Chapter 29
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
LAUREN
T he bathroom’s dim light flickers as I lean into the mirror, my burgundy lip liner trembling slightly in my hand. Sandy’s face fills my phone screen, propped on the sink, and her video call is my lifeline to sanity.
“I don’t know, I guess I’m a bit concerned,” I say, tracing the curve of my lips, the color bold against my skin. My voice carries a waver I can’t quite hide. Underneath my nerves are buzzing like static.
“Concerned about what, exactly?” Sandy asks, her brow furrowing, her apartment’s sunny chaos visible behind her—plants, an open milk container, a half-eaten bagel on the counter.
I pause, switching to red lipstick, the tube cool in my grip.
“He told me the bar’s in London, but he sent a text asking me to be ready by seven.
Seven, Sandy! It takes hours to get to London from here.
I’m confused.” I cap the lipstick, meeting her eyes on the screen, my stomach twisting. “What’s the deal?”
Sandy tilts her head, her curls bouncing. “You gotta be careful with him, babe. I have no experience with Dukes, but aren’t they like entitled pricks? Does he know you’re only going because of Raye?”
“Yes, I think he does.” I frown suddenly. ‘If he thinks this gets him into my pants, he’s delusional.”
“That’s right. You tell him,” she says forcefully.
I point at the phone like she’s in the room.
“I’m on guard all night. Goal’s simple: see Raye, get home, no drama.
But what if he’s banking on it getting late and tricking me into staying over in a London hotel or something?
” I step back, checking my reflection—red dress, tight to my calves, thin straps barely holding it up.
My boobs look… healthy. I tug at the neckline and can’t help but feel slightly insecure.
I turn to face the phone. “Is this too revealing, Sandy?”
“No, you look like a million bucks,” she says loyally.
“Anyway, if it’s too late, I’m finding my own hotel room to crash. Nothing’s happening.”
Sandy laughs, waving a hand. “You’re overthinking. Just let it play out. Stop planning every second.”
I curl a loose tendril of hair that’s escaped my updo. “You think I should fall for his sophisticated charm? Be another notch on his bedpost?”
“If you can have fun and keep your head, what’s the harm?” she asks, grinning. “Take what you want, let him think he’s winning. Equal exchange.”
I snort, amused despite myself, her logic so very Sandy—bold, unbothered.
“That’s not how it works,” I mutter, but I’m smiling as I check my appearance one last time.
The updo’s sleek, curls cascading just right, and the dress shimmers under the light, hugging every curve.
“Are you sure this is not too much?” I voice my concern again.
I turn so that she can see it. “I mean, is it too… inviting?”
“Nope,” Sandy says firmly. “You’re a knockout in it. It’s perfect—and yes, it’s like you’re daring him to try but you’ll know he’ll crash and burn so what’s the harm? Torture him a little. He deserves it and it will be fun.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works either,” I say, but she makes me laugh. I smooth my hands down the dress. “I’ll get Raye to sign something for you too, okay?”
“Deal,” she says., as my phone buzzes, a call cutting through. My heart lurches—him?
I end Sandy’s call with a quick, “Gotta go,” and see his name: The Duke of Beauclerk. I’d saved it as a joke, poking fun at his stupidly grand title, but now it feels too real. I answer, my voice as fluttery as a teenager on her first date. “Hi.”
“Hello,” he greets so smoothly it’s like warm chocolate pouring down my back. “Are you ready?”
Yes,” I say, glancing at the clock—6:55. “Will we make it to London on time?”
“Less than an hour,” he says casually. “Come outside—the helicopter’s landing in a few.”
I freeze, my breath catching. “Helicopter?” The word feels foreign, absurd. “You’re… serious?”
A pause, then concern in his tone. “You’re okay with flying, right? I should’ve asked.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say quickly, my mind spinning.
“Helicopters are… fine.” I end the call, staring at the floor, the reality sinking in.
A helicopter. Not a car, not a train like normal people.
That’s why seven o’clock. London in an hour, his world of wealth bending time itself.
My pulse races, half-excited, half-terrified.
I re-dial Sandy, my fingers shaky. “Sandy,” I say the second she picks up, “you won’t believe this. We’re going to London in a chopper.”
Her jaw drops on my screen. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” I say, and she screams with excitement.
Right then, a low thrum grows outside, the unmistakable churn of blades.
“That’s it—it’s here.”
I hurry to the window facing Hugh’s estate, the vast lawn stretching out, and there it is: a sleek, jet-black helicopter descending, his initials glinting on its side. The grass ripples in wild waves, the air alive with its furious power.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, and Sandy’s voice cuts through, giddy.
“Quick, turn the camera. I wanna see!”
I laugh, flipping the phone’s lens, showing her the beast touching down on what I never realized was a landing pad.
The roar softens as the blades slow. A pilot in uniform and another figure step out, and my phone buzzes again.
Hugh, probably. My cheeks burn, excitement bubbling over, drowning my caution.
I turn the camera back to Sandy, her grin infectious.
“You’re gonna have a blast,” she says. “But don’t look too impressed out there—he’ll know he’s got you.”
“Okay,” I say, straightening, forcing my face to look neutral and cool despite the thrill humming through me. “I’ve got this.”
I end the call, slip into my heels—black, strappy, a touch daring—and grab my small purse. My heart’s pounding, the helicopter’s hum lingering in my bones. A knock at the door stops me cold, and I expect one of his staff or some polished assistant to fetch me.
But when I open it, it’s him.
My breath catches, sharp and involuntary.
God, he’s devastating—darker than the night of the party, his suit midnight-blue, tailored to emphasize every line of his frame.
His hair’s a touch wild, his eyes catching the porch light, is piercing.
I swear, he’s unreal, like he’s stepped out of one of my grandmother’s novels.
For a few seconds, I can’t even speak, my throat is so tight with excitement.
A smile tugs at his lips. “Our ride’s here.”
“Yeah,” I manage, my voice a ghost of how usually is. “I… heard it. Saw it.” My eyes flick to the helicopter, its blades still now, a sleek predator on the lawn.
He smiles wider, and my heart, traitor that it is, skips like a baby deer.
“Shall we?”
“Yes,” I say, too quickly, then catch myself. “Yeah, I’m ready.” I clutch my purse, stepping out, the night air cool against my bare shoulders. He’s close, not touching, but near enough I feel his warmth. I’m torn—half-wanting to run back inside to safety, half-thrilled to follow him into the sky.