"Does she? Or does she have a new job and the same old fear of wanting things she thinks she can't have?"
Sasha sighed. "You don’t get it, Amb. I had to do things this way. Your sister is who she is, and she’s ambitious and hard-working. And I can practically guarantee you that every other relationship she’s had ended because the person in question tried to change her, tried to get her to be less herself. So I didn’t do that. I… I set her free."
"In the hopes that if she loves you, she’d come running back?" Ambrose asked, shaking his head slightly.
She sighed again. "Yes. No. Maybe. Something like that. I don’t know."
"Oh, Sash." He took her hand and squeezed it. "You know that there’s a flaw in that great master plan, right?"
"Is there?" she asked miserably.
"Rather obviously, yes." He stopped and turned to her. "In all of this, you didn’t actually tell her how you felt."
"Wait… what?"
"Did you tell her you were leaving because you wanted to give her space? Did you explain that you were trying to do what was best for her career? Did you say anything at all about how you actually feel?"
Sasha opened her mouth. Closed it. "No."
Ambrose lifted an eyebrow. "Right. So as far as Victoria knows, you had a nice summer fling and then went back to your life without a backward glance. How is she supposed to know you're madly in love with her if you've never actually said it?"
The words hung in the air between them. Madly in love. When had that happened? When had casual attraction and heat and desire turned into this aching, complicated thing that made Sasha's chest hurt?
"I'm not—" Sasha started.
"Please. You sent me a voice note last week that was just you sighing for forty-five seconds. You're gone for her."
"Even if that's true, and I'm not saying it is, what am I supposed to do about it? Show up in London and declare my feelings like some romcom hero? She doesn't want that."
"Doesn't she?" Ambrose's voice was gentle. "Or are you assuming you know what she wants without actually asking her?"
Sasha stared at him. Thought about Lady Alexandra's words. About truth and pride and fear dressed up as protection.
"I don't even know if she feels the same way," she said quietly.
"Then ask her." Ambrose said simply.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Thames looked particularly gray from Victoria's office window, which seemed fitting given it was the exact color of her mood. Two weeks of spreadsheets and conference calls, two weeks of pretending she cared about quarterly projections and market forecasts. Two weeks of absolutely nothing changing.
Well, that wasn't quite true. Something had changed. Victoria had discovered she was capable of sitting through an entire board meeting without retaining a single word, which was a new and deeply concerning skill.
She'd also discovered that her new corner office, the one she'd worked so hard to deserve, felt like an expensive prison cell with excellent views.
The meeting this morning had been about Asian-Pacific investment opportunities. Or possibly European restructuring. Honestly, she couldn't remember. What she did remember, with painful clarity, was the way Sasha had looked in the morning light that last day at Cornwall, hair still messy from sleep,wearing one of Victoria's shirts because all her own clothes had been scattered across the floor.
"Ms. Sullivan?"
Victoria turned from the window to find Margaret from accounts hovering in her doorway, looking concerned.
"Sorry, yes. What can I do for you?"
"Just checking if you'd reviewed the Henderson portfolio? Mr. Lawton wanted your thoughts before the client call this afternoon."
Victoria glanced at her desk, where the Henderson file sat untouched beneath a stack of other equally neglected documents. "Right. Yes. I'll get that to you shortly."
Margaret left, and Victoria sat down at her pristine desk in her pristine office with its pristine view of the Thames, and thought about gardens. About dirt under fingernails and the smell of roses in the evening. About laughing so hard her stomach hurt and being kissed against potting shed walls.
