.
“Your face right now,” Lizzie says, her voice softening to a murmur. “You look like you’re waiting for a firing squad. Is it . . . ?”
I glance at the screen, pulse roaring in my ears. “It’s Mum,” I mutter, my tone flatlining as the adrenaline crashes.
Relief or disappointment? No bloody idea. It’s stupid because I know he’s not going to make contact.
Another fake smile tugs at my lips—my new default setting, apparently.
This is me now: heart doing a little jig every time my phone pings, only to belly-flop when it’s not him.
I spendhours—actualhours—talking myself into the fact that it’s done. Over. Nothing left to mourn. Only for my stupid heart to grasp at something that’s not there the second there’s a ping. And then I have to start all over again.
What am I even waiting for? A text saying it was all a misunderstanding? A bloody skywriter spelling outI’m sorryover London?
Lizzie’s shoulders slump, and I catch the flicker of disappointment in her eyes too, which I hate.
One sec, I mouth, stepping into a quieter corner of the studio. I jam a finger into my ear to muffle the background buzz—the clatter of props, Simon barking orders—and hit answer.
“Mum?”
It’s not unusual for her to call me late at night. She knows my schedule after all.
A beat of silence, then her voice crackles through. “Daisy, love, I have news! I’m sorry, I couldn’t wait—it’s late, I know, but I’m bursting.”
“Go on,” I say, stomach coiling. News feels like a loaded gun right now.
She takes a deep breath that practically echoes through the phone. “We’re finally moving to Spain. I’m going to retire in Marbella, love!”
“Mum! That’s amazing.” And it is. She’s been banging on about retiring to Spain for years, ever since that package holiday when she came back with a sunburn and dreams of sangria on tap.
Then, realization hits. A bitter aftertaste.
Mum’s cottage—the little nook on the Cavendish estate with its wonky garden path and roses clawing up the walls—the place I’ve called “home” even after years in London, is vanishing.
My last connection to the Cavendishes—gone.
It’s for the best. Obviously.
No more wandering past the horse paddocks where Sophia’s daft pony used to snort for apple slices.
No more roaming around the estate gardens with its homicidal peacocks.
No more glimpses of family portraits in gilded frames, generations of Cavendish blue eyes following my movements up their grand staircase. No more afternoons sprawled across Sophia’s four-poster bed, staring at her ceiling and plotting our futures while overlooking the fountain that her great-grandfather commissioned to impress some visiting royal.
No more awkward encounters with Edward when he’s visiting his mother and I’m visiting mine.
Gone. All of it.
This is good. Proper closure. Clean break.
I glance down, feeling something soggy. Oh. I’ve been crushing the sandwich in my grip, mustard oozing between my fingers.
