CHAPTER 35
Daisy
I will never complain about BritShop again. Ever. It’s fabulous. Who wouldn’t want to do night shifts, talking absolute bollocks to an audience of insomniacs? I love it.
Lizzie plants her hands on her hips and glares at me. “Stop doing that with your face.”
We’re getting ready for our slots with last-minute makeup attacks at the corner of the set.
“She’s not even trying to hide it,” Michelle cuts in, narrowing her eyes as she grips my chin and aggressively dusts eyeshadow across my lids. “She’s having dirty thoughts right now. I feel violated.”
“Oh, shut it,” I scoff—or try to, at least, but it comes out as a massive grin instead.
Because honestly?
Life’s a dream. Even BritShop, the place where my dignity has been repeatedly slaughtered on live TV, is a dream.
Everything feels light and floaty, like I’ve been injected with gooey happiness serum ever since Edward Cavendish decided to masturbate in a tent to videos of me, thus launching the most unhinged romantic chain of events in human history.
Even the boring stuff is brilliant now.
Grabbing toilet rolls at Tesco? Hilarious.
Hunting for potato waffles in the frozen aisle? Fucking delightful.
Standing in the sweets section, staring wistfully at a pack of Percy Pigs and debating whether to buy two? A deeply fulfilling experience.
The past few weeks, everything’s tilted in the best way. I’ve been spending nights at his townhouse, curled up in a life I absolutely should not belong in, but here we are.
We’ve done this weird dance between his world and mine, and somehow, it works. We’ve had picnics in Hyde Park, where he brought actual crystal champagne flutes. We went on those little swan pedal boats, where he looked ridiculous—six-foot-something of brooding, put-together handsomeness crammed into a plastic bird—but he did it anyway, because I asked. At one point, I fed him grapes and genuinely had to stop myself from climbing onto his lap in broad daylight. It was a close call. A few more minutes and I’d have been banned from Hyde Park.
It’s been . . . nice. More than nice. Like being wrapped in a warm, cozy bubble where our differences don’t matter. Where I don’t have to think about how different we are or worry about the fact that he introduced me as his niece.
Michelle leans back from her masterpiece—my heavy-handed “dusty pink” eyelids—and gives me a critical once-over.
“Does he have any friends?” she asks. “Because I’d like to be this disgustingly happy too.”
I perk up.
“Actually, yeah. He’s got these friends—the McLaren brothers. One of them, Liam, owns some finance company, but he’s shacked up. The other, Patrick, is single. He owns hotels.”
Michelle’s eyebrows shoot up. “Is he hot?”
“Gorgeous.”
“Right, well, get me set up then.”
“I haven’t met him.”
Lizzie arches a brow. “Have you met Liam yet?”
I pause. “No, we’re not at the ‘meet the friends’ stage yet,” I admit, carefully avoiding her pointed look.
She tries to mask the concern creeping into her face.
“Look,” I say, a little too brightly. “We’re doing our first official thing together tomorrow at Sophia’s rehearsal dinner.”
Lizzie’s eyes narrow. “As a couple?”
“No . . . but only because we’re not telling anyone yet.”
Michelle rolls her eyes. “Are you two at least going to play footsie under the table?”
“Edward’s not really the type.”
Lizzie grins, wicked. “Knowing Daisy, she’ll be under the table sucking him off.”
I gasp, clutching my chest in mock outrage. “How dare you.” Then I pause, considering. “I would only do that in the privacy of his house. I have some dignity. I think.”
Lizzie frowns. “And Sophia still doesn’t have any idea?”
“Not yet, but she will, and it’ll be fine,” I say firmly.
We can make this work. I feel it in my bones. Sure, Sophia might kick off at first, but she’ll come around. Deep down, she’ll be chuffed for us. I’d bet my last fiver on it. She’s my best mate—she’ll see how stupidly besotted I am with him.
Before I can convince myself of this any further, a bellowing voice cuts through the studio.
“For fuck’s sake, can we stop talking about that bloody surgeon?! You two, hurry up and finish makeup.”
Fucking Simon.
Mike, one of the producers, strolls over, grinning. “Relax. He’s actually happy with you.”
I blink. “Funny way of showing it.”
“I’m serious,” Mike says. “You’ve had a real bounce in your step this week. You’re our golden girl right now.” He smirks. “And that comes with perks.”
I perk up, eyebrows shooting skyward. “Oh? Like a fat bonus check?”
“Better.” His smirk deepens. “You’re coming with me to the Heroes in White & Blue ball next month. The network’s a sponsor.”
Ooh.
Heroes in White & Blue—one of the UK’s most prestigious galas, dedicated to honoring NHS heroes while rubbing elbows with celebrities, CEOs, and various other Important People.
Last year, Peter Andre and his wife went. I’d love to see them.
But there’s only one man I want to attend this ball with and he’s tall, blue eyed, and wears a stethoscope.
I suck in a breath.
I could get my own ticket. Could bite the bullet and ask Edward if we could go together.
“I’d need to check with my boyfriend,” I say sweetly, relishing the word. “He might already be invited, seeing as he’s a—”
“Surgeon,” Mike finishes.
Okay.
Maybe I’m getting a tiny bit carried away.
“Just drop me off at the end of the lane,” I say, already reaching for the door handle.
My handsome surgeon flicks on the indicator. “Sophia isn’t going to suspect something just because I gave you a lift from London. I’m not letting you walk down the lane like you’re sneaking in under the cover of darkness.”
I huff, bouncing my knee, trying to dispel the jittery energy vibrating under my skin. Funny how all my bravado from last night has evaporated now that we’re rolling up the world’s poshest driveway. The Cavendish estate. “I’m just nervous. What if they can tell how horny I am for you?”
I flash him a grin.
His lips twitch but his eyes stay firmly on the road. “Unless you’re planning on climbing onto my lap during the soup course, I think we’ll manage.”
I snort, but the nerves stay put, lodging themselves right under my ribcage.
Because this is the first time I’ll be around Edward and Sophia together since this thing—whatever this thing is—started.
And, god help me, I really don’t want to fuck this up.
I want to be on my best behavior. I want Mrs. Cavendish to look at me and think, Oh, yes, what a perfectly suitable, respectable woman for my son .
The funny thing is, I couldn’t give a toss that Charlie’s going to be there. He and his fiancée could be doing handstands on the dining table, for all I care.
Because the only thing that matters tonight is that I don’t make Edward regret whatever madness possessed him to date me.
And now we’re here. Staring at the physical manifestation of everything that separates us. My staff cottage versus his stately home. His Goliath to my . . . well, not even David. More like David’s cousin who lives in a shed.
Edward swings his Range Rover up the long, winding drive, parking in front of Cavendish Manor, where a fleet of aggressively expensive cars is already lined up like we’re about to start the Monaco Grand Prix.
I take a deep breath and step out onto the gravel.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Not even remotely,” I mutter, but I follow him inside anyway.
The moment we step into the grand dining room, it’s clear—we’re the last to arrive. A solid thirty people—Sophia’s family, friends, and what appears to be half the Sunday Times Rich List—are already settled, glasses clinking, laughter buzzing.
Which means Edward and I entering together might as well have been announced by an actual town crier.
Sophia beams at us. “Thank you for giving Daisy a lift, Edward. I’m so sorry I couldn’t, darling.”
I kiss her cheek. “Don’t be ridiculous, you’ve got enough on.”
I even give Charlie a cheerfully hostile little wave. He nods stiffly. I smirk. Asshole.
Scanning the seating arrangement, I spot two empty seats—one beside Sophia, the other beside Giles.
Something warm flickers in my chest. Sophia wants me beside her. As maid of honor. As her best friend. Maybe I haven’t completely cocked this up yet.
“Hello, Daisy,” Mrs. Cavendish says coolly.
I turn, offering my most respectable smile. “Hello, Mrs. Cavendish.”
Twenty-six fucking years of living on this estate, and I still don’t get a “Please, call me Catherine.”
She nods politely, then returns to her conversation, apparently satisfied with our brief, soulless interaction.
I slide into my seat, letting the chatter around me settle like background noise. Opposite Sophia, Imogen is mid-story, her hands flying as she recounts some workplace catastrophe at her law firm.
“So this absolute child of a paralegal,” she says, her voice dripping with outrage, “accidentally sent a confidential client memo to the opposing counsel.”
I lean in, nodding like I, too, have suffered the grave incompetency of useless paralegals.
Meanwhile, Edward has already been sucked into a conversation with his uncle—a retired surgeon. Something about NHS budgets.
He’s deep in conversation across the table, a frown furrowing his brow in concentration. His fingers absently tap against his glass as he speaks, his jaw tensing as he makes some grave, intelligent point.
And I do not know why my lizard brain is so deeply turned on by Edward having a serious discussion about funding allocation.
But here we are.
He is way hotter than Charlie, who’s all charm and easy smiles—the kind of man who performed rather than engaged.
Edward engages. He actually listens before he speaks. He makes sharply worded, intelligent arguments and my entire brain just . . . melts.
It’s the intelligence. It’s the quiet authority.
I take a sip of my wine, my lips curling into a secret, knowing smile.
Because right now, I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.
Except two hours later the novelty of having an intelligent boyfriend has worn off.
I take matters into my own hands and pour myself another glass of wine, instead of waiting for Marie, the server. At this point, I should just start drinking from the bottle.
Sophia is talking about every minute detail of the wedding and Imogen is somehow still managing to contribute new thoughts on floral arrangements. I think she missed her true calling.
I’m pretending to be interested but I lost interest thirty minutes ago. I’m a terrible bridesmaid. Though, in my defense, Sophia is too obsessed and quite frankly she has too much time on her hands.
And another thing—I thought rehearsal dinners were supposed to be the night before the wedding? The wedding is weeks away. We haven’t rehearsed a damn thing. Unless you count me rehearsing my “polite face.”
Edward is still deep in conversation with his uncle and two other men. Every now and then, he looks over, gives me a curt smile and nod, like good girl, you’re doing great , and then immediately goes back to being a serious and important man discussing serious and important things.
I stab my potato with more aggression than necessary, because once my plate is empty, then what? Just sit here, wistfully staring at my crumbs? Start counting the number of chandelier crystals reflecting off my wineglass?
I nod along to the wedding chatter.
“Hey, Daisy,” Hugo calls over.
I snap to attention, plastering on my best smile. “Yep?”
“How’s work going at BritShop?”
I know what he’s doing. He’s rescuing me from my own irrelevance at this table.
We banter back and forth for a few minutes—safe topics, easy jokes, my exaggerated horror over the latest product we’re selling. It’s a lifeline, and I cling to it.
This feels wrong. I’m here with my boyfriend—or lover, or person I’m dating, or whatever we’re calling it—and my best friend, and yet I feel like a spare wheel.
Not because anyone is being actively awful to me, but because I could get up, leave, and no one would notice. The buzz I’ve felt these past few weeks dims, just a little.
“Sophia, stop rubbing that rash on your neck.” Mrs. Cavendish’s voice slices through the hum of conversation, cutting across the table. She reaches over and physically removes Sophia’s hand from her own body, like she’s a child caught picking at a scab.
“I told you,” she continues, her tone steeped in disapproval. “You should never have gone on that camping trip.”
I tighten my grip around my fork, the engraved metal digging into my palm.
She says camping like it’s a slur. Like I dragged her daughter into the wilderness to be skinned alive by a pack of wolves, rather than a luxury glamping retreat complete with private bathrooms and catering.
And, naturally, she doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t need to. Mrs. Cavendish has long mastered the art of cutting me down without so much as glancing in my direction.
I grab my wineglass and take a long sip, ignoring the way my throat tightens.
Sophia catches my eye, her face tight with apology, and squeezes my leg under the table.
I give her a small, reassuring smile. It’s not her fault. She doesn’t control the demon matriarch.
And yet . . . my stomach twists.
Because sure, Sophia had said she’d loved it . . . but had she really?
Or had she gone home, scratched at her rash, and admitted to her mum that she regretted it? That it was a bit of a disaster?
That I was a bit of a disaster?
Mrs. C hums, unimpressed. “So close to the wedding! And now you can’t stop scratching. Edward, do take a look at it please.”
“Actually, I’d say it’s stress related. Perhaps if you stop talking about it, it might improve,” Edward says sharply.
Mrs. C’s lips purse. She says nothing, but the air around us crackles with the sheer force of her silent judgment.
I’ve never been more grateful for Edward’s medical degree. Or his ability to shut down his mother without actually telling her to shut up.
“Thank you, Edward,” Sophia says lightly, forcing a laugh, trying to smooth over the tension. “Yes, Mum, let’s move on to something more fun. Nobody wants to discuss my rash over dinner.”
I swallow, shifting in my seat.
Why does it still feel like I did something wrong?
Edward defended me. Sophia said she had fun. But my skin prickles with unease, like maybe I misread the whole thing.
Giles raises his glass. “Cheers, everyone. Thank you for joining us this evening.”
The table follows suit, murmuring our cheers as glasses clink together.
I give Edward a soft smile, but my nerves are fucking shot, so I take a very large gulp of wine.
If I feel like this—as Sophia’s childhood best friend, as her maid of honor—then how the hell would I feel sitting at this table as the despised, gold-digging girlfriend of the eldest Cavendish?
“Are you bringing anyone to the wedding, Edward?” Imogen asks. She’s been waiting to ask this. I can tell.
We haven’t even discussed this. But he’s not taking someone else. Right?
Edward doesn’t so much as glance my way. “No, I’m not.”
Before I can exhale in relief, Mrs. C swoops in. “I honestly don’t know why you haven’t asked Lucia. Such a lovely lady. And she clearly thinks very dearly of you. You’d make such a wonderful couple.”
My entire body goes rigid. Fantastic. Not only am I the wrong sort of girlfriend, there’s apparently a pre-approved replacement waiting in the wings.
Edward stiffens across from me, his jaw tightening. “Lucia is a friend.”
“A friend?” Mrs. C scoffs. “A woman like Lucia wouldn’t stay single for long.”
“Let’s drop this,” he says curtly.
“I’m only saying, it’s not too late. A plus-one wouldn’t be amiss at the wedding. It’s time you started looking for a new partner in life. Millie would have wanted that.”
“I’m not looking to replace Millie,” he says sharply.
I glance at him, searching his face for something. Some small flicker of reassurance. A tiny indication of don’t take that the wrong way, Daisy.
But his face is unreadable, his posture tense, like he’s been forced into this conversation rather than choosing to be in it.
“Stop ribbing him, Mum.” Charlie chuckles, swirling his whiskey. “He’s having a midlife crisis. Rumor at the hospital is that he’s seeing some young lass.”
I freeze, wineglass halfway to my mouth.
Edward’s hand goes to his neck—his tell when he’s agitated—and shoots his brother a look.
The room suddenly feels too warm.
“I’m not seeing anyone,” he says, his voice clipped. “Nothing that needs announcing.”
My fingers twitch.
I take another sip of wine.
I don’t taste it. I’m too busy trying to murder Edward with my eyes.
The more I drink, the more everything starts twisting in my head.
The glamping trip. Charlie’s smug little dig about his brother’s midlife crisis— ha, hilarious, you prick —and Edward just brushing us off like we’re nothing. Nothing that needs announcing.
Did he mean it? Did he fucking mean it ?
Okay, fine , we agreed not to tell people yet, but he didn’t need to fucking say that, did he?
I wasn’t expecting him to stand up, bang his fist on the table, and announce to the entire Cavendish bloodline that he’s madly in love with me. But he could’ve softened the blow. A simple Yeah, I’m seeing someone would’ve been enough. It would’ve primed his family for something more down the road, for the moment we actually decided to tell people.
Instead, he dismissed it like it was irrelevant, and that stings.
So when my phone buzzes with Lizzie’s text— At ClubX! Get your arse down here NOW x —it feels like the universe throwing me a lifeline.
I can be in London in an hour if I grab a cab to the train station right now. I need to blow off some steam.
Edward hasn’t even glanced my way since Charlie’s comment, just carried on like nothing happened, smooth as ever, as if he didn’t just gut-punch me with five careless words.
We’ve just finished some dainty dessert I was too angry to taste. A couple of the more sensible guests have already made their escape. This is my chance.
“Sophia, love, do you mind if I head off?”
“Of course not, darling. Thank you so much for coming.” Her warmth only twists the knife deeper—why can’t her brother sound like that?
Edward’s eyes meet mine. “Are you staying at your mother’s or going back to London?” His tone is casual. His gaze is not.
“London,” I say, airy as anything, grabbing my bag. “Meeting Lizzie at a club.”
His jaw tightens, a flicker of something sharp and unamused in his gaze. “It’s ten o’clock. By the time you get there, it’ll be eleven.”
“Good thing the club doesn’t close until four then.”
His voice drops. “Are you serious?”
Sophia’s eyes dart between us.
“Yes,” I say sweetly, playing up the nonchalance even as my pulse thrums. I turn to Sophia, deliberately ignoring the heat of Edward’s stare burning into me.
“You go and have fun,” she says, pulling me into a hug. She throws Edward a look. “Don’t listen to that big grump, you’re a free woman.”
Edward’s chair scrapes back so fast it nearly topples. “I’ll drive you back to London if that’s where you want to go.”
I freeze for half a second. “That won’t be necessary. I’m perfectly fine.”
“No, you’re not,” he says flatly. “You’ve had an entire bottle of wine.”
“So?” I cross my arms, feeling about twelve years old but too wine-brave to care.
“You’re not getting in a cab to the station alone at this hour, drunk .”
Sophia shifts uncomfortably beside me, her eyes flicking between us. “Thanks, Edward. That’s very kind of you.”
Except I don’t see him as being kind to me right now. I don’t want a lift anywhere. I just want him to make me feel like I matter.
“Where you heading, Daisy?” Hugo pipes up, oblivious or maybe just bored.
I smile. “A club to join my mate, Lizzie, you fancy it?”
He shrugs, easy as ever. “Sure thing. Sounds like a laugh.”
Edward goes still. His eyes catch mine and hold. “Daisy.”
It’s said as a warning. I ignore it.
I snatch my wineglass and down the dregs in one defiant gulp, the rebel in me roaring to life. “Great. It’s settled then.”
Edward makes a noise—a sharp exhale, like he’s biting back a reaction. His hand goes to his collar, tugging aggressively. “Actually, I need to discuss something with Daisy before she leaves.”
Oh, hell no. He doesn’t get to boss me around, not after treating me like an afterthought all night.
“Sorry!” I chirp. “Hugo and I have a train to catch. Some other time.”
Edward’s eyes burn into mine, storm-grey. The look promises consequences I’m probably too tipsy to properly fear.
Sophia shoots Edward a cautious glance, then stands. “I’ll walk you out, darling.”
I hesitate, but she’s moving, and I’ve got no choice but to follow. Hugo chats with her like nothing’s wrong, while the air between me and Edward chokes with everything unsaid.
By the time we hit the front door, the tension’s so thick you’d need one of Edward’s surgical scalpels to cut through it.
I can’t tell if I’m glaring at Edward too obviously—if Sophia’s noticed. But judging by the wary glance she flicks between us, I suspect she has.