CHAPTER 37
Daisy
I wake up with a mouth like sandpaper and a skull that feels like it’s been cracked open and stuffed with regret.
Everything feels wrong.
The air in my flat hangs stale, as if it gave up circulating hours ago and decided to just sit there. The light clawing through my curtains isn’t light—it’s a pack of tiny, spiteful daggers, jabbing me right in the eyeballs.
I groan, rolling onto my back, but the second I move, my stomach lurches in protest.
Then the memories start creeping in.
Edward. Standing in that pulsing, sweaty club. Jaw tight, eyes cold. The clipped edge of his voice cutting through the bass as he told me I was drunk. That it was late. That I should come home with him. Not just annoyed. Furious. Proper, veins-popping, I-might-actually-throttle-you furious.
I squeeze my eyes shut to stint the flow of memories.
Oh god, what have I done? I dragged Edward to a nightclub, of all places.
My last memory is . . . oh fuck . . . me, swinging wildly on that bloody trapeze in the middle of the dance floor, legs flailing in the air, probably shrieking like a banshee, just as his broad back disappeared through the exit door. The grand exit of a man who’s had enough.
It felt like a brilliant idea at the time—pure, stupid fun, plastering over the sting from that awful dinner, even if the hurt was still gnawing at me under all the glitter and sweat.
I was a brat. A proper, tantrum-throwing, lipstick-smeared brat.
I just wanted to let off steam after that stressful dinner. That was the innocent plan. A few drinks with Lizzie, a quick dance, then home like a good girl. Not a full-scale descent into party bitch mayhem.
But no, I couldn’t stop there. One second, I’m sipping a cocktail, the next, I’m climbing onto a trapeze like some feral, unhinged creature who has no regard for the consequences.
And now the memories are crashing in, each one more mortifying than the last.
The conga line—me leading it, obviously, dragging strangers out.
The flaming shots at the bar, tossed back.
Trying to physically yank Edward onto the dance floor, his face grim. That was my cue to stop, wasn’t it? But did I?
Oh no. Because then—oh-ho, the pièce de résistance—the fucking trapeze.
Who puts a trapeze in a club? Who does that? It’s entrapment. It’s practically begging a disaster like me to climb up and make everything worse. And I did. I bloody well did.
But that’s my brand, isn’t it? Getting carried away, spinning wildly out of control, exhausting everyone—myself included —with my own self-sabotage. I can’t just have a quiet, sophisticated drink like a normal person. I have to turn it into a literal circus, complete with a grand finale of Edward walking out while I dangle above it all, proving once again that I’m my own worst enemy.
My greatest fear is that he thinks I’m too young and too reckless, too much of a walking bin fire to be with him.
And look what I did.
I proved him right.
In fact, I didn’t just prove him right—I handed him a highlighted, annotated essay titled “Why I’m a Liability” with a trapeze-shaped bow on top. I’m devoted to proving him right, aren’t I?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I shove my face into the pillow, groaning so hard it’s practically a scream, but the fabric just muffles it into a pathetic whimper.
The worst part is, I can see it all so clearly now.
The way he had stood beneath me, rigid with tension, shouting up for me to come down because it’s a work night, Daisy.
The way I’d laughed—actually laughed—and shouted back “I didn’t invite you here, Edward.”
I just kept on swinging.
And then he was gone. Broad back vanishing through the doors while I dangled there, mid-swing, too pissed and proud to notice I’d just torched everything.
The second he left, it shifted. The air, the night, me—all of it. Too stupid to clock it until the club lights dimmed and I was just a sweaty, swaying mess with no one to catch me. Literally, because I fell off the trapeze five minutes later.
My fingers shake as I reach for my phone. Nothing. No missed calls, no texts, just my own desperate string of messages staring back at me. Five of them.
1:47 a.m. Edward I’m sorry
2:03 a.m. Pls talk to me
2:19 a.m. I didn’t mean it I swear
3:01 a.m. I’m an idiot
4:12 a.m. (after sobbing into a kebab): Don’t hate me
Oh, stellar work, me. Really sealed the deal there.
I lick my dry lips—tastes like gin and shame—and the nausea claws higher up my throat. I’d puke but I think my stomach is too depressed to even bother . It’s like, we’ve been through enough, mate, let’s not add vomit to the mix.
I stare at the ceiling.
I was in full self-destruct mode last night. The way I always am when I know I’m going to fail at something—might as well speed up the process, right? Like Moll bloody Hackabout in that painting, watching everything slip away but too stubborn to stop it. Except Moll didn’t have a trapeze, did she?
And that rehearsal dinner—Mrs. Cavendish’s disdain, the whispers about Lucia, Edward’s nothing that needs announcing comment—had made me feel so out of place.
All I want is to feel safe. To know where I stand.
But with Edward, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the moment he kissed me.
Maybe last night, I finally kicked the damn shoe off myself.
Maybe I pushed him too far.
Maybe I let my anger over one comment spiral into something worse.
I grab my phone, heart hammering so hard it could be fear or the gin still sloshing around my bloodstream.
It rings and rings and rings, each one making my stomach twist tighter, until finally—voicemail.
This is Dr. Cavendish. I’m unavailable right now, but please leave a message.
I try again. Voicemail.
Panic crawls up my throat, thick and choking.
He’s ignoring me.
Or maybe he’s in surgery? He could be in surgery. Right? I think he said something about that last night.
I hurl my phone onto the bed like it’s burned me and stumble to my feet.
The whole flat feels wrong, like someone’s nudged every object two inches left just to fuck with me.
The hum of the fridge is too loud. Even my own breathing sounds too loud, competing with the deafening silence of my phone.
I take a shower, turning the water up scalding hot, letting it scorch my skin, but it doesn’t burn away the tension.
I scrub my flat like it’s the scene of a fucking crime, like if I bleach the counters and vacuum the carpets and rearrange the throw pillows just right, maybe I can erase the sick feeling in my stomach.
I glance at my phone every five minutes.
Nothing. Not a text, not a call, not even a bloody carrier pigeon with a note saying You’re a nightmare, cheers for that.
I consider texting him again.
I don’t.
I don’t even eat all day.
By the time evening comes, I am a wreck.
Every noise makes my head snap toward my phone. Every vibration makes my stomach flip. Every passing hour makes my dread sink deeper, until I’m half convinced I’ll die alone in this flat, surrounded by perfectly aligned pillows and a fridge that hates me.
Finally, just as I’ve resigned myself to a lifetime of silent self-loathing—my phone rings.
Edward.
I nearly drop it, my fingers fumbling as I scramble to answer.
“ Hi! ” The word bursts out of me.
The silence that follows feels endless before his voice comes through. “Hi.”
Everything about his tone is wrong. The lack of warmth. The absence of affection.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “How was your day?”
Another long, uncomfortable pause.
“It could have been better,” he says finally.
My stomach clenches.
I did this.
“ Oh ,” I whisper. My fingers curl into the hem of my hoodie. “I’m sorry I didn’t go home with you last night.”
“Yes, well.” His voice is measured, distant. “You made your priorities quite clear. You wanted to stay out. I wanted to go home and sleep.”
Why does this sound like he’s talking about something bigger?
“Why . . . what happened today?”
He exhales, and when he speaks, his tone is clipped. “I had a serious surgery. It’s . . . fine.”
I swallow hard. “Did it go okay?”
“Just about.”
Of course he was exhausted. He spent all day literally holding someone’s life in his hands while I was sleeping off my tantrum.
I am going to be sick. I am actually going to projectile-vomit onto the floor.
“Edward, I’m really sorry,” I whisper, the words pathetically small against the weight of what he’s telling me.
“It’s not your fault,” he says, but it feels like it is. “It’s mine. I’m responsible for my own actions. Anything I do or don’t do in theater is entirely my responsibility.”
I hear it then, in his clipped tone and perfect pronunciation—he’s not mad at me. He’s furious with himself.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—to fix this, but he cuts in first.
“I don’t have the mental capacity to do this right now. We can discuss it tomorrow.”
Everything inside me goes arctic cold.
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Sure,” I croak.
A beat of silence. Then, “Good night,” before the line goes dead.
I stare at my phone through burning eyes, tears already tracking down my cheeks.
Because he’s right.
He is responsible for his own actions.
And I am responsible for mine.
And I fucked up. I am the most selfish asshole in the history of selfish assholes.
I don’t think. I don’t overanalyze.
I just go.
I show up at his house the next evening uninvited, heart pounding, hands shaking.
Because if I sit in my flat for another second, I’ll spiral.
The buzzer sounds like a death knell in the quiet Primrose Hill street.
Silence.
My stomach lurches. That’s bad.
I hear footsteps, then the door swings open.
Edward fills the doorway, looking like he hasn’t slept. Those deep blue eyes look tired as they find mine.
He doesn’t kiss me.
That’s worse.
The weight of everything I might have ruined crashes over me, and suddenly I’m crying—proper, ugly crying that I couldn’t stop if I tried.
Something shifts in his expression. He exhales roughly before pulling me against his chest.
I collapse into him, fists bunching in his shirt, shoulders shaking as I sob.
“I’m sorry for being a brat,” I choke out against the fabric, my voice muffled and miserable. “It’s just . . . being at your mum’s house, that dinner, I just wanted to let my hair down, you know? But I didn’t mean to go full-on Ibiza teen on her first dodgy package holiday.”
He huffs a small laugh, but his arms tighten around me. “It’s fine. And I really am sorry for what I said at the meal. I never meant to hurt you.”
“It’s not fine, though,” I say, shaking my head against his chest. “It’s not fine that you were tired for work, that I made it worse—I don’t want that, Edward. I don’t want to be someone who drains you.”
His arms stay firm around me, but I can feel the tension humming through them. “Daisy—”
“When you’re with someone,” I continue, voice wobbling, “you’re supposed to bring out the best in them. Not the worst. And I was selfish.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his thumb swiping at my tears with this soft, steady touch that doesn’t match the hard line of his mouth.
“It’s not your fault that I worry about you,” he says quietly. “It’s not your fault that I think about you all the time. That’s my problem, no one else’s. If my discipline slipped, that’s on me. But—” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “It does worry me, Daisy. That we’re at different points in our lives. That we approach things so . . . differently. And that should concern us both.”
I blink up at him, my whole body suddenly cold despite his hands still holding me. Tears cling to my lashes, stubborn little bastards.
“But . . . don’t opposites attract?” I whisper, barely audible, terrified of the answer.
Is this it? Is he done?
“Of course they attract,” he says roughly. “I’m insanely attracted to you. But attraction isn’t enough. Things need to work in reality. On a practical level.”
I hate the way he sounds. Like he’s thought about this. Really thought about it. Like this isn’t some knee-jerk reaction to me making a fool of myself two nights ago. Like this has been turning over in his head for days, maybe weeks.
“Okay, maybe we’re at different stages in our lives,” I admit, forcing my voice to steady. “But maybe you’re not as old and boring as you think you are.”
That earns me a small quirk of his brow, like he wants to be amused but won’t allow himself to be.
“And maybe I’m not as young and immature as you think I am,” I continue. “Maybe we could meet in the middle. Or maybe the whole point is that we don’t match. Maybe it’s the difference that makes it work.”
I hold my breath.
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and something inside me crumples a little.
“Daisy . . .” His voice is soft. It feels like a prelude to goodbye. “My life is held together by pressure and control. Hospitals. Family. Expectation. And then there’s you.”
He says it like I’m a disruption. A fond one, maybe. But still a disruption.
“You walk in with all that color and noise and chaos. With your infectious smile, your boundless enthusiasm, your bubbliness.”
What the fuck is he saying?
“But does one thing cancel out the other?” My voice cracks. “Does my bubbliness overcome the fact that we’re in different stages of our lives?”
Because I can’t lose him.
But I can feel it—this conversation hovering on the edge of something dangerous.
Am I good enough for this Cavendish? The question screams inside my head.
I can’t be back here again.
“Daisy, your bubbliness shouldn’t have to cancel out anything.”
Shouldn’t.
Not doesn’t .
“Look, you didn’t do anything wrong. You wanted to stay out. You’re a grown woman. You have every right.”
He pauses, jaw tightening, as if he’s wrestling with what comes next. “But I can’t turn it off. I can’t stop feeling responsible for you, worrying about you. But I also have duties. And in my line of work, my responsibilities must come first.”
My stomach tightens. Because him blaming himself is somehow a thousand times worse than if he’d just told me I’m a mess who needs to grow up. If this was my fault, I could fix it.
I could try to be better. Try to show him I fit into his world, that I’m worth fitting into his world.
But I can’t change the way he’s already backing away, setting these careful boundaries without actually saying the words.
And I don’t know if I’m supposed to fight that. If I even can.
“Am I allowed to come in?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds. Like I’m asking permission to exist in his space.
“Yes. Of course.”
I shift awkwardly, still lingering in the doorway. “Are you happy to see me, or are you just being polite?”
He takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my face up to his. He studies me for a long moment, saying nothing. The silence is terrifying.
Then he smiles. Not a big, reassuring grin. A small, tired, sad smile. “Do you really think I’d be this conflicted if I was just being polite? The problem isn’t that I don’t want to see you. The problem is how much I do.”
Something inside me cracks.
“I just want to make you happy,” I whisper.
His thumb brushes over my cheek. “You make me happy.”
He threads his fingers through mine. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s get some sleep.”
His hand is warm in mine, grounding. I grip it tighter as we move upstairs, determined to keep him from slipping away again.
An early night with my man . That’s all I want. I want to curl up against him, bury myself in his arms, prove to him—physically, emotionally—that this works . That we work.
He strips off his shirt and trousers, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks exhausted.
I duck into the bathroom to freshen up, needing a moment to gather myself.
Splashing cold water on my face, I stare hard at my reflection. You’ve got this , I mutter under my breath, a little pep talk to myself.
I brush my teeth too fast, spit, rinse, run a hand through my hair. Then I step back out, ready to climb into bed, press myself against him, feel his hands on me—something solid, something real to seal this fragile truce between us.
But when I emerge, heart pounding in my throat, he’s already asleep.