CHAPTER 43
Daisy
“You need to eat, love. I got you a sandwich from Pret—your comfort food, the posh ham and cheese one with the mustard.” Lizzie dangles the bag in front of me, her wide, worried eyes screaming, Please don’t make me stage an intervention .
“Thanks.” I attempt a smile, but my face feels stiff, like I’ve forgotten how to arrange it properly. “I’m not that hungry, though.”
Lizzie’s not buying the act. Her eyes narrow. “Have you eaten dinner?”
I pause. “Not much.”
“So nothing. Lunch?”
I stare down at my hands, noticing vaguely that I’ve picked my nail polish completely off three nails. Wardrobe will go nuts. “I just . . . my appetite’s gone. Had a banana around one, though.”
“A banana? Around one ? Christ, that’s not a meal—that’s a sad little snack a toddler would turn their nose up at.”
Before I can muster a defense, she shoves the sandwich into my hands.
My fingers fumble around it, slow and clumsy. I peel back the wrapper—more to appease her than anything else—and take a reluctant nibble.
The bread feels dry, the cheese rubbery and flavorless, sticking to the roof of my mouth.
Normally, I’d be waxing poetic about Pret’s ham—salty, smoky perfection with that mustard kick.
Truth is, I don’t want food. I don’t want anything. My body feels like it’s staging a protest against basic human functions. Lovesick, I guess. Or heartbroken. Or maybe just because Edward and Sophia are right, I do love the drama.
A week has passed since that nightmare at the ball.
And in all that time, I haven’t heard a word from either of them. No calls, no texts. Just the echo of that horrible night replaying in my head.
And I haven’t attempted contact either, obviously. There is simply nothing further to say.
It’s over. Done. A chapter closed. In an awful, gut-wrenching, cruel kind of way, but, you know, that’s just how it is.
I’ve made my peace with it. Or I will, when I’ve gotten over the heartbreak.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I jolt like I’ve been tasered, fumbling to yank it out.
“Your face right now,” Lizzie says, her voice softening to a murmur. “You look like you’re waiting for a firing squad. Is it . . . ?”
I glance at the screen, pulse roaring in my ears. “It’s Mum,” I mutter, my tone flatlining as the adrenaline crashes.
Relief or disappointment? No bloody idea. It’s stupid because I know he’s not going to make contact.
Another fake smile tugs at my lips—my new default setting, apparently.
This is me now: heart doing a little jig every time my phone pings, only to belly-flop when it’s not him.
I spend hours —actual hours —talking myself into the fact that it’s done. Over. Nothing left to mourn. Only for my stupid heart to grasp at something that’s not there the second there’s a ping. And then I have to start all over again.
What am I even waiting for? A text saying it was all a misunderstanding? A bloody skywriter spelling out I’m sorry over London?
Lizzie’s shoulders slump, and I catch the flicker of disappointment in her eyes too, which I hate.
One sec , I mouth, stepping into a quieter corner of the studio. I jam a finger into my ear to muffle the background buzz—the clatter of props, Simon barking orders—and hit answer.
“Mum?”
It’s not unusual for her to call me late at night. She knows my schedule after all.
A beat of silence, then her voice crackles through. “Daisy, love, I have news! I’m sorry, I couldn’t wait—it’s late, I know, but I’m bursting.”
“Go on,” I say, stomach coiling. News feels like a loaded gun right now.
She takes a deep breath that practically echoes through the phone. “We’re finally moving to Spain. I’m going to retire in Marbella, love!”
“Mum! That’s amazing.” And it is. She’s been banging on about retiring to Spain for years, ever since that package holiday when she came back with a sunburn and dreams of sangria on tap.
Then, realization hits. A bitter aftertaste.
Mum’s cottage—the little nook on the Cavendish estate with its wonky garden path and roses clawing up the walls—the place I’ve called “home” even after years in London, is vanishing.
My last connection to the Cavendishes—gone.
It’s for the best. Obviously.
No more wandering past the horse paddocks where Sophia’s daft pony used to snort for apple slices.
No more roaming around the estate gardens with its homicidal peacocks.
No more glimpses of family portraits in gilded frames, generations of Cavendish blue eyes following my movements up their grand staircase. No more afternoons sprawled across Sophia’s four-poster bed, staring at her ceiling and plotting our futures while overlooking the fountain that her great-grandfather commissioned to impress some visiting royal.
No more awkward encounters with Edward when he’s visiting his mother and I’m visiting mine.
Gone. All of it.
This is good. Proper closure. Clean break.
I glance down, feeling something soggy. Oh. I’ve been crushing the sandwich in my grip, mustard oozing between my fingers.
I clear my throat. “Do the Cavendishes know?”
“Of course. Daisy, you won’t believe it—they gave me and Richard early retirement with a fat payout. Out of the blue.” Mum’s practically vibrating through the phone.
I swallow against the tightness in my throat. “Seriously?”
Wow.
This is a . . . very strange feeling.
Happiness for Mum, naturally— of course I’m happy for her. She deserves it. But beneath that, something cold slithers in, curling itself around my ribs.
The Cavendishes have cut me off.
My roots, severed with a generous severance package. My last thread to Edward, sliced and paid for in crisp notes.
“Yes!” She pauses, her excitement softening just slightly. “It was Edward’s doing, of course. Mrs. C is a bit tight with money despite all those pearls.”
I try to laugh. It comes out wrong.
Edward cut me off himself. Not even his mother.
And even when cutting me out of his life, he does it neatly—a surgical cut instead of a messy tear.
“That’s great, Mum,” I say, as a stupid tear escapes, probably carving a canyon straight through my heavy foundation. Michelle’s going to kill me.
I am genuinely happy for Mum and Richard—their sun-drenched Spanish future with affordable wine and perpetual vitamin D.
But the message is loud and clear: the Cavendishes are done with me.
“Daisy?” Mum’s voice softens. “Are you all right, love? You can visit anytime. Marbella’s not that far.”
I swipe at my cheek, my fraudulent happiness dialed up to maximum. “Mum, I’m so happy for you!” I trill, voice bright, eyes actively drowning in despair.
A pause. Then: “Is it Edward? I wish you’d just tell me what happened.”
“It was a fling, Mum.”
“Daisy, for fuck’s sake, you’re supposed to be on set!” Simon’s voice shatters my pity party.
I jump about two feet in the air, my frayed nerves screaming in protest.
Simon glares at me, foot tapping impatiently, arms crossed over his chest.
“Gotta go, Mum—you probably heard that.” I end the call.
“Snappy snappy.” Simon claps his hands.
“Jesus, Simon,” Lizzie snaps, shooting him a glare. “Give her a second.”
Thank you, Lizzie. My one true ally in this cruel, mustard-stained world.
“She’s had plenty of seconds. What she hasn’t had is a shred of enthusiasm for the past week, and we’re live in five!” He jabs a finger at me. “Unless you want me to replace you with a plastic mannequin, which, by the way, would be more lifelike than whatever this is, get your shit together.”
That doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe we could swap places. It can wave a rake around pretending to be okay, and I can lie lifeless in the props cupboard. At least mannequins don’t have the ability to feel horrible. Or cry.
“I’m fine,” I declare, channeling theatrical pep as I shove the mangled sandwich back at Lizzie.
The clock sneers at me with its glowing red eyes. 10:00 p.m.
Four more hours of standing under lights hot enough to melt makeup and tits, grinning like a demented Barbie doll while pretending my heart hasn’t been put through a shredder.
I drag my carcass onto the fake garden set, the astroturf crunching ominously under my heels. The artificial flowers nod their garish heads at me, their colors so cheerful they make my eyes hurt.
We go live, and I suck in a breath, clawing for my usual spark. But it’s like trying to draw water from a dry well.
“Welcome back!” I chirp. “Today we’ve got a fantastic selection of gardening tools to help you create your dream outdoor oasis.”
I try to remember my script, the patter that usually flows so effortlessly from my lips. But the words seem to slip away from me, my mind a foggy, muddled mess.
Simon’s watching me like a hawk.
I take another deep breath, squaring my shoulders, plastering on my brightest smile. “Let’s take a closer look at this fantastic multi-purpose rake,” I say, my voice only wavering slightly. “It’s perfect for . . .”
Perfect for what? Digging a hole to crawl into? Beating Simon to death?
My mind’s gone blank.
“Cleaning up leaves, grass clippings, and even light tilling,” I force out, muscle memory finally clocking in for its shift.
I need to get my shit together, or I’m about five seconds from being fired live on air.
The bright studio lights bear down on me, making my head swim and my vision blur around the edges. I try to focus on the trowel in my hand, but it’s like trying to grab hold of a dream right before you wake up.
The room seems to tilt and sway around me, the astroturf moving beneath my feet like waves on a sickening green sea. I blink hard, trying to clear my vision, but it only makes the vertigo worse.
“Daaaaaiiisssyyyy?”
Simon’s voice crackles through my earpiece, but it’s wrong—too slow, too deep, dragging out like some horror movie demon crawling up from the depths.
“Aaaarrreeee yoooouuu fuuuuuucking hiiiiiiiiiigh?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, shake my head, but that’s worse—the vertigo swells, the floor shifts again.
The trowel slips from my fingers, clattering onto the fake grass.
The floor rushes up, and the last thing I see is Lizzie’s face—pure horror, like she’s watching a train wreck in slow motion.
Which, really, is a pretty accurate description of my life right now.
Edward
I turn the corner of the hospital corridor, fluorescent lights washing everything in that institutional glow—the kind that makes us medical staff look even more exhausted than we are.
It’s been years since I pulled these midnight shifts regularly. Now, doing one here and there feels like a small mercy, a reminder that it’s not a common occurrence.
I’m out of practice, but Dr. Murphy had an emergency. And we do favors for each other. There’s no such thing as a hangover day when you’re a doctor. If you’re not here, it means something catastrophic has happened. In this case, his father has died.
I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the weight of fatigue, flashing a quick, perfunctory smile as I hand over change for a banana at the coffee shop kiosk.
I turn to head back to the ward.
My vision registers a familiar blonde bob and fringe before my exhausted mind can properly process the image.
“Lizzie,” I say, frowning, doctor-worry immediately kicking in. But the trashy magazines in her arms—fresh from the shop—and her easy stroll tell me it’s not serious. You pick up on these things fast in this line of work. “What brings you here at this hour? Has something happened?”
“Oh!” She startles visibly, eyes widening. “Nothing serious. Just visiting a friend . . . Bob. He’s got gout. Nothing to worry about.”
“You’re visiting him at this time? Visiting hours were over long ago.”
She shifts, the magazines slipping in her grip. “Just dropping off a few things.”
I glance at the top one—some reality star on the cover. Christ. I actually recognize them. Daisy’s fault.
“Anything I can help with?”
“No! No.” There’s a pause that extends just beyond natural conversational rhythm. “No.”
Something is off.
I gesture toward the opposite wing. “Right. Well, Bob would be in the other tower of the hospital.”
“Oh, silly me! Thanks for the direction. I should really get over to—” She glances frantically in the wrong direction. “Well, you know how gout waits for no man.”
She goes to walk off.
“Lizzie, wait,” I call after her.
She stops mid-step, shoulders stiffening, then turns back.
I clear my throat, forcing the words out. “I wanted to ask—how is Daisy? I assume you’re aware we’re not on the best of terms.”
Her face flickers—something hard flashing through before she plasters on a breezy look. “I’ve heard bits. Not much really. She’s great. Planning a trekking holiday to . . .” She pauses. “Mongolia, actually. Horse riding.”
“Mongolia.” I stare at her. “Why?”
“It’s been a dream of hers and now she has decided to make her dreams come true. Living her best life.”
“Right,” I say slowly. “Who is she going with?”
There’s a long pause.
“With a friend of ours. He’s a model, race car driver, and Michelin-star chef.” Another pause. “And he’s Spanish.”
I stare at her. She blinks back, unflinching. I stare harder. Daisy trekking through Mongolia with a Spanish race car driver / model / chef? It sounds like something she’s made up on the spot.
But Lizzie doubles down, holding my gaze with fierce conviction. Maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s nonsense.
Either way, the message is clear.
“Wish her the best from me,” I say, my voice rougher than I’d like. Too raw. Too much for a hospital corridor in the middle of the night. I rub the back of my neck.
Lizzie’s lips curl slightly. “You don’t need to wish her well. She’s doing perfectly fine.”
“I don’t know what she’s told you—”
“Anyone with a pair of eyes could see she deserves better than you.”
I inhale sharply, steadying myself. “Right,” I say smoothly, though something sharp twists in my chest. “I see. Well, given I’m such an appalling cad, I’m sure you’ll be greatly relieved to have me out of Daisy’s life.”
She juts her chin up, clutching the magazines tighter. “I’ve got to go.”
“Good night, Lizzie. Hope Bob’s gout clears up.”
She vanishes down the corridor, but the weight in my chest stays put.
Daisy is moving on, it seems. Whether it’s with a Spanish superhuman or not.
The thing is, that absurd little story could be true for Daisy. But never for me.
Daisy can disappear on a whim, spin the globe and end up wherever her finger lands. Mongolia. Marrakech. Madrid. She could meet someone in a bar and decide, just like that, to ride horses across the steppe.
I cannot.
And the worst thing I could ever do to someone like Daisy is make her stay. Clip her wings.
I won’t be the person who holds Daisy back. Force her into becoming someone she doesn’t want to be. The way to destroy someone like Daisy is to cut off their freedom.
But I won’t humiliate myself by dropping to my knees and groveling each time she has a tantrum.
I want the best for her. I want her to glow with happiness, to embrace her incredible charm, warmth, bubbliness, and wit without ever doubting herself. Her true beauty radiates from her eyes even more than her physical form, though I’m not sure she’d believe that.
I’ve had a lot of time to think and reflect this past week. Too much time.
Maybe I wanted the impossible from Daisy. The reckless, all-consuming passion of an affair, paired with the unwavering trust of a life partner. Maybe I set her up to fail.