18. Lili
Lili
M y fingers trembled as I typed:
Me: Daphne, did our friendship mean anything to you, or was I just convenient cover for your affair with James?
Delete.
I sat cross-legged on my childhood bed, surrounded by the same pink floral wallpaper I'd begged Mama to change when I turned sixteen.
"It's too young for me," I'd whined then, desperate to seem sophisticated.
Now, at twenty-five and drowning in the aftermath of actual sophistication, those cheerful roses felt like the only things in the world that weren't using me for their own agenda.
My phone showed seventeen drafted messages to Daphne, each one cycling between anger and heartbreak.
Despite everything that had been said in that conservatory, I found myself struggling to accept the reality that both Daphne and Edward were no longer a part of my life.
The cursor blinked mockingly as I tried again:
Me: I know we both lied to each other, but I actually thought you cared about me. Turns out I was just your convenient distraction while you—
My thumb stabbed the delete button so hard it hurt.
The contrast between this simple room and the blue guest suite at Grosvenor Manor hit me fresh every morning.
Here, my twin bed sagged in the middle where I'd jumped on it as a kid, covered with Grandma's hand-stitched quilt that had faded to the color of old roses.
There, Egyptian cotton sheets in a room I'd been given not out of kindness, but because it served Daphne's purposes.
Here, a mirror with a crack down one corner from when I'd thrown my hairbrush at it during some long-forgotten teenage tantrum.
There, antique silver mirrors that had reflected back someone I barely recognized—someone polished and performative and played like a fiddle.
The familiar symphony of home drifted through walls thin as paper.
Mama's morning talk show playing too loud in the kitchen, Mrs. Patterson's rooster next door announcing dawn like he'd invented the concept, the distant whoosh of eighteen-wheelers on the county road carrying people to places that mattered.
Real sounds from real people living real lives, not the hushed perfection of a manor where even the kindness came with strings attached.
I started typing again:
Me: We both kept secrets. But I fell in love with your brother—you used me as camouflage for your affair. Which one of us is the real villain here?
The words sat there on the screen, brutal in their honesty.
Because that was the truth that burned like acid in my chest. I'd been played by my best friend just as thoroughly as I'd been played by Lady Victoria.
The only difference was that Daphne had hidden it behind years of friendship and inside jokes and shared dreams.
Delete.
The old house creaked around me as I padded to the kitchen in yesterday's clothes—or were they from the day before?
Time had gotten slippery since I'd been back, marked only by the progression from instant coffee to sweet tea to the bourbon Mama pretended not to know I'd been stealing from her cabinet.
No Worthington materializing with perfectly brewed Earl Grey on china so delicate I'd been afraid to breathe near it.
Just me and the same chipped mug that proclaimed me "World's Best Gardener"—a joke gift from Mama three Christmases back that felt more honest than any title I'd earned in Edward's world.
The coffee maker gurgled and wheezed like it was on its last legs, which it probably was, considering Mama had bought it sometime during the Clinton administration.
In the bathroom, I caught myself checking my reflection for that polished perfection London had demanded, then barked out a laugh that echoed harsh off the avocado-green tiles from 1987.
Here, nobody gave two hoots in hell if my hair wasn't straightened into submission or if I wore the same jeans until they could practically walk themselves to the washing machine.
Mrs. Patterson next door wouldn't clutch her pearls if she saw me with mascara smudged under my eyes or heard my voice crack when I said "good morning. "
I pulled on my favorite vintage sundress—the yellow one with tiny daisies that seemed so stylish back here but looked like I was playing dress-up in someone else's costume party when I'd worn it to that first breakfast at Grosvenor Manor.
Edward had looked at me across the table like I was something fascinating and foreign, and I'd spent the whole meal wondering if fascinating was just another word for inappropriate.
The kitchen smelled like bacon grease and coffee and the rose-scented dish soap Mama had used since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Real smells from a real life, not the carefully maintained lavender and beeswax that had perfumed every corner of the manor like expensive lies.
Through the window, Mama's garden sprawled in cheerful chaos—tomatoes climbing stakes held together with twine and prayer, okra growing tall enough to hide behind, wildflowers popping up wherever they pleased.
This was authentic. Messy and imperfect and genuine in ways that Edward's world could never be, no matter how much old money got thrown at maintaining the illusion.
The question that kept me awake at night was whether I could ever be satisfied with authentic again, now that I'd tasted what it felt like to be treasured like something rare and precious.
My phone buzzed against the Formica counter, and I damn near jumped out of my skin. One week back in Texas, and I still wasn't used to being reachable again without the constant anxiety of wondering who might be calling and why.
The text was from Cece:
Cece: Still radio silence from the Grosvenor camp, darling. How are you holding up?
I set my coffee down with shaking hands. Cece had been my only lifeline to London since I'd run home with my tail between my legs, the only person who didn't make me feel like a complete disaster for falling in love with the wrong man at the worst possible time.
Me: Like I've been hit by a truck, I typed back. A very expensive, aristocratic truck with a pedigree dating back to the Norman Conquest.
Her response came faster than a greased pig:
Cece: Edward's been impossible to reach. James says he's locked himself in his study for days at a time.
My coffee had gone cold, but I wrapped my hands around the mug anyway, needing something solid to hold onto. Something twisted in my chest—part satisfaction that he was suffering too, part devastating concern that he was hurting because of me.
Me: Good,
I typed, then immediately felt like hell for meaning it.
Me: Maybe he's finally seeing what his family really is.
I got up and started pacing the linoleum, my bare feet silent on the worn pattern. The kitchen felt too small, too familiar, like wearing clothes I'd outgrown but couldn't afford to replace.
Cece: Victoria's been suspiciously quiet. Usually gloats more after a victory.
came Cece's next message.
I stopped pacing.
Me: She won. Why wouldn't she be quiet?
Cece: Because I know that woman. She's planning something else.
My blood turned to ice water.
Me: What do you mean?
Cece : Think about it, love. She orchestrated a complete takedown of your career, your visa status, AND your relationship with her son.
But she's not celebrating at the opera or hosting dinner parties to show off her triumph.
She's nervous. Even the staff at Grosvenor Manor are whispering about family tension.
I sank into one of the kitchen chairs, the vinyl squeaking in protest.
Me: What kind of tension?
Cece: The kind that happens when someone realizes they've been played by their own Mother.
James mentioned Edward's been asking very pointed questions about the acquisition timeline.
Apparently he's requested financial records going back months.
And get this—he hasn't appeared at a single social function since you left.
Victoria's been making excuses about him being under the weather.
My breath caught in my throat. Edward, who treated social obligations like religious observances, was avoiding galas? The man who'd told me that appearances were everything in his world?
Me: That doesn't sound like him,
I typed.
Cece: Exactly. Whatever she did to drive you away, I don't think it's going according to plan. A source at his firm says he's been working around the clock on something big. Something that has Malcolm Pemberton sweating through his Savile Row suits.
I closed my eyes, trying not to let hope creep into the carefully constructed walls I'd built around my heart. Because hope was a luxury I couldn't afford, not when it came to Edward Grosvenor and his world of impossible expectations.
Me: It doesn't matter, Cece. Even if he figured it out, even if he wanted to... I can't go back to that world. I can't pretend to be someone I'm not.
Cece : Who says you'd have to pretend?
The question hung there on my screen like a challenge I wasn't brave enough to accept.
Because the truth was, I didn't know who I really was anymore.
The girl who'd grown up in this small Texas town?
The woman who'd charmed London society in borrowed jewels?
The broken-hearted mess who'd fled across an ocean rather than fight for what she wanted?
Me: I have to go, Mama's calling.
I typed.
But Mama wasn't calling. I just needed to stop imagining that there might be a world where love conquered everything, where Edward Grosvenor could choose a small-town American girl over centuries of family tradition and aristocratic duty.
Some fairy tales were too beautiful to be true, and I was too old to believe in happily ever after.