I stare at her.
Then at the bracelet.
Then I move.
No more hesitation.
No more bloody Cavendish propriety.
I burst out of the room, my feet pounding against the polished floors as I race through the hallway. I take the manor steps two, three at a time, my heart hammering in my chest with a sense of desperate urgency I haven’t felt in a very long time.
I must get to Daisy. I have to fix this. For Sophia. For myself. For Daisy, who has spent far too many years giving and giving, pouring her entire heart into people who have never deserved it—least of all me.
I hit the gravel driveway at a full sprint—only to slam to a sudden, infuriating stop.
And what greets me is nothing short of a goddamn disaster.
“Bloody fucking hell!” I roar, my voice echoing across the estate grounds, scattering a flock of birds.
The driveway is a maze of vehicles. Family members, guests, florists, caterers, chauffeurs—every single one of these inconsiderate pricks has parked their fucking car here, using the estate as their own personal wedding parking lot.
And my Land Rover is trapped six cars deep. Might as well be in Scotland for all the good it does me.
Valet staff dart between cars, overwhelmed and hopelessly outmatched. It’ll take at least twenty minutes to clear a path.
Twenty minutes I do not fucking have.
I need to get to Daisy now.
I need a solution. Now.
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see it.
CHAPTER 46
Daisy
The sound ofPride and Prejudicefills the living room.
Mum’s dressed for the wedding—her best navy dress, pearls, not a single blonde hair out of place. The very image of a respectable woman heading to a respectable wedding. She’s been fussing with her jewelry for twenty minutes, which we both know is just an excuse to hover.
I, meanwhile, am dressed for what I do best these days: moping. Hoodie, jeans, trainers. I don’t even want to be near the Cavendish estate. But after I fainted, Mum strong-armed me into a week at home. The network even tossed me a few days of paid leave—Simon’s terrified I’ll sue his arse off.
And this will be my last chance to spend time with Mum in the cottage I grew up in before she moves to Spain.
Nothing boosts your self-confidence quite like retreating to your childhood bedroom while your mother details her fabulous future travels while your own life has completely imploded.
On-screen, Mark Darcy’s brooding in the rain, all damp curls and tortured stares, seconds away fromthe line. The one that turns sensible women into hormone-soaked puddles.
I clutch the throw pillow tighter.Do not cry, Daisy. Don’t you dare fucking cry.
Because I’m apparently a glutton for punishment, I can’t help but think about how Edward always reminded me of Mr. Darcy. Except my Dr. Cavendish wasn’t some misunderstood romantic hero.
I should switch this off. Flick toLove Islandor some show where the guys are at least upfront about their dickheadery instead of disguising it behind stormy eye contact.
It’s just on the telly by chance, but really, I don’t think the universe does things like thisby chance. No, this is personal.
“I love you,” TV Darcy announces, voice thick with emotion.
