Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
RACHEL
JUNE
“Look at this view! Isn’t it peaceful? Don’t you wish you were with me right now?” My tone is faintly cajoling. Hopefully enticing. Yes, I ran away to California by myself, and I didn’t think anyone would follow, but now?
I sort of wish I’d brought someone along with me. Everywhere I go in this tiny tourist town, I see couples. Families. So many families. Witnessing groups of people together having fun makes me feel very, very alone.
And I hate it.
I suppose I did make my escape to a top summer vacation destination. My very own family has been coming to this quaint mountain town for years. It’s why my parents eventually bought the house. They like collecting houses. It’s easy to do when you’re loaded.
“I do wish I was there with you. It looks just as beautiful as I remember, and I know how relaxing it can be, but there’s just no way I can come see you.” My best friend mock-pouts into the screen.
I’m on FaceTime with Scarlett in the hopes to . . . what? Somehow convince her to come out to my family’s lake house in the woods and hang out with me?
Yes. That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, even though I realize it’s impossible. She’s currently across the entire world.
“I’m lonely,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. It took a lot for me to say that, and I’m talking to the one person who knows my deepest, darkest secrets. Not that I have many. I’m pretty much an open book, as is my most recent relationship.
I hate Edmund Davies with the very depths of my soul.
I hope he rots in hell for all eternity for what he put me through.
The public humiliation is the worst part.
With time and distance—two weeks, which I know isn’t long, but I’m trying to be practical for once in my life—I realize I didn’t necessarily love Edmund.
He swept me off my feet with his sweet words and grand gestures.
The man love bombed me, is what he did, and I fell for it like the idiot that I am.
I don’t normally fall for things like this. I’m skeptical. I can see through people’s fakeness, but Edmund got me. Must’ve been the love bombing. The gaslighting. God, I’m so stupid.
Scarlett is the only person I can complain to about my problems because let’s face it: My life is fairly blessed.
I sound like I’m bragging even in my own thoughts, but I know I come from a privileged background.
My family is wealthy. I don’t have to worry about much moneywise, and lately, that’s become a fatal flaw in my father’s eyes.
But that’s another topic for another day.
“Aw, Rach! I hate that you’re sad.” Scarlett gathers the front of her coat together, visibly shivering. “It’s so cold here.”
The reason my best friend can’t hop on a plane and come see me during my darkest moment?
She’s in Australia, on tour with her stupid hot fiancé, Tate Ramsey, who’s become the biggest singing sensation since freaking Harry Styles.
Everyone loves Tate. The former boy band lead singer has had a tremendous comeback after a disastrous few years post–band breakup.
He’s on top of the world, and he always gives Scarlett so much credit for saving him.
Together, they’re the cutest. And while sometimes their relationship makes me sick with envy, I always tell myself I want that. I want that so badly. I tried to attain it too but failed miserably. Spectacularly.
Publicly.
Again, another topic for another day. I’m here because I escaped the city and that particular problem. Don’t really need to dwell on it for too long unless I’m in the mood to fall into a deep, dark pit of depression, which I am so not, thank you very much.
“I’ll be okay,” I reassure her, sighing.
“Flip the camera back to your face. I can’t see you,” Scarlett demands.
I forgot I was showing her the view from the third-story deck on my parents’ house. I tap the button on my screen, the camera returning to me, and Scarlett’s face brightens.
“You look great!”
“I’ve spent the last two days since I got here laying in the sun.” The weather is warm but not blistering hot, and the evenings cool down to a pleasant temperature, thanks to the lake being so close by.
“I can tell! You’re glowing.” Her voice drops. “If only Edmund could see you now . . .”
I make a face. “Please don’t say his name out loud.”
Scarlett presses her lips together, appearing contrite. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bring him up and ruin your mood.”
He got caught by the paps in London “canoodling” with Lady Emmaline of Cocksbury—I found out her identity within seconds of seeing the tragic, relationship-ending photo.
Such an unfortunate name. Such an unfortunate mess.
I was publicly humiliated, especially when they randomly interviewed Eddie the next day leaving his Mayfair town house.
When the reporter asked him where I was, Eddie actually said, “Rachel who?”
Rachel. Who.
Like I don’t exist. Like I was never a thought in his mind. Devastating.
That was the final straw. The moment when I knew I couldn’t last in the city for the rest of the summer.
Not that I last long in the city during the summer anyway.
I spend all my time either traveling all over Europe or staying at my family’s beach house in the Hamptons.
But after everything that had happened, I knew I couldn’t even stay on that side of the country. I needed to leave.
I needed to escape my life. Something I’ve been thinking about more and more lately.
“It’s fine.” My voice is brisk, my smile false. “I’ve forgotten all about him.”
Scarlett peers at me through her phone’s camera, a look of doubt on her face. “Are you sure that you’re fine?”
“I’m fantastic,” I emphasize. “It’s so freeing here. No sounds of the city at all. Just chirping birds and the occasional rev of a boat’s engine coming from the water.”
Scarlett frowns. “I thought you loved the city.”
“I did! I do! But this is nice too.” I glance around at the towering pine trees that surround the house, hear the call of a bird in the near distance. God, it’s quiet. Almost too peaceful. “Very nice.”
The skeptical look on my friend’s face is obvious. “You’re repeating yourself.”
A sigh leaves me, and I decide to be truthful. “I’m bored. I can only do so much, you know?”
“Go back home then,” she encourages softly.
“To what? An empty apartment? Go to the Hamptons with my parents and have to deal with the endless questions from my so-called friends? They’re all going to ask about Eddie. The public humiliation is too much to bear.”
I think of how cruel Lucinda was. And her little friend. The moment I show my face at the country club again, the gossip will start. The gossip has probably already started. I can’t stand the thought of being surrounded by my “friends and acquaintances,” knowing they’re talking about me.
“Rachel . . .”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m staying here for at least a week.
” I told myself I would stay here for the rest of the summer, but I don’t know how that’s possible.
I’ll probably die of boredom. I have no friends here either, and I’m not even sure how to make them.
Where are the local hangouts? They wouldn’t consider me a local anyway. I’m a tourist here.
An outsider. I feel like an outsider everywhere I go at the moment.
“Call me anytime, okay? If you just need to talk? I’m here for you,” Scarlett says. “Love you, Rach.”
“I will. Thank you. I love you too.” I smile at her, but it feels weak, and I let it fade.
We end the call, and I make my way back over to the lounger, staring at it for a moment before I leave it behind and head back into the house. The moment I shut the sliding glass door, the cool air envelops me, and I sigh with relief.
It was hotter out there than I realized.
I wander around the house aimlessly, a list running through my mind of who I could call next, but no one I want to talk to comes to mind. I’m definitely not calling my parents. My father is probably mad at me, and my mom will be overly sympathetic to my plight.
I don’t need sympathy—I need a distraction.
Eventually, I find myself in the kitchen, standing in front of the refrigerator with both doors open as I contemplate my options, which are few.
This house is located in a rather rural area, which means there are no grocery deliveries or Uber Eats or DoorDash available.
That sort of thing just doesn’t happen around here.
Pushing aside a to-go container, I spot a package of under-eye gel masks on the shelf and grab it, staring at the label. An idea forms in my head.
A spa afternoon. I could light a candle, lounge in the tub, slather on a hair mask, use one of these face masks, and just . . . soak all my troubles away. Even if it’s only momentary.
Hmm, that sounds perfect.
Within minutes I’m upstairs in the primary bathroom, water is running in the massive tub, I’ve lit about three candles, and I’m drenching my scalp and hair in rosemary oil, which is supposed to stimulate growth and general hair health.
I’ve got my favorite podcast on, listening to two women around my age talking about men who are, and I quote, “trash.”
I’m agreeing with pretty much every single thing they’re saying.
“Girl, don’t tolerate his shady ass,” says my favorite of the two hosts, Jordyn. “This man literally told her he wasn’t a reliable dater but would love to continue seeing her. Like, who does that?”
Women write in about their dating woes, and the hosts offer their opinions. It’s highly entertaining—and relatable.
“Trash men, that’s who,” says the other host, Andi. “The problem is, too many women find this type of behavior acceptable. He felt comfortable enough to say that to her face, and he’s probably said worse to other women. That’s what’s so distressing. How easily they offer up their trash opinions.”
Shedding the last of my clothing, I step into the tub, hissing when the hot water laps against my skin.
I sink into the water until it hits my chin, leaning my head back against the rim of the tub and closing my eyes, my mind wandering.
Thinking of all the things Edmund said to me throughout our relationship.
How he was waving little red flags in my face and I didn’t notice. Or I chose not to notice. Does that make what he’s done to me my fault? I let him get away with his bad behavior all the time.
If he wanted to, he would. That’s a mantra Jordyn and Andi repeat constantly, and Edmund never, ever wanted to. At least when it came to me.
My lower lip trembles, and tears sting my eyes. No. I refuse to cry anymore. Not over stupid Edmund and his stupid Lady Cocksbury. God, what a horrible name.
“Did you see what happened with that one rich girl? Heiress? Whatever you want to call her?”
All the hairs on my body rise.
“Who are you talking about?”
“Rachel what’s-her-name. The one who just got dumped by that rich British guy? He actually said Rachel Who to a reporter when they asked him about it, like he didn’t even remember her.” Jordyn laughs. So does Andi.
I sink deeper into the water until it covers my mouth, tempted to drown myself. But I need to hear what they have to say.
“Oooh, I did see that. Talk about embarrassing! Though that guy is a total douche, pretending he didn’t know who she was.”
Yeah, he’s a complete douche.
“They were together for like a few months!” Jordyn says. “Such a dirty dog. I’m sure he gave her clues, though.”
“Lots of red flags,” Andi adds.
It’s like they’re reading my mind.
“Wonder if she’d come on the show.” I hear the sound of shuffling. “Rachel Henderson! If you’re listening, please reach out to us! We want to have you on our podcast! Let’s call out that ex of yours and give him the public flogging he deserves.”
I couldn’t. No way. My parents would be angry. Eddie would probably shit a thousand bricks. But sometimes bad publicity works in a person’s favor . . .
No. I have nothing to gain out of this, and I’d just look like an angry ex-girlfriend out for revenge. I’d rather pretend I never heard their callout to me at all.
Blindly I reach out, trying to find my phone so I can turn off the podcast. But in my search for the phone, my fingers knock into something and send it flying off the tiled ledge that surrounds the tub. It rolls onto the floor, and within seconds I can smell something . . .
Burning.
Sitting straight up, I blink the candle on the floor into focus.
It’s sitting on its side, the wicks somehow still lit, the fire slowly eating at the linen curtain that flanks the window.
Within seconds the flames grow bigger, climbing up the fabric, and I cup my hands, trying to splash water on it.
Oh God. I’m going to set the house on fire!
I grab my phone and tap out 911, climbing out of the tub and trying not to slip as I clutch the phone to my ear. The room starts to fill with smoke, and I glance around for clothing, grabbing the silky robe hanging on a hook on the back of the door.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator answers.
“Yes, I’d like to report a fire!”