"One hundred thousand pounds."
"Fuck."
"I know." She stood, her chair scraping against the floor. "I need to leave. Now. next time can we stay in the townhouse?"
“Of course.” I pulled out my phone and sent a message to the pilot.
Me: Maeve needs to return to North Yorkshire. Can you take her?
The reply came thirtyseconds later.
Ready when she is.
Half an hour later, I stood in the garden square and watched the helicopter lift off.
Maeve's face was pressed to the window, the hat on her head and her hand raised in a wave. I waved back until the helicopter was just a dot in the sky.
Then I was alone.
The shopping bags sat at my feet. A fortune in clothes and shoes and things I didn't need. But none of it filled the hollow ache in my chest.
I gathered the bags and walked back to the townhouse.
The entrance hall was quiet. Too quiet. My footsteps echoed on the marble as I climbed the stairs.
I'd just reached my room when I heard a voice.
"Presley?"
I turned. Fritz stood at the bottom of the stairs, his tie loosened, his jacket slung over his shoulder.
"You're back early," I said.
"The meeting ended sooner than expected." He climbed the stairs, his eyes dropping to the bags in my hands. "Did you have a successful trip?"
"Something like that."
He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne and something sharp.
"We want to do something nice for you," he said. "Hastings and I are leaving for New York tomorrow, so tonight we’d like to learn more about you."
"You don't haveto—"
"You’ll be the mother of our child, perhaps children. We want to." His hand brushed mine, just for a second. "Dinner. Tonight. Just the four of us."
The dining room looked different.
Candles flickered on the table, casting warm light across the white walls. The chef had outdone himself. Plates of French food I couldn't pronounce, wine that tasted like velvet, and then I ate a dessert that melted on my tongue.
I sat between Fritz and Etienne, with Hastings at the head of the table.
It was intimate. Like we were the only four people in the world.
"Tell us about your parents," Hastings said, refilling my wine glass.
I hesitated. "There's not much to tell."
"There's always something," Etienne said gently.
