The room is exactly as I left it—the four-poster bed with its navy bedding, the rowing trophies from school, the antique desk where I wrote countless essays on proper governance and family legacy. Yet it feels like a museum exhibit dedicated to a person who no longer exists. I have little connection to the boy who once inhabited this space.
I strip off my civilian clothes and step into the bathroom, turning the shower to its hottest setting. As steam fills the marble enclosure, my mind returns to Isabel—her sharp wit, the way she blushed when she woke in my arms, the softness of her skin beneath my lips when I kissed her forehead. What a wasted opportunity. If only I’d asked for her number before answering the call.
Argh!
Fuck my life!
The water pounds against my shoulders, easing the physical tension of travel if not the mental frustration of missed connections. Tonight’s dinner looms like an operation with insufficient intelligence—the Duke clearly has an agenda, the Prime Minister’s presence suggests political maneuvering, and somewhere in this equation sits Izzy, my childhood friend who might offer the only genuine interaction in what promises to be an evening of aristocratic theater.
As I step from the shower, wrapping a towel around my waist, I find myself oddly looking forward to seeing her again. Perhaps some connections, unlike the brief spark with Isabel, are destined to endure despite time and distance.
Chapter 5
Isabel
Being at home is like slipping into a designer dress that once fit perfectly but now constricts in all the wrong places. A feeling of oppression envelops me the moment the car passes through the wrought iron gates, the weight of expectations settling across my shoulders like a familiar, unwelcome shawl. The melancholy that defined my teenage years here returns with surprising force, making me feel so profoundly sad and alone that I nearly ask the driver to turn around. Years of building my own life—of morning coffee runs and spontaneous beach trips and laughter-filled evenings with friends who knew me as simply Isabel—seem to evaporate in the shadow of Barlow Manor.
I pause before entering, taking a moment to survey the estate that features in both my fondest memories and most suffocating nightmares. Everything looks the same: the emerald lawn mown with military precision, the topiary hedges sculpted into whimsical shapes that belie the rigid formality of the household, and Mom’s rose garden—her sanctuary within Father’s kingdom. I sigh, my chest tightening as I approach her corner of paradise, missing her with an intensity that still catches me off guard after all these years.
I have precious few memories of her—brain cancer claimed her when I was eight—but I treasure each fragment jealously, hoarding them like rare gems in a mental vault that I access only when I feel strong enough to withstand the pain that inevitably follows the sweetness. Mom had a passion for gardening that scandalized the political wives’ circle when she insisted on tending her roses herself rather than delegating to the gardeners. “Life’s too short to experience beauty secondhand,” she would say.
I reach out to a perfect yellow bloom, its petals unfurled like a dancer’s skirt, and inhale its delicate fragrance. The scent acts as a key, unlocking a memory so vivid it momentarily blurs the boundary between past and present.
I was six years old, Mom kneeling in the soil, her wide-brimmed hat shielding her fair skin from the summer sun while Nathan and I chased each other across the lawn, our laughter cutting through the formal gardens like rebellious wildflowers among cultivated roses. I tripped over my own feet—always more enthusiastic than coordinated—and fell face-first onto the path, skinning my knee badly enough that blood bloomed through my white tights. Nathan, serious even at seven, helped me to the garden bench, his small hands surprisingly gentle as he cleaned my wound with his handkerchief. I remember Mom’s tender smile when Nathan solemnly asked if he could give me one of her precious yellow roses to make me smile again. Without hesitation, she cut her most perfect bloom and handed it to him, watching with soft eyes as he presented it to me with all the gravity of a knight bestowing a sacred treasure.
Nathan… who knows where he is right now? The thought of him sends a peculiar ache through my chest.
Life has pushed us in different directions, yet I’ve always kept him in my heart, a fixed point in my emotional landscape. We had the kind of friendship that forms only in childhood—uncomplicated by romance or competition, built on the pure foundation of complete acceptance. Nathan was my rock during the worst period of my life, sitting silently beside me for hours after Mom’s funeral, his presence more comforting than any adult’s rehearsed condolences. Sometimes, during particularly lonely nights, I’ve found myself wondering what he looks like now, whether adulthood has hardened or softened his serious eyes, if he ever thinks of me during quiet moments as I think of him.
I shake my head sharply, pushing away the melancholy that threatens to overwhelm me. Dwelling on lost connections seems particularly pointless when I’ve just missed a potential new one—the enigmatic hottie from the plane. Taking a deep breath of rose-scented air, I freeze when Julian’s hand touches my lower back. I straighten my shoulders and put some space between us. I walk toward the imposing front door, which opens before I reach it, as though the house itself is eager to reclaim me. Julian is following suit and it gets on my nerves. I don’t need a shadow.
Dad stands in the marble-floored foyer, phone pressed to his ear as always, his free hand gesturing emphatically as he paces the intricate Persian rug.
Some things truly never change.
“Have a great day, Miss.” Julian flashes me a smile while turning around and vanishing through the kitchen door.
As soon as Dad spots me, however, he says a hurried goodbye to whomever he’s speaking with and ends the call with uncharacteristic abruptness. His eyes light up with genuine pleasure that momentarily displaces my cynicism.
He approaches with arms outstretched, his smile wide and unguarded in a way rarely seen by his constituents. “Izzy, baby, welcome home!”
“Thanks, Dad,” I reply, accepting his embrace with the practiced grace of someone who’s spent a lifetime in photo opportunities. “You’re always busy.” The observation carries no real accusation—it’s simply a statement of fact, as fundamental to our relationship as our shared DNA. Lucas Barlow has always attended to his daughter with the same efficient attention he gives to bill amendments—necessary, scheduled, ultimately secondary to the greater work of politics.
“Yes, I know, but I’m done,” he insists, checking his watch surreptitiously even as he says it. “Today I want to spend time with you. Tonight, we are invited to dinner with Gabriel and Grace. They can’t wait to see you.”
My stomach drops. Oh, great! I’d rather be back on that endless flight than endure a formal dinner with the Dukes. After all, my entire life has followed this pattern—obligatory dinners, campaign rallies, public appearances where I’m displayed like a perfect accessory to complement Father’s political image. I’m bone-weary of the performance, of maintaining the immaculate facade of Lucas Barlow’s accomplished daughter.
“It would be nice to see them,” I lie smoothly, already mentally cataloging which dress in my closet will best suit the occasion. He hugs me again and I subtly shift a few inches away from him, my body automatically creating distance. Physical affection has always felt foreign to me, something observed in others rather than experienced personally. The last genuine embrace I remember was at Mom’s funeral—Nathan’s thin arms around my shoulders, Alice’s soft hands stroking my hair as I finally allowed myself to cry. Since then, I’ve kept everyone at arm’s length, physical distance mirroring the emotional walls I’ve constructed. Even with my past relationship I couldn’t stand too much closeness making it so weird.
The afternoon unfolds with excruciating slowness, filled with political small talk and information about various constituents and colleagues that I pretend to find fascinating. Dad meticulously updates me on every political development I might have ‘missed’ while abroad, as though I haven’t religiously followed British politics through every available news source during my time in Melbourne. His running commentary is punctuated by pointed references to ‘opportunities’ awaiting me in London—thinly veiled suggestions about law firms with political connections, about positions that would keep me firmly within his orbit.
After a lunch that the housekeeper has clearly prepared with my childhood preferences in mind—a gesture that unexpectedly brings tears to my eyes—I excuse myself for a nap. Although the flight with Nate was far more invigorating than restful, I need space from Dad’s well-intentioned but suffocating attention. If we’re to attend the Weisters’ tonight, I’ll need all my mental faculties sharp and ready. These aristocratic dinners are political battlefields disguised as social occasions, and I’ve been drafted back into service as Dad’s most presentable weapon.
My childhood bedroom feels both familiar and foreign—like visiting a museum exhibition about someone who shares my name but isn’t quite me. The walls still wear the pale blue I chose at four, the bookshelves still lined with leather-bound classics and law texts I’ve never read, but the space feels preserved rather than lived in, a time capsule of the girl I was before I claimed my independence.
As I lay across the bed that still smells faintly of the lavender sachets Alice used to tuck between the sheets, my thoughts drift to her—nanny Alice, whose unconditional warmth formed the bedrock of my otherwise emotionally austere childhood. I remember how she would invite Nathan and me into the kitchen, allowing us to ‘help’ with cookies and cakes, though our assistance surely created more work than it saved. Unlike the other staff, who maintained professional distance, Alice treated us as though we were her own grandchildren, her kitchen a sanctuary where titles and expectations melted away like butter in a warm pan.
Being with her felt like existing in a parallel universe where I wasn’t the Prime Minister’s daughter and Nathan wasn’t the Duke’s heir—we were simply children, valued for our laughter and curiosity rather than our pedigrees. Those golden afternoons preserved something essential in me that might otherwise have withered under the hot lights of scrutiny.
