Clemmie arched an eyebrow, folding her arms. ‘You’re not seriously suggesting?—’
‘Oh, but I am,’ he interrupted, his grin wicked. He picked up a crystal tumbler, holding it to the light. The intricate cuts in the glass refracted the glow of the overhead chandelier, scattering prisms across the walls. ‘Come on. One sip. Who’s going to know?’
She glanced nervously at the door, her pulse quickening. ‘What if we get caught?’
Oliver leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. ‘You never asked that when we joined the mile-high club.’
Clemmie supressed a smile, the memory of that impulsive, thrilling night flooding back. He’d whisked her away to Paris in a private jet, the ultimate romantic gesture. She could still picture his teasing smirk as they boarded the sleek plane, champagne already waiting on ice.
The city had been everything she’d dreamed of and more. They’d started the evening with a stroll along the Seine, her heels clicking against cobblestones as the Eiffel Tower shimmered in the distance. Then there was the shopping spree, a whirlwind tour of Parisian boutiques where Oliver had insisted she choose an outfit for that evening. She’d tried to protest, but he’d silenced her objections with a kiss that made her forget everything.
He’d picked out a dress for her, a sleek black number that clung to her curves and sparkled subtly under the lights. He saidhe’d bought it because she’d told him that when she put it on, she felt like she’d stepped into another life.
The opera had been the evening’s entertainment. Their private box was draped in rich crimson velvet, gilded with gold filigree. Below them, the orchestra sounded, strings and woodwinds weaving a melody that was utterly romantic. Oliver had barely looked at the stage, his gaze fixed on her as though she were the most captivating thing in the room.
Back in the present, Clemmie rolled her eyes, ‘You’ve officially lost it,’ she replied.
‘Have I?’ he asked, pouring a generous measure of amber liquid into the tumbler. The aroma of aged whisky wafted between them as he held the glass out. ‘Come on. We’ll toast to rebellion.’
Clemmie hesitated, glancing again at the door. Finally, she snatched the glass from his hand. ‘If we get caught, I’m blaming you,’ she said, her tone half-serious, half-playful.
‘Fair enough.’ Oliver poured himself a glass, his movements unhurried and deliberate. He raised it in a toast, his eyes locking onto hers. ‘To mischief.’
‘To mischief,’ she echoed, clinking her glass against his before taking a sip. Clemmie’s face immediately contorted. ‘Ugh, how do people drink this stuff?’ The whisky burned her throat but left a honeyed aftertaste that lingered. She glanced at Oliver, who was savouring his drink with an exaggerated air of sophistication. The moment felt like anecho of Paris, a reminder of that heady, carefree day when anything seemed possible.
Oliver laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘You’re not supposed to chug it like cider, Clemmie.’
She rolled her eyes, setting the glass down. ‘You’re incorrigible.’
‘And you love it,’ he said with a grin, leaning against the sideboard. His eyes softened as they met hers. ‘You know, this room reminds me of us.’
She tilted her head. ‘How so?’
‘All these memories, these moments frozen in time. They’re still here, still alive, even if the people in them have passed on.’ He paused, his voice dipping lower. ‘We had our moment, Clemmie. But maybe you’re right. Maybe it does have to stay in the past.’
She stared at him, disappointed with herself that she had even planted that thought in his head.
Before she could reply, they heard someone approaching.
‘Oliver? Where are you?’ Fiona’s unmistakable voice rang out, sharp and impatient.
Clemmie’s eyes widened in alarm. Oliver shot her a look, holding a finger to his lips.
‘You’re going to get us both in so much trouble,’ she mouthed.
Oliver grinned, looking entirely unrepentant. ‘Worth it.’
Clemmie rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smile on her face. ‘Come on, we’d better get back before they send a search party.’ Just as she was about to slip out of the room she took one last look at the photograph of Henry, Earl of Aberford. That was by far her favourite photo of them all on the wall. There was just something about it.
‘Come on, the coast is clear,’ said Oliver, peeping around the door.
As they slipped out of the private room and rejoined the group, Clemmie felt her heart racing. The air between her and Oliver still crackled with unspoken tension. Every stolen glance, every mischievous smile, seemed to pull her deeper into the gravitational pull of whatever was brewing between them. It was dangerous, exhilarating and undeniably real.
Fiona turned sharply as they approached, her scowl barely masked by a quick, saccharine smile. Before Clemmie could process the look, Fiona slipped her arm through Oliver’s, her fingers resting possessively on his chest. The gesture was deliberate, and it sent an icy jolt through Clemmie.
For the first time, a thought pierced through her emotions:Was there still something between them? Were Oliver and Fiona… together? Now?
Immediately there was a dull ache in Clemmie’s stomach. She tried to shake it off, telling herself she had no claim over him. They’d had a whirlwind romance in London and Paris, yes, but that had been three years ago. A lifetime in the world of relationships. Yet the thought of him with someone else, especially someone as sharp and smug as Fiona, made her chest tighten. Clemmie headed towards the table of coffee cups but her eyes discreetly followed the way Fiona leaned in, laughing at something Oliver said.
