“Oh, absolutely,” I say brightly. “Hard to forget the girl who had a televised showdown with a bidet while rocking a Union Jack skirt. A moment of British pride, really.”
The group chuckles—soft, polite, with that faint whiff of “poor Daisy.”
Edward’s eyes narrow, his expression sharpening into something even more disapproving, if that’s possible.
I ignore him.
Or at least, Itryto.
I lift my champagne glass, taking a sip that doesabsolutely nothingto calm my nerves.
And then I see Charlie. Striding into the room, his hand resting lightly, possessively, on the small of his new fiancée’s back.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
He’s not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be halfway across the Atlantic, sipping overpriced cocktails garnished with decorative umbrellas. I’m nowhere near ready for this.
Imogen—who I’m now convinced was put on this earth to torture me—lets out a shrill “Coo-ee! Over here!” as she waves them over.
My fingers tighten around the flute.
Just smile. Like you’re having the time of your life.
His eyes meet mine.
For a split second, something flickers across his face—a grimace, as if the very sight of me is an inconvenience. Then it’sgone, smoothed over with a tight smile as he leans in to murmur something toher, his hand still welded to her back. Like I’m not even worth a second look.
Someone says my name—probably Imogen. She’s likely gearing up to introduce me to Charlie’s fiancée, acting like she doesn’t know the entire fucking story.
I can’t. I can’t stand here, grinning like some pathetic extra in their perfect story, my clearance-rack dress screaming I don’t belong.
I spin—too fast—and crash straight into Giles, Sophia’s fiancé. My glass slips, and I watch, horrified, as champagne arcs through the air, splattering across his crisp white shirt in a golden explosion.
“Giles. Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I stammer.
He glances at the stain, then back at me, his expression soft but startled. “It’s fine, Daisy, honestly. Are you okay? How—”
“I’m fine!” I practically shout, cutting him off.
Charlie’s closing in now, fiancée in tow.
“Fuck,” I hiss. “I need to . . . leave.”
I don’t wait for a response. I’m already moving, mumblingsorrys as I shove through the crowd, brushing silk sleeves and nearly sending a gleaming tray of hors d’oeuvres flying.
I burst out the patio doors into the cool night air, gulping it down like I’ve been holding my breath all night.
CHAPTER 9
Daisy
I draw in adeep, unsteady breath. The Cavendish lawn stretches out before me, vast and pristine.
I can’t believe I just flounced out of Sophia’s engagement bash like some rejected contestant fromLove Island.
What now? Do I slink back in like nothing happened?
Or lean hard into a lie—perhaps an episode of explosive diarrhea? That might be less mortifying than admitting I fled because I couldn’t stomach seeing Charlie flaunt his new fiancée.
