16. Lili
Lili
T he news was already breaking on the ITV morning show as I threw clothes into my suitcase with shaking hands.
"...Gardens & Home Television's UK division has been sold through law firm Pemberton & Associates in what sources describe as a 'forced acquisition' following financial irregularities.
The company's popular American host, Lili Anderton, whose late-night gardening shows gained a devoted following, will not be retained by the new ownership. .."
"Well, I'll be damned," I whispered to the empty room. All those nights I'd worried about Edward's career being destroyed by our relationship, and it turned out Victoria had been planning to destroy mine all along.
I fumbled for the remote, turning up the volume as the perfectly coiffed presenter continued her clinical recitation of my professional destruction.
"...controversy surrounding the acquisition has been compounded by reports of a romantic relationship between Pemberton attorney, Edward Grosvenor and Gardens & Home host, Lili Anderton.
Sources close to the Grosvenor family suggest the relationship created significant conflicts of interest that may have influenced the acquisition timeline. .."
My legs gave out, and I sank onto the narrow bed in the staff quarters that had been my home for quite a few weeks.
Financial irregularities. Forced acquisition.
Victoria hadn't just orchestrated the scandal—she'd actively destroyed my company while Edward and I were busy fighting for our relationship.
The phone rang, jarring me from my shock.
Malcolm Pemberton's name flashed on the screen, and I answered with numb fingers.
"Miss Anderton? I'm calling to inform you that your employment with Gardens & Home Television has been terminated effective immediately. The acquisition was finalized this morning, and all UK staff positions have been eliminated."
"What about the retention clauses Edward negotiated?"
"I'm afraid those arrangements have been rescinded. The board determined that maintaining your employment would create an untenable appearance of impropriety. Your final paycheck will be deposited within seven business days."
The clinical language couldn't disguise what this meant. I was being fired not just from my job, but from my entire life in England. Thirty days. That's how long I had before my visa expired and I'd be persona non grata in the UK.
Not that it mattered now—Victoria had made sure there was nothing left for me to stay for.
"I see." My voice sounded surprisingly steady, even though inside I felt like I was free-falling. "And my colleagues? The production staff?"
"All terminated. The entire UK operation is being dissolved. I'm sorry, Miss Anderton, but this decision is final."
The line went dead, leaving me alone with the devastating reality.
The thing about having your entire life dismantled in a five-minute phone call is that shock has its own strange mercy- even though I knew it was coming. I felt detached from the woman whose career had just been obliterated, like I was watching someone else's tragedy unfold on a screen.
I turned back to the television, where the story had moved on to footage of the Gardens & Home studio being emptied. Equipment rolled out on dollies, security guards preventing former employees from retrieving personal items.
Watching strangers cart away the set where I'd helped thousands of people discover the joy of growing things felt like watching my own funeral. That studio had been more than a job—it had been my chance to prove that a girl from nowhere could build something meaningful.
My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:
Unknown: Your departure arrangements have been made. Flight LHR-AUS 6 pm. Car service arrives 2.30 pm. Baggage allowance paid. Immigration concerns resolved. Don't complicate this further. — V
Even in destruction, Victoria maintained her efficiency. She'd planned my professional downfall and booked my exile in the same morning.
I stared at the message, feeling something inside me break completely. Not just my heart—that had been shattered when I walked away from Edward yesterday.
This was deeper, more fundamental. This was the destruction of hope itself.
There was a soft knock at my door.
"Miss Anderton?" Mrs. Worthington's voice was gentle, apologetic. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but there are reporters at the main gate asking questions. Her Ladyship thought you should know."
Reporters. Of course. The story would be everywhere by evening—the American gold digger who'd tried to seduce her way into British aristocracy and been exposed as a professional manipulator.
Victoria would make sure that version of events dominated the narrative.
"Thank you, Mrs. Worthington." I opened the door to find the elderly housekeeper's kind face creased with concern.
"I'm sorry about all this, miss. It's not right, what's happening to you. We've all grown quite fond of you, you know. You always treated us nicely. That matters more than you might think."
Her unexpected sympathy nearly undid my composure. "I appreciate that. Would you... would you mind not mentioning to anyone that I'm leaving? I'd prefer to go quietly."
"Of course, dear. Though if you don't mind my saying, that young man cares about you more than he knows how to handle. This isn't his doing."
"I know," I whispered. "That's what makes it so much worse."
After she left, I finished packing with mechanical efficiency. Two suitcases and a carry-on—everything I'd brought to England fit into three bags. The weight of the suitcase as I lifted it felt like carrying my whole English life, reduced to what could fit in an overhead compartment.
I left no notes, made no calls.
What was there to say? That I'd been naive enough to believe love could overcome family disapproval and business conflicts? That I'd trusted people who saw me as nothing more than a convenient pawn in their larger games?
The taxi ride to Heathrow felt like a funeral procession.
London's familiar landmarks passed outside the window—the park bench where Edward had kissed me, the tea shop where we'd hidden from his Mother's social circle, the corner where he'd bought me flowers from a street vendor who'd called us "a lovely couple.
" Each memory felt like pressing on a bruise.
At the airport, I checked in with the efficiency of someone who'd done this journey many times before. The efficiency of my own departure felt surreal—passport, boarding pass, security, gate.
Just hours ago I'd been living a completely different life.
Now I was traveling light, carrying only what I'd brought to England and leaving behind everything I'd tried to build.
The flight attendant's bright smile felt like a mockery, but I managed to respond appropriately, to play the part of a normal passenger traveling for normal reasons.
It wasn't until we were airborne that I allowed myself to cry. Not the dramatic sobbing of movie heroines, but the quiet, steady tears of someone who'd finally accepted that some stories don't have happy endings.
The flight to Austin was long—ten hours to process the complete destruction of everything I'd worked for. By the time we began descent into Texas, I'd cried myself empty and found a strange kind of peace in the numbness that remained.
Mama was waiting at arrivals, her familiar face creased with worry and love. She took one look at me and opened her arms without questions.
"Oh, baby girl," she whispered into my hair as I collapsed against her. "Come on home."
The drive to our small town was mercifully quiet, though Mama couldn't stay silent for long. "You don't have to talk about it," she said, "But when you're ready, I'm here. And if you want to tell me which fancy British lady needs a good talking-to, well, I've got some thoughts on that too."
"That's what I figured when I saw the news online.
Lord have mercy, honey, they made it sound like you were some kind of scheming fortune hunter.
" She shook her head with disgust. "But I know my daughter, and I know you didn't chase after anybody's money.
You've been earning your own way since you were sixteen. "
The Texas landscape rolled past—wide skies and familiar horizons that felt like a balm after England's claustrophobic grandeur.
The air smelled different here. Warmer, dustier, carrying the scent of mesquite and possibilities that weren't hemmed in by centuries of tradition.
Our house looked exactly the same. Neat but modest, the front porch where I'd spent countless evenings dreaming of bigger things. The frame house with neat flower beds looked impossibly small after months in a manor with rooms larger than our entire ground floor.
But it also looked like safety, like a place where nobody expected me to be anyone other than myself.
"I made your favorite," Mama said as we pulled into the driveway. "Chicken and dumplings. And Mrs. Patterson next door sent over a peach cobbler when she heard you were coming home."
"How much do people know?"
"Enough to understand you've been hurt. Not enough to judge you for it." She squeezed my hand. "This is Texas, honey. We take care of our own, especially when they're hurting."
Inside, everything was exactly as I'd left it.
My childhood bedroom, my high school trophies, the little desk where I'd written college application essays.
The familiar smell of Mama's kitchen—comfort food, lemon oil on old wood, the lingering scent of vanilla candles—wrapped around me like a hug.
The familiarity should have been comforting, but instead it felt like stepping backward through time.
"You want to talk about it?" Mama asked as she bustled around the kitchen, her way of showing love through food and fussing.
"Maybe later. Right now I just want to..." I trailed off, realizing I didn't know what I wanted. To disappear? To pretend the last few months had never happened? To stop feeling like my heart had been put through a paper shredder?
"You just want to be home," Mama finished gently. "And that's exactly where you are."
I helped her set the table, falling back into routines that predated my English adventure. The simple domesticity should have been soothing, but I felt like I was performing a role in a play I'd outgrown.
During dinner, Mama's phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID and frowned.
"Unknown international number," she said. "Probably spam."
But I knew better. My heart lurched as I realized it might be Edward, discovering I was gone, trying to find me. The thought of hearing his voice—of having to explain why I'd left without saying goodbye—made my chest tight with panic.
"Don't answer it," I said quickly. "Please."
Mama studied my face, then declined the call without another word.
The phone rang three more times during dinner, and each time we let it go to voicemail.
Each ring felt like Edward's voice calling my name, demanding an explanation I didn't have the strength to give.
How could I tell him that his Mother had won so completely that there was nothing left to fight for?
"I think I'll go to bed early," I said. "The flight was exhausting."
"Of course, honey. Your room's all ready."
But sleep wouldn't come. I lay in my childhood bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the familiar sounds of home—the air conditioner cycling on and off, the old house settling, the distant sound of Texas cicadas that was so different from London's urban noise.
Around midnight, Mama's landline rang. Then my cell phone. Then the landline again. Someone was very determined to reach me, and I had a sinking suspicion I knew who.
Finally, mercifully, the calls stopped. In the silence that followed, I allowed myself to imagine Edward in his London office, staring at the acquisition papers that would tell him everything.
The timeline of his Mother's manipulation, the systematic destruction of my company, the careful orchestration of my exile.
Would he understand then? Would he realize that this had never been about choosing between love and career, but about Victoria's determination to remove me from the equation entirely?
It didn't matter now. I was three thousand miles away, my visa status about to expire, my career in ruins. Whatever Edward felt or understood about his Mother's machinations couldn't change the fundamental reality. Victoria had won.
I rolled over and closed my eyes, trying to summon the peace I'd once found in this room.
The texture of my childhood bedspread was soft against my cheek, worn from years of use and washing.
But all I could think about was Edward discovering that the woman he'd been forced to choose had already made the choice for him.
In the end, perhaps that was the kindest thing I could do. Let him remember us as a beautiful impossibility rather than a love that died slowly under the weight of family disapproval and professional obligations.
The last thing I heard before finally falling asleep was my phone buzzing with another international call that I'd never answer.
Because sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone you love is let them hate you for leaving instead of watching them destroy themselves trying to save you.
I'd given Edward the gift of distance.
Now it was up to him to decide what to do with it.