CHAPTER 7
Daisy
“They’ve remixed it with dubstep now,” I say, staring at my phone in disbelief as the bass drop lands right when the bidet sprays me square in the face. “What did I ever do to deserve this nightmare?”
It’s been three days since The Bidet Incident—and, oh yeah, that little moment where Edward Cavendish caught me in an epically mortifying tangle with his nephew. Now the internet’s having a field day with my humiliation. Fresh memes keep sprouting up, each one more ridiculous than the last. Apparently, a woman in a Union Jack mini skirt getting hosed down by a bidet is exactly the chaos the world craves.
Okay, maybe not the entire world, but it’s definitely clogging a few feeds with unsettling enthusiasm.
I slump deeper into the sofa, wondering how much more of this I can take. My life’s turned into a nonstop highlight reel of Daisy screwups. And honestly, who’s to blame but me?
I’m the genius who had a meltdown on TV—even if it was buried on some obscure channel. I’m the one who thought a highly questionable hookup with a fake doctor would be a good form of self-care.
Turns out, two wrongs don’t make a right. In my case, they make a meme.
And now, Edward Cavendish’s face—that sharp, disapproving, nostrils-flaring-in-disgust face—is seared into my memory. I might need a therapist just to deal with the trauma his nose inflicted on me.
Behind me, Lizzie and Jamie have set up camp as my personal peanut gallery.
Jamie—my housemate for two years, which in London housemate time is basically forever—is scrolling through his phone, cackling like a kid.
On-screen, someone has taken it upon themselves to enhance the footage, giving the bidet an AI-generated explosion effect.
I groan, burying my face in my hands. “This is my legacy. I’m Bidet Girl. People are going to stop me in Tesco to ask if I’ve dried off yet.”
They laugh but it’s not fucking funny.
I drag myself off the couch, my stomach twisting with dread. “I need to get ready. I’m going to be late. I can’t believe I’ve got to show up at some elaborate engagement party while the internet’s still giggling over me.”
“It’ll be fine,” Lizzie says, her tone unconvincing. “It’s Sophia .”
“I know.” I force a smile. Under normal circumstances, I’d be over the moon to celebrate Sophia’s engagement.
But these are not normal circumstances.
Sophia Cavendish—my best friend since we were kids, and unfortunately, sister to both Edward and Charlie.
Sophia, who defended me when her mother nearly fainted at the thought of her daughter befriending the staff.
Sophia, who ignored Mrs. Cavendish’s pointed suggestions that her social circle needed fewer people from staff cottages and more from stately homes.
If Edward tells Sophia about The Incident at his house, I’m done for. How was I supposed to know that fake Dr. Spencer was Edward’s nephew ?
London is crawling with men, but no, of course, I had to accidentally engage in unauthorized oral activities with someone directly linked to Cavendish DNA.
And now, to top it all off, Sophia’s getting married, and I’m in the bridal party. Not just in the bridal party. Maid of honor. A very important role that I’m nervous about living up to.
Tonight’s the engagement party at the Cavendish estate. So, in addition to being the internet’s latest meme sensation, I’m expected to attend a party where:
a) My ex’s entire family will be there.
b) Edward, the man who caught me in his bed will be there, armed with nostrils flared to maximum judgment.
and c) Edward’s nephew, Dr. Fake Credentials himself, might also make an appearance—though given his navigation skills, he’ll probably end up at the wrong house entirely.
Maybe I can still squeeze in an emergency eyebrow lamination—go for something so thick and wild I can hide half my face behind it. Throw on some giant glasses, and bam, I’m the mysterious friend Sophia picked up on her gap year in Cambodia.
The one small mercy is that Charlie won’t be there. Oh no, he and his shiny new fiancée are off gallivanting on their yacht.
The Cavendishes, naturally, are over the moon. Both their youngest kids are getting hitched—storybook endings for everyone.
Except me. Cinderella, still stuck in the staff cottage.
But tonight, I’ve got a plan. Smile big, raise my glass at all the toasts, nod along like I’m supposed to, and—most critically—steer clear of every Cavendish man like my life depends on it.
It’s a perfectly achievable goal.
Surely.