Chapter 51
Chapter
Fifty-One
LAUREN
I ’m standing barefoot on the worn linoleum in Annabel’s tiny kitchen, the air warm with the tangy aroma of tomato soup simmering on the stove.
Despite how cramped the apartment is, the kitchen and living room squeezed into one space, a faded floral curtain partitioning off Annabel’s bedroom in the corner, it has become my refuge, a shield from the manor, from the charred ruins of my cottage, from Hugh.
I watch the steam curling upward and once again get lost in thoughts of him.
My hands tremble as I stir the soup, the wooden spoon scraping the pot’s bottom, my reflection distorted in its stainless-steel surface—pale, hollow-eyed, still carrying the weight of the fire and the betrayal.
I’m sad, so sad, the grief is like a heavy stone in my chest, and no matter how much I try to dislodge it, it remains in place.
I should be making arrangements to sell and go back home, but for the life of me, I can’t. I just can’t give up. I put too much into this venture. Way too much.
An incoming call suddenly interrupts my wallowing so I wipe my hands on a dish towel and head over to pick up my phone. It’s a video call from Sandy. Good, she is the one person I’m truly happy to see and speak to.
I tap the answer button, and Sandy’s face appears, her Chicago apartment bright behind her, a stark contrast to my cluttered background.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she greets.
I smile back in response. “Hey… I just spoke to you. Why are you calling again?”
I know she's worried but I've told her several times that I'm fine. I should have known she wouldn’t listen.
“Don’t worry, I’m not calling to check on you. I’m calling this time so we can make a plan. You’re not the kind to stay too long with someone who is virtually a stranger; you’ll start getting uncomfortable soon.”
“No, I like Annabel. She’s been a real friend to me. You don’t often find people understand girl-code the way she does. She’s an absolute gem.”
“Anyway… this is what I’m thinking: It’s been a couple of days, Lauren, and I think it’s time that you go back to the cottage so you can figure out what to do. I know it’s still raw, but you’ve had time to think. It’s time to move forward. One way or another.”
I lean against the counter, the edge biting into my hip. I swallow, my throat tight, and my voice low, shaky.
“I’m trying, Sandy, I’m really trying to think of options here, but when I came here, I gave up everything I had and knew. I sold my car, my furniture, everything I could so I could stay as long as possible without worrying about money.”
Sandy tilts her head, her voice brightening as she tries to lift me. “I know, so let’s look on the bright side. The land’s yours. You could sell it to him, and make sure to bleed him dry. Set the price as high as you want.” She grins, but it fades when she sees my face, the despair I can’t hide.
My fingers twist the towel agitatedly. “If he doesn’t buy it, then what? I don’t think Grandma had insurance. I’m ruined, Sandy. I might not even afford a flight back to the U.S. He fucked me over real good—literally and figuratively.”
Sandy’s face becomes fierce with loyalty. “I’m gonna help you, Lauren, as much as I can. Don’t worry, okay? You’re gonna be fine. You tried something and it didn’t work. So what? There’s no shame in that. You’re going to start again.”
“Okay,” I say. Her words are a lifeline, but they don’t erase the ache and the fear I feel. I glance at the clock. “Look, I need to go out and get some bread rolls for the soup. Annabel’s almost home, and the bakery closes soon. I’ll call you later.”
Sandy smiles, her voice warm, “Bye, sweetheart.”
The call ends, the screen going dark, leaving me alone with the hum of the fridge, the weight of my thoughts.
I turn off the stove to let the soup’s heat fade, and slip on Annabel’s sneakers.
Their soles are worn and the laces frayed, but it is currently my only option.
I am lucky enough that we are the same size, both in clothing and shoes, so I really don’t have much to complain about.
The walk to the village is quick, the evening air cool, the cobblestone streets glowing under the village’s lamplights. The market square is bustling with late shoppers; their innocent chatter would have been something to enjoy if I didn’t feel so bad.
The scent of fresh bread and sugar wafts out as I push through the bakery door, the bell jingling.
It’s almost closing time, and the shelves are quite empty.
I look at the bread on display; sourdough, rye, granary—their crusts dark and powdery.
Some of the cakes have been discounted too, and I decide to buy some tarts for dessert.
I know Annabel loves their apple tart, and it will be a lovely surprise for her.
For a moment, I let myself feel a flicker of joy, a whisper that maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay.
My bank card will arrive soon, and somehow, I’ll make it work.
I reach for a sourdough loaf, its weight solid in my hands, and turn to the counter to ask for the tarts. Already my heart feels lighter.
“Lauren!” a voice calls.
And my stomach drops, the loaf nearly slipping from my grasp. I turn, frowning, and there she is—Cecilia, her horsey features pinched with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Hi,” she says, her voice syrupy, dripping with false sympathy. “I’ve been trying to reach you. How are things going now? Where are you staying?”
I stiffen. She, I am sure, is just fishing for gossip, and it is something that I cannot tolerate in my current mood.
“I’m okay, thank you,” I say, my voice flat, and move to step around her.
But she doesn’t budge, her eyes glinting, her tone sharpening. “How are things with you and Hugh? For once, I wish I wasn’t right all along. I should have tried harder to protect you. I’m so sorry about what happened to you.”
Her words sound good, but somehow, they feel like venom to me, rousing the doubts I’ve been wrestling with. I want to snap, to tell her to leave me alone, but I don’t. My lips are pressed tight and my anger stirring.
“I really don’t want to talk about it,” I say, my voice low, and turn again, but she grabs my arm, her grip firm, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I understand, but you’re not going to let him get away with this, are you?”
I stare at her in amazement. This I did not expect.
“There’s a way to get back at him,” she says, her eyes gleaming. “Don’t sell the land to him. Hurt him instead.”
I freeze. “What do you mean?”
She steps closer, her breath hot, her words quick and urgent.
“Big city developers might want your land. They’ve bought the adjacent plots, and I’m sure they’d pay more than Hugh, way more.
He’s trying to lowball you, twist your arm, demoralize you, but these people don’t play dirty games.
The best thing for you to do is to try and sell to them, and that way you’ll stick it to him.
This is what you should do to get the best price for yourself.
Trust me, after all his scheming and cunning, he’ll feel the burn and the pain like nothing else. ”
Her smile is triumphant, but it chills me, because I’ve always suspected her, her motives, her sudden friendship, and now this—big city developers, money, and revenge. It all feels too convenient and too calculated.
I pull my arm free, my voice steady despite the suspicion swirling in my gut. “Okay, I’ll think about it.”
She nods, her eyes narrowing, her voice pressing. “I understand, but don’t wait too long. You have to strike while the iron is hot. They might move on. I can talk them into paying more, into covering your losses, and I’m pretty sure they’ll do it because they’re kind.”
I almost scoff at how ridiculous her words sound.
Kind? As if big city developers are ever ‘kind’.
The only thing I really know about big business is they play dirty.
Very dirty. She truly must think me a complete moron.
Irritated, I turn away so that I can ask the girl behind the counter for the tarts, pay, and be on my way.
Behind me, the bell rings to signify she has left the premises, and I feel a sense of relief.
Outside, the air is colder and the sun is slowly setting, but I barely notice the splendor of it.
My mind is racing. How does Cecilia have pull with developers?
Why is she so invested? Her words ‘adjacent plots’ and ‘more money’ gnaw at me.
If others want the land, if they’ve bought nearby, then maybe Hugh isn’t the only one with a motive.
What if, as he says, he had nothing to do with starting the fire?
The thought hits me, sharp, impossible, because I’ve been so sure, so angry, but now doubt creeps in, a crack in my certainty.
I think of his face that day in the manor when I accused him…
The hurt in his eyes. He looked genuinely shocked and destroyed, the way his voice broke when he asked, “ Why would I do that ?” Now, I wonder if I misread him, if my heart, opening to him despite my walls, saw something real, yet I was too scared to trust.
I fell in love with him, and that is why his betrayal—if it’s real—cut so deep and hurt so much, I became blind and unreasonable. I opened my heart, let him in, and now I’m broken, not just because of the fire, but by the loss of him.
But what if I was wrong?
Suddenly, I see everything in a new light.
What if Cecilia was the one playing me all along, and is now using my pain to hurt him, to get the land for another hidden player?
From what I know of Hugh so far, I know him to be direct and fearless.
He wouldn’t hide behind a mask; most definitely wouldn’t pretend shock if he’d actually done it.
He has no reason to lie, no reason to be afraid of me.
And why would he spend all that money renovating my cottage?
He could have just burned it down before the renovation.
It would have been more believable. Old wiring…
That day in his manor when I accused him, that was real pain in his face, but part of me still remains distraught, confused, because I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know who to trust, don’t know if I can face the question: Who really started the fire?
My phone buzzes, jarring me, and I’m so lost in my thoughts, the interruption annoys me. Still, I pull it out to answer, knowing that it can only be Annabel. Only she and Sandy have this number. I am right it’s Annabel. I quickly respond, wondering if she’s back home already.
“Hey, I just got the bread from the bakery and I’m headed back now. Are you home yet?”
“No, not yet,” she says in a strange whispery voice. “Um… someone’s looking for you, Lauren.”
My heart begins to race, my breath catching, because I think it’s Hugh. Who else would want to meet me?
“It’s Her Ladyship, the Duke’s mother,” Annabel continues. “She’s at the grocery store right now, and says that she’d love to have tea with you.”
Stunned, I stop walking. I must have heard wrong. “What?” My mind is reeling. Hugh’s mother? He spoke of her, of course, but why would she want to see me? My pulse hammers, confusion swirling, but no matter how hurt I am, how furious I am with Hugh, I can’t be rude to her.
“Okay,” I say, my voice small, my hand tightening around the phone. “Give her my number, Annabel. I’ll wait for her call.”
“Alright,” she says.
I hang up and stand there, my heart torn between doubt, love, and fear, waiting for a call that might change everything, or absolutely nothing at all. Maybe she wants to negotiate a price for the land. For her son.