It’s a perfectly achievable goal.
Surely.
CHAPTER 8
Daisy
The Cavendish estate loomsahead, all towering grandeur, like England’s middle finger to the working class.
I climb out of Richard’s beat-up work truck, tugging at the hem of my black dress as if adding an extra inch of fabric might miraculously transform me into the Duchess of Cambridge.
Richard grabs my arm to steady me, his hands calloused from years of keeping the Cavendish grounds picture-perfect. “You look great,” he says with that easy grin of his. “Prettiest one in there, hands down.”
“Thanks,” I say, smirking. “Just don’t let Mum hear you say that—she’s in there too.”
“Oh, right.” He laughs, the sound so relaxed it almost makes me jealous.
He’s been the estate gardener forever, practically a fixture—like the trees, but if you asked Lady Cavendish, she’d probablyrate him somewhere below the Italian marble statues she imported.
He and Mum have been together five years now, the world’s most patient slow-burn romance. I’m glad she’s got someone solid—her first real thing since Dad died when I was eight.
These days, I do everything in my power to avoid the main house. Richard picks me up from the station and ferries me straight to the staff cottages—the ones hidden away so effectively that the Cavendishes can conveniently forget the human lives keeping their estate running.
When I catch up with Sophia, it’s always at her “little place” in Hampstead—a £4 million townhouse her parents casually handed her for her twentieth birthday. Yes,twentieth.
While the rest of us were splitting rent with flatmates who stole our milk, our shampoo, and occasionally our boyfriends (looking at you, Anna from Plymouth, you backstabbing cow), Sophia was agonizing over whether marble or granite better complemented a kitchen she had no intention of ever using.
I take a shaky breath, my heels wobbling as they sink into the gravel.
Somewhere behind me, a peacock shrieks.
Yes, they have fucking peacocks.
I near the massive front doors and Gerry, the butler, steps out and pulls me into a warm hug. “Look at you,” he says, giving me a quick once-over with a grin.
“Thanks, Gerry. Mum working tonight?” I ask, already knowing the answer. The priceless antiques don’t dust themselves.
“She is, love. You enjoy yourself in there.”
Fat chance, but I flash him a smile anyway.
A maid I don’t recognize darts in, snagging my coat before I can blink. From down the hall, the sound of posh laughter floats toward me, low and muffled, twisting my stomach into knots.
The Cavendish estate isn’t a home. It’s a shrine to excess. A sprawling maze of rooms no one actually needs.
There’s the drawing room, where ladies clutch their pearls and whisper about who’s shagging who and which cousin is about to get cut from which will. The library, packed with leather-bound books that haven’t been cracked open since the 1800s—except maybe for Edward.
There’s the morning room, exclusively for sun-drenched breakfasts in silk robes; the smoking room, where Cavendish men puff cigars and stroke their, ahem,egos; the billiard room, which hasdefinitelyseen at least one murder; and the crown jewel—the grand bloody ballroom, because god forbid they go without a proper spot for their fancy parties.
I stick out here like a Primark tote in a sea of Chanel clutches.
But tonight’s not about me—it’s for Sophia.
I head toward the ballroom. It’s absurdly opulent, as expected—chandeliers sparkling, a champagne fountain bubbling away in the center, and a string quartet filling the air with something classy and refined.
Everywhere I look, guests are swanning about in designer gowns and bespoke suits, sipping from dainty glasses with the kind of smug satisfaction that comes from genuinely enjoying the taste—not just the side effects.
I fidget with the neckline of my dress. Back home in my bedroom mirror, it felt chic. Under these unforgiving downlights, it’s screaming hen-party-in-Magaluf.
