CHAPTER 39
Daisy
“So, are you gonna tell me why you rejected my invitation then changed your mind at the last minute?” Mike asks, smoothing down the lapels of his tux.
“Oh, you know me,” I say airily. “Just needed an excuse to wear this old thing.”
Absolute, shameless lies. I panic-purchased this dress today for an amount that still makes my heart hurt.
To be fair, it was worth it.
A barely-there shade of nude silk that clings in all the right places, dips scandalously low down my back, and boasts a slit so high it could probably be arrested for indecent exposure. It’s the kind of dress that demands attention—and gets it.
Mike’s gaze flicks over me, his brows lifting appreciatively. “‘This old thing’?” He lets out a low whistle. “Daisy, you’d have to be blind not to notice that every single eye in this room is glued to you right now.”
His words send another wave of butterflies fluttering through my stomach, colliding with the dread already pooled there.
“Flatterer,” I breathe, trying to mask the tension in my voice.
The problem is that tonight, out of all these eyes tracking me, I only care about two.
Two that may or may not be here.
Two that, if they are here, belong to a man who deliberately didn’t tell me he’d be here.
And now I’m stuck in this horrific mental tug-of-war between wanting him to be here— wanting him to see me like this, looking like a Hollywood starlet, if I do say so myself—and praying he’s not.
Because if he is, it confirms my fears. Edward brushes this off because he doesn’t want to be seen with me in public. And fuck, that hurts.
We snag champagne from a server who’s smiling like she knows I’m a fraud, and the first sip hits me like a fizzy punch to the gut.
This whole night—this ridiculous, self-inflicted test I’ve set up for myself—is going to eat me alive.
It’s ridiculous how much money and emotion I’ve invested in something so trivial and childish.
But I need to know whether my fears are all in my head. I need to know how Edward would react if he sees me at the same public event as him.
I flash Mike a shaky grin as we step into the ballroom.
It’s like a Great Gatsby party—entertainers weaving through the crowd, roulette tables spinning in the corner surrounded by men in tuxes and women dripping in diamonds. Over by the stage, an auction’s underway—dances with the Strictly Come Dancing crew, no less.
If I weren’t on this ridiculous undercover mission of mine, I’d be lapping it up.
I can’t concentrate on anything because my body’s playing a cruel game: every time I spot a tall man in a tux, my heart launches itself into my throat, only to plummet just as fast when I realize it’s not him.
It’s pathetic.
But my traitorous nervous system has already committed to this spiral, and there’s fuck all I can do about it.
Dark hair? Broad shoulders? Heart spike. Reality check. Heart drop. Rinse and repeat until Daisy is reduced to a skittish mess.
I am actively scanning the room for a man who never even considered I might be here.
But wait—I’m just at a work thing, right? And so is he. So what if they happen to be the same work thing?
It’s hardly a big deal.
I shouldn’t feel so anxious.
Mike’s hand rests lightly against my lower back as he guides us toward the bar. “Bloody hell,” he mutters, scanning the scene. “They’ve gone all out, haven’t they?”
I let out a weird, sharp laugh—pure nerves. Nothing funny about it.
He squints at me, smirking. “Must say, Wilson, you’re very jittery this evening. Is it nerves at being in my devastatingly handsome company?” His smirk deepens. “Because you know I’m a sure thing—no need to impress me.”
I roll my eyes, forcing a smirk. “Yes, I know you’re a sure thing. And no, I’m not jittery. I’m fine.”
Massive fucking lie.
“Hmm.” His eyebrows climb. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had a line in the bathroom and didn’t share the fun.”
I snort. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve just had a long week and am a bit out of it.”
“Well then, that calls for shots.” He steers me toward the bar. “Besides, I don’t trust a room full of people who look like they don’t know how to have fun. We’re going to need reinforcements.”
My fingers won’t stop trembling as I fiddle with my dress strap, broadcasting my anxiety to the world.
The crowd is exactly what I expected—men in black tie, women in tasteful evening gowns. I stand out in my dress—tight, daring, no bra to be found. Men are looking at me.
I let out a jagged breath. This was the plan, wasn’t it? If Edward is here, then I’m going to make sure he notices only me.
Come on, Daisy, grow some lady balls, for crying out loud.
Mike leans in close as he flags down the tequila, flashing that cheeky grin of his. “Gotta say, I was over the moon when you roped me into this little date night.”
“It’s not a date,” I shoot back.
He slaps a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “Ouch, Wilson. Straight to the heart.”
The bartender slides our shots across, and I grab the salt, exhaling hard. “Let’s just drink, yeah?”
“Fine by me,” he says, raising his glass. “To us—the only two in this room who look like they actually know how to have fun.”
I nod, but it’s half-hearted. My eyes are darting around, scanning the crowd like some desperate detective. Because those eyes—those deep, gorgeous blue ones I’d know anywhere? They’re nowhere.
Edward isn’t here.
Two hours into this endless night, and I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve looped this damn conference hall. Probably a dozen, if Mike’s increasingly dramatic sighs are any clue.
My heels are actively assaulting my feet, my g-string’s wedged so far up my ass it’s practically flossing my brain, and my palms are so clammy I’m half tempted to wipe them on the next posh git who brushes past.
I’m dead certain now: if Edward were here, I’d have spotted him.
There are hundreds of people packed into this space, but I’ve been circling for so long I’m recognizing faces now—the guy with the bad comb-over by the bar, the woman in peacock blue who keeps checking her phone. And then there’s this poor sod with a smear of canapé—salmon mousse, I reckon—stuck to his forehead, everyone sidestepping him too politely to say a word, leaving him blissfully unaware he’s a walking buffet.
Up front, the giant screen’s been flashing through photos of award-winning doctors, healthcare advocates, and random do-gooders in the medical world for the past hour.
I’ve been watching that screen as obsessively as I’ve been scanning the crowd, half expecting Edward’s face to pop up and punch me right in the gut.
My nerves are fucking shot.
And I have no one to blame but myself. Brilliant, Daisy, top marks for self-inflicted carnage.
I shelled out hundreds of pounds for this dress, all for what? To play some unhinged game of hide-and-seek with a guy who isn’t even here?
I could’ve just asked him. But no, I went full-on stalker instead, and now I’m drowning in my own pathetic desperation.
Mike and I have ended up at one of the roulette tables down on the lower level.
He’s placing bets, I’m not—I’ve already lost enough for one night, what with the cost of this outfit and my rapidly deteriorating self-respect.
The roulette wheel spins, the ball clatters, and Mike groans. “Damn it.” He drags a hand through his hair and asks, “Another drink?” his words slurring into each other. He’s way drunker than I am, and I can’t blame him—I’ve been a ghost of a date, barely listening, offering weak smiles while my eyes keep hunting the room.
He’s on to me, too. I can tell. Poor bastard’s bored out of his skull.
I sigh, finally hitting my limit. Enough is enough.
Time to call it. Go home. Sleep off the champagne. Maybe text Edward tomorrow like a normal human being, suggest a chilled Sunday walk through Primrose Hill, instead of . . . whatever this is.
“I think I’m done for the night,” I say, exhaling tension I’ve been carrying for the last two hours. “You okay with that?”
Mike shrugs, but there’s a flash of disappointment in his eyes that he doesn’t bother hiding. “Word is there’s some crazy afterparty at that celeb chef’s place. I might head to it.”
“Sounds fun,” I reply, waving a hand vaguely. “Sorry I’ve been so . . . out of it tonight.”
“No stress, Wilson. Let’s grab your coat.” He slings a heavy hand across my back to steer me through the crowd. His breath is pure whiskey fumes, and honestly, if I were him, I’d be face-down in bed already. He’s going to be a trainwreck tomorrow.
I slide my empty flute onto a waiter’s tray, relief washing over me. Done. Over.
Mike, meanwhile, snags another glass.
“Seriously?” I arch a brow.
He grins, raising his glass.
“Oh my god, Mike, your hangover’s gonna be—” I start, but the words choke off mid-sentence.
Because there he is, across the hall.
Tall. Broad. The perfect cut of a tuxedo, his dark jacket molding to those shoulders. One hand tucked into his trouser pocket, the other gripping a champagne flute.
My stomach plummets. Hard.
He’s not alone.
Lucia stands beside him, every inch the kind of woman who belongs at an event like this. Poised. Elegant. Wearing a respectable cocktail dress that actually reaches her knees, rather than some slinky, showstopper number.
She leans in, says something with a smile, like they’re in on some private joke.
Edward tilts his head toward her, and my heart stops dead. Is he smiling? Laughing?
It’s a date. A fucking date .
Lucia was good enough to be seen with him in public. But not me.
I can’t breathe.
“Oi.” Mike nudges me. “Where’d you go? You’re off with the fairies tonight.”
I blink. Swallow hard against the lump in my throat. Get a fucking grip .
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I rasp.
I am not fucking fine.
Edward shifts, his stance easing, and oh god, he’s turning this way.
Before I can think, I duck—full-on, cartoon-level duck —behind a massive pillar.
My heart hammers mercilessly against my ribs, blood roaring in my ears.
What the actual fuck am I doing?
I press a hand to my chest, forcing air into my lungs. My dress feels too tight now, like the satin is suffocating me, squeezing my breath right out of me.
Old Daisy would’ve marched straight over like a woman scorned, splashed champagne in his face or draped myself over Mike just to watch Edward squirm.
But no. New Daisy is balanced and mature. She’s not that girl anymore. She doesn’t cause scenes in venues filled with Britain’s most important medical professionals.
New Daisy can hold it together—have her night, go home solo, no tantrums, no theatrics.
Tomorrow, I’ll call him, casual as you like. Hey, what’d you get up to last night?
Allow him the chance to be honest. Or give him the rope to hang himself with.
I saw what I needed to see. Evidence collected. Case fucking closed until tomorrow.
I’ll handle it when I’m not a shaking mess.
“You okay?” Mike asks, swaying slightly beside me.
“Yeah.” I force a smile, smoothing down my dress like I didn’t just have a complete mental breakdown behind a pillar. “Just felt a bit dizzy for a second. Come on, let’s go.”
I suck in a deep breath, steel myself, and push through the crowd toward the exit. Mike stumbles after me, still oblivious, still chattering, but I don’t hear him. Almost there, almost free—
Except I make the mistake of looking up.
The screen flips to the next bio, and my stomach sinks even lower. There’s Lucia, glowing up there, her perfect portrait staring down at me while her accomplishments scroll underneath.
Of course she’s up there. Of course she’s brilliant, beautiful, the whole damn package.
She’s not just good enough to be seen with Edward in public—she’s the kind of woman they celebrate in public.
I grip my clutch so tight I might have squeezed mascara from the tube.
“Oh, fuck all the way off,” I whisper brokenly.
Mike follows my stare, squints up at the screen, and snorts. “Looks like she’s got a permanent stick up her ass, if you ask me.” He glances my way. “What, you know her?”
In that moment I decide I love Mike. Well, not literally—but at least he distracts me from feeling distraught for a few precious seconds.
I try to laugh, but my throat’s so tight, the sound barely makes it out. “No, I don’t know her.” My eyes sting like hell, hot tears prickling at the edges of my vision. I blink them back furiously.
I turn to Mike. “You know what? Screw it—let’s hit that afterparty after all.”
Mike’s eyebrows fly up, his mouth curling into a smirk. “Yeah? Brilliant! It’s on Dean Street in Soho—this guy has a killer apartment, it’s—”
His words fade into white noise. I nod mechanically but I am seconds away from bursting into tears.
In my clutch, my phone vibrates and I jerk so hard you’d think someone had just fired a gun beside my head. My fingers fumble at the clasp as I scramble to pry it open. The moment my fingertips graze the screen, my breath snags in my throat.
Edward:
What are you up to? X
I snap my head up, scanning the room like some paranoid assassin. Is he watching me? Nothing—just a sea of interchangeable pricks in tuxedos.
The audacity of this man.
Me:
At home. So bored. What are you up to?
No kisses. Kisses are for people who deserve to be kissed. Not for people who deserve to be swan-dived into the Thames wearing concrete boots.
I glance at Mike and snag a champagne flute off a passing waiter’s tray. He chuckles and I shrug, no trace of a smile. “One for the road.” One for the mess. One for the fact that I should have yeeted my phone into an ice bucket the second I saw his name light up my screen.
I sneak a look while taking a huge gulp. Two ticks. He’s read it. He’s online. But he’s not typing. He goes offline again.
Another gulp.
What an absolute grade-A prick .
I should have learned my fucking lesson.
Edward will never accept me for who I am.
Every warning sign was there. Did I listen? No. I was too busy being an optimistic idiot.
First, there was the Tate incident, where I got upgraded from secret girlfriend to secret niece. A thrilling new development in the family tree—just not in the direction anyone would want.
Then there was the “nothing that needs announcing” comment at the rehearsal dinner.
And yes, I was in the wrong for acting like a brat and going out that night. I know that. But I am not always in the wrong.
Edward can whisper all the right things in private. He can play the devoted lover behind closed doors.
But the facts remain—when it comes to publicly acknowledging me, he won’t.
The champagne turns on me, fizz rushing up my throat so violently I nearly snort it out of my nose.
I’m not here to make a scene. And frankly I don’t have the emotional strength to.
I set my glass down and turn to Mike. “Ready?”
He nods, and we weave toward the door.
That last champagne’s really kicking in now—I can feel its buzz.
We’re almost at the door when we hit a bottleneck, a bunch of people stalled by some red-carpet setup. Photographers are snapping away, their flashes popping at a handful of D-list celebs.
There’s this blonde I vaguely recognize—some reality TV type, maybe?—posing with an exaggerated pout and her ass jutted out at an awkward, almost painful angle. It’s the kind of pose that’ll look great in photos but, in real life, is just fucking ridiculous.
I don’t know if it’s the champagne, my nerves, or just how ridiculous she looks, but a giggle sneaks out before I can stop it.
Mike catches it and grabs my hand, grinning. “Come on, let’s get one for the photo board.”
I yank back. “Us? Yeah, I’m sure they’re dying to capture two nobodies.”
But he’s not listening as he pulls me toward the commotion of the photo area.
“We’re up next,” he crows.
The cameras keep flashing, and before I can brace myself, his arm’s around my waist. He dips me—low, way too low—my hair practically mopping the floor.
This dress was made for standing still, not for whatever deranged Dancing with the Stars stunt he’s attempting. I flail, caught between laughter and a full-blown scream.
“Mike!” I yelp just as he lands a sloppy, wet kiss on my lips.
I shove at his chest as I try to haul us both upright. But I misjudge it—he’s way drunker than I realized, his balance shot to hell. My push sends him reeling, and I’m caught up in his flailing arms, our feet tangling like we’re in some slapstick nightmare. We’re teetering, the red carpet slick under my heels, and then— crash —we slam into the little high-top table at the edge of the photo area. It’s littered with the night’s leftovers: half-drunk champagne flutes, smudged martini glasses, a graveyard of everyone else’s bad decisions.
The whole thing tips, and the mess comes raining down—sticky liquid splashing everywhere, glass shattering across the carpet.
The cold hits me first, champagne soaking into my dress as I gasp, arms pinwheeling for balance. The cameras keep flashing, popping like strobe lights, catching every second of this disaster in high-def.
“Oh, fuck me!” I gasp, staring down. My nude-toned gown is now a wet, clingy disaster, practically sheer.
“You dick,” I hiss at Mike, glaring daggers at him.
He just stands there, blinking at me, stunned.
“Shit,” he mumbles, wincing as he grabs a napkin from the mess around us. “Sorry, Daisy—” He leans in, awkwardly dabbing at my chest.
“Get off ,” I grumble, swatting him away and snagging the napkin for myself. My hands are shaking as I scrub at the wet patch, but it’s pointless. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, I might as well be naked now.”
“I mean . . . if you’re offering.” Mike grins.
I glare at him, genuinely considering murder.
“Ah don’t be like that, I really am sorry, Daisy.”
I swipe at my dress, but the napkin’s already disintegrating in my hands.
Mike’s expression shifts. His smirk vanishes like it was never there, his eyes flicking past me—widening, sharpening.
“You good, mate?” he says, tilting his chin at someone over my shoulder.
I turn, and there he is.
Edward.