Mom’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Mostly. Except Archer just called. His flight got pushed.”
I blinked, straightening. “So no guest speaker?”
“Well,” she said, arching a brow, “We still have one. But it’ll just be her.”
I tilted my head. “That’s still better than nothing. Anything I can do to help?”
She handed me a checklist, the paper already marked up with her neat, looping handwriting. “You can start with the seating assignments. And later, I’ll need a second pair of eyes on the press kits. The sponsors love details, and I don’t want any typos sneaking in.”
“Consider it done,” I said, scanning the list. “Let’s just hope your one speaker has enough charisma for two.”
Mom gave me one of her secretive smiles, the kind she used when she was hiding something fun but wasn’t ready to give it away. “Oh, I think she will.”
I narrowed my eyes at her because that smile always meant trouble. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” she said lightly, slipping another document into the folder like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Only that your father and I are heading to the airport later. We’ll pick her up ourselves.”
I raised a brow. “The headmistress of this academy and the great Miguel Cadiz, reduced to glorified chauffeurs? She must be someone important.”
“Important enough,” Mom said smoothly, which only made me more suspicious. She had that gleam in her eye, the one she usually reserved for big reveals.
I leaned closer, trying to read her expression, but she just busied herself with another stack of papers. “You’re not going to tell me who it is, are you?”
“That would ruin the surprise,” she said, far too pleased with herself.
Mom was clearly enjoying herself too much, and I knew I wouldn’t get anything else out of her. So I took thechecklist, promised to deal with it after lunch, and made my way out.
By the time I got back home, the sun was still blazing, pouring through the wide windows and making the house feel like a sauna. I kicked off my shoes the second I walked through the door, dropped my bag somewhere near the stairs, and made a beeline for the couch.
The cushions swallowed me whole as I flopped down. I grabbed the remote and flicked on the TV, more out of habit than interest.
I meant to pay attention, maybe study the match, but my eyelids grew heavier with each rally. The rhythm of the ball, the commentators’ voices, the steady whoosh of the AC, it all blended. My last thought before sleep tugged me under was of Mom and Dad at the airport, greeting this supposedly “important” guest.
Then I was gone, out cold on the couch.
CHAPTER 8
OLIVIA
The sun had come out over Hampstead Heath like it was trying to do us a favor. Aunt Caroline spread the tartan blanket with military precision while Nan supervised, muttering about the “newfangled” electric kettle we’d left behind at home and how it never boiled water quite like the old one did.
It was the first proper weekend of my break after Wimbledon, and being back home in London felt strange in the best way, familiar and a little too easy after the chaos of the tour.
Bianca had arrived last night, coming through the front door with her suitcase in hand, looking every inch the polished intern in her blazer and trousers, and for a moment, it had felt like I was greeting a stranger. We’d stumbled through small talk, stiff smiles, and then we hugged. Awkward. Like walking over a bridge we’d both been circling for too long.
And now here we were, sitting on the same blanket, part of the same noise.
I stretched out on the blanket, sunglasses sliding down my nose, hair still damp from my morning shower. For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe. Just me and my family, all loud and chatty and wonderfully chaotic.
Bianca sat across from me, arranging paper plates like she was managing a corporate buffet. She was chatting with Auntie Caroline about Birmingham and some uni course she was eyeing for autumn. I wasn’t eavesdropping, but I caught the phrase “corporate sustainability consultancy,” which sounded like three buzzwords holding a staff meeting.
“Remember when Liv used to make us play doubles against the shed?” my cousin Freya said, laughing as she nudged me. “She’d scream if you missed the ‘line call.’”
I rolled my eyes. “You say that like I wasn’t preparing you for Wimbledon.”
“You made me cry!” Freya cackled.
“Character building,” I said, stealing a sausage roll off her plate.
