Chapter Thirty-One
The train station hadn't changed. Same cracked platform tiles, same faded posters advertising holidays in Cornwall that looked suspiciously photoshopped.
Sasha stepped off the train into warm September sunshine and immediately spotted Ambrose leaning against his car with the studied casualness of someone who'd been practicing the pose.
"Darling!" He swept her into a hug that smelled of expensive cologne and what she suspected was Lukas's aftershave. "Two whole weeks without you. I've been bereft."
"You've had Lukas."
"True, but he won't discuss Love Island with me. Says it's beneath him." Ambrose grabbed her suitcase, loading it into the boot with theatrical effort. "Though between you and me, I caught him watching last week's episode on his phone. He's invested in whether Tom picks Rachel."
Sasha slid into the passenger seat. "So. Birthday party tonight."
"Mmm. Mother's outdone herself. Caterers, string quartet, the works." Ambrose pulled onto the road, navigating the narrow lanes with practiced ease. "Grandmother's already interrogated the harpist about her credentials. Apparently being trained at the Royal Academy isn't quite sufficient."
Maybe she should just go straight out and ask. She cleared her throat. "Will, um. Everyone be there?"
"If by everyone you mean my entire extended family plus half the county, then yes." Ambrose shot her a sideways glance. "If you're asking about someone specific, you could just say her name."
"I wasn't…"
"Victoria's not coming."
The words landed with more force than Sasha had expected. Two weeks of not seeing her, not talking to her, carefully not asking Ambrose for updates, and now just three words that made her chest hurt.
"Right." She aimed for casual. "Course not. Why would she?" Really, she was relieved, she thought. Quite, quite relieved. And also very disappointed.
"Too busy. New job's apparently all-consuming." Ambrose's voice was carefully neutral. "Sent her regrets yesterday. Very polite. Very Victoria."
Sasha stared out the window at the passing countryside. She'd been hoping Victoria would be there. Dreading it too, obviously, the thought of seeing her again made Sasha's stomach tie itself into complicated knots. But underneath the dread had been this stupid, persistent hope that maybe…
"You're doing that thing," Ambrose observed.
"What thing?"
"Where you look like someone spilled wine over your wedding dress and you’re trying to pretend it's fine."
"I'm not…" Sasha caught his expression. "Okay, fine. Maybe I was hoping. Just a little."
"Hoping to see her? Or hoping she'd magically realize she's madly in love with you and come racing back to Cornwall to declare her feelings?"
"The first one. Obviously." Sasha slumped in her seat. "I'm not that delusional."
"Aren't you?" Ambrose was smiling now, the bastard. "Because from where I'm sitting, you've spent two weeks moping around Manchester like some Victorian consumptive, and now you show up looking like you've been personally victimized by the train ride."
"I haven't been moping."
"You sent me a photo of yourself eating ice cream in bed at three PM on a Tuesday with the caption 'living my best life.'"
"That was ironic."
"It was sad." But his voice was gentle. "Look, I don't know what happened between you two—"
"Nothing happened. That's the point."
"—but whatever it is, you're clearly not over it."
Sasha watched the familiar landmarks appear.
The church spire, the turn for the village, the stone wall that marked the estate boundary.
Two weeks ago she'd left, convinced she was doing the right thing.
Convinced that walking away was kinder than forcing Victoria to choose between Sasha and the life she'd always wanted.
Now she just felt tired.
"She's got everything sorted," Sasha said quietly. "New job, fresh start, back to her perfect London life. I'm not going to be the complication that messes that up. I told you that."
Ambrose was quiet.
THE HOUSE LOOKED the same. Grand and slightly absurd, all that Gothic drama rising up against the sky. Sasha followed Ambrose inside, inhaling the familiar scent of old wood and furniture polish and the flowers that Lady Charlotte always kept in the entrance hall.
"Everyone's down at the barn," Ambrose said, already heading for the stairs with her suitcase. "Sophie's kittens have reached peak adorableness, apparently. I'll take this up, you go keep Grandmother company. She's in the drawing room having her pre-party gin."
"Ambrose…"
"It's fine. She likes you. Just don't mention the fake dating thing and you'll be golden."
He disappeared upstairs before Sasha could protest, leaving her standing in the entrance hall like an idiot. Through the open drawing room door, she could hear the clink of ice in a glass.
Right. She could do this. It was just Lady Alexandra. Terrifying, all-knowing Lady Alexandra who'd somehow tolerated two weeks of Sasha's terrible fake girlfriend performance without calling her out.
Sasha straightened her shoulders and walked in.
Lady Alexandra was settled in her usual chair by the window. She looked up as Sasha entered, one elegant eyebrow rising.
"Ah. The prodigal girlfriend returns."
"Lady Alexandra." Sasha managed what she hoped was a normal smile. "Lovely to see you again."
"Is it?" Lady Alexandra gestured to the chair across from her. "Sit down, dear. You look like a horse about to bolt."
Sasha sat, perching on the edge of the seat. This felt like walking into an exam she hadn't studied for.
"Gin?" Lady Alexandra offered.
"Bit early for me."
"Suit yourself." Lady Alexandra took a delicate sip of her drink, studying Sasha over the rim of the glass. "I was wondering if you'd come back."
"Wouldn't miss Ambrose's birthday."
"Mmm. How diplomatic." Lady Alexandra set down her glass with a decisive clink. "Did you really think an old woman like me couldn't tell the difference between love and performance, dear?"
Sasha opened her mouth, closed it again. "I—"
"Please. I've been watching people pretend for eighty-three years. You and Ambrose were rather sweet about it, I'll give you that. But sweet doesn't mean convincing."
Heat crept up Sasha's neck. "How long have you known?"
"Since the beginning." Lady Alexandra smiled, not unkindly. "You both tried very hard, though."
"We're sorry. We didn't mean to…"
"Lie to my face?" But there was amusement in Lady Alexandra's voice. "I appreciate the effort, truly. And I understand why Ambrose felt he needed to. My son hasn't done him any favors with all that nonsense about discretion and propriety."
Sasha blinked. "You know about Lukas?"
"My dear girl, I may be old, but I'm not blind. The way Ambrose looks at that boy could melt steel." Lady Alexandra picked up her gin again. "I don't care who he loves. I do care that he felt he couldn't be honest with me."
The words settled between them, weighted with something that made Sasha's throat tight.
"It's not that simple," Sasha said quietly.
"Isn't it? Either you trust someone with the truth or you don't. Ambrose chose not to trust me. That's what hurts, not his taste in men."
"He was scared."
"Of course he was. But fear doesn't excuse dishonesty." Lady Alexandra's gaze was steady. "The truth can hurt, Sasha. But it's always, always better than the alternative. Lies rot things from the inside out, even well-intentioned ones."
Sasha thought about Victoria. About walking away without explaining, without giving her the choice. About deciding what was best for both of them without actually asking.
"You look like you’ve had an epiphany," sniffed Lady Alexandra. "So I’ll give you the benefit of my experience, and tell you that the right thing to do is to be honest. To tell her how you feel and let her decide what she wants to do about it."
Sasha felt herself begin to panic. "Her… She… What?"
Lady Alexandra waved her off. "Oh please, stop treating me like a stupid old woman and start worrying about your own problems. And those of my oldest granddaughter."
Sasha blushed and shut her mouth.
"Pride," Lady Alexandra continued, "is a tricky thing. It dresses itself up as selflessness, as doing what's best for everyone. But really, it's just fear in fancy clothes. Fear of being vulnerable, fear of being rejected, fear of wanting something you might not get."
Sasha felt something crack in her chest. "What if I tell her and she doesn't feel the same way?"
"Then at least you'll know. At least you'll have been honest."
THE BARN WAS warm and smelled of hay and cat.
Sophie was sprawled on the ground, surrounded by a writhing mass of kittens, while Lady Charlotte took photos with her phone.
Lukas stood nearby, looking indulgent, while Sir Archibald examined a particularly adventurous tabby that had climbed up his trousers.
Ambrose appeared at Sasha's elbow as she approached. "How was Grandmother?"
"Terrifying. Wise. Terrifyingly wise." Sasha accepted a kitten from Sophie, a tiny orange thing that immediately tried to eat her finger. "She knew. About us."
"Course she did." Ambrose didn't look surprised. "Come on, let’s get a drink."
They walked slowly back toward the house, leaving the others to their feline chaos. The afternoon sun was starting to slant golden through the trees, light that made everything look softer.
"So," Sasha said carefully, "how's Victoria been?"
Ambrose was quiet for a beat too long. "Busy. New job's intense, apparently. She called last week, but we didn't talk long."
"Right."
"She didn't mention you."
"Why would she?"
"Exactly." Ambrose's voice was pointed. "Why would she mention the person she was clearly falling for all summer? Why would she bring up someone she hasn't stopped thinking about for two weeks? Mystery."
Sasha kicked at a stone in the path. "She's got a new life now."
"Does she? Or does she have a new job and the same old fear of wanting things she thinks she can't have?"
Sasha sighed. "You don’t get it, Amb. I had to do things this way.
Your sister is who she is, and she’s ambitious and hard-working.
And I can practically guarantee you that every other relationship she’s had ended because the person in question tried to change her, tried to get her to be less herself.
So I didn’t do that. I… I set her free."
"In the hopes that if she loves you, she’d come running back?" Ambrose asked, shaking his head slightly.
She sighed again. "Yes. No. Maybe. Something like that. I don’t know."
"Oh, Sash." He took her hand and squeezed it. "You know that there’s a flaw in that great master plan, right?"
"Is there?" she asked miserably.
"Rather obviously, yes." He stopped and turned to her. "In all of this, you didn’t actually tell her how you felt."
"Wait… what?"
"Did you tell her you were leaving because you wanted to give her space? Did you explain that you were trying to do what was best for her career? Did you say anything at all about how you actually feel?"
Sasha opened her mouth. Closed it. "No."
Ambrose lifted an eyebrow. "Right. So as far as Victoria knows, you had a nice summer fling and then went back to your life without a backward glance. How is she supposed to know you're madly in love with her if you've never actually said it?"
The words hung in the air between them. Madly in love. When had that happened? When had casual attraction and heat and desire turned into this aching, complicated thing that made Sasha's chest hurt?
"I'm not—" Sasha started.
"Please. You sent me a voice note last week that was just you sighing for forty-five seconds. You're gone for her."
"Even if that's true, and I'm not saying it is, what am I supposed to do about it? Show up in London and declare my feelings like some romcom hero? She doesn't want that."
"Doesn't she?" Ambrose's voice was gentle. "Or are you assuming you know what she wants without actually asking her?"
Sasha stared at him. Thought about Lady Alexandra's words. About truth and pride and fear dressed up as protection.
"I don't even know if she feels the same way," she said quietly.
"Then ask her." Ambrose said simply.