Spring Ruin (A Year of Desire #2)

Chapter 1

Lila

Email. Check.

Fresh batch of lemon drizzle in the oven. Check.

Crisis management mode? Fully activated.

My fingers fly over the keyboard, typing my third email today and it’s not even 11 a.m. Steam might as well be rising from my head.

“Dear Corporate Robot,” I mutter, dripping sarcasm into every word. “Thank you so much for brushing me off again. It’s been delightful. Now go and choke on some cake and go away.”

I hover over the send button, smirking with satisfaction.

Exhale. Delete.

I crack my knuckles and start over. I type faster, each keystroke harder than the last. My patience wore thin two days ago, and now it’s hanging by a thread.

Enough with the runaround. I want to speak to the person at the top. No more excuses.

I finally hit send with more force than necessary and lean back, glaring at the screen like it might cower in submission.

Unlikely.

The development proposal looms in my inbox like a ticking time bomb, a plan to demolish the building that holds Bloom and Brew, my mother’s beloved florist shop and the cafe I added to keep the business afloat. All to make way for yet another soulless block of luxury apartments.

The thought alone makes my blood boil. Not just because of the countless hours we’ve poured into this place, but because of what it means to my mother.

My mother built it from the ground up thirty years ago when she first emigrated to the UK.

It’s more than a shop; it’s her legacy. When Dad left eight years ago, it became more than just a business, it was the one thing that kept her going, giving her purpose when everything else fell apart.

I’ve fought to keep her dream alive by expanding into a cafe when the flower sales alone weren’t enough.

I glance toward the back room, where she’s arranging flowers, her face serene and focused, as though the world isn’t crumbling around us. She hums softly while trimming a bundle of fresh lilies, completely unfazed.

I can’t let her lose it. I won’t.

The oven timer dings, snapping me back to reality. I pull out the tray of cakes and inhale deeply, letting the scent of lemon and sugar fill my lungs. Comfort. Stability. It’s what Bloom and Brew is built on, and I’ll be damned if some corporation takes it away.

My phone buzzes. Wanker - aka James Harlow’s name flashes on the screen.

Great. Him again.

I debate letting it go to voicemail, but I know exactly what kind of message he’ll leave - condescending and wrapped in a fake smile.

He’s been like this from the start. Dismissive at first, then increasingly short-tempered, like I’m a nuisance he can’t quite get rid of.

Good, I’ll keep pestering until I reach the top.

Bracing myself, I pick up. “Mr Harlow.”

“Ms Ng,” James says, his tone clipped. “I thought we’d already discussed this. You’ve raised your concerns. We’ve taken them under advisement.”

“That’s funny,” I reply, shifting the phone to my other ear. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve ignored everything I’ve requested. No environmental assessment. No public consultation. And judging by your refusal to provide proof, no transparency either.”

“We’ve conducted all the required reviews,” he fires back. “The project is compliant with every regulation.”

“No proof, no transparency because there is none,” I snap.

He exhales loudly, the sound filled with barely disguised irritation.

“Ms Ng, this project is moving forward with or without your approval. I suggest you focus on adapting to the change rather than fighting it.”

My blood boils. “Oh, I’m not fighting it alone anymore, Mr Harlow. I’ve formed the Silverbeck Business Coalition. We’re a united front, and we’ve formally requested a meeting with your development team. We’re done being ignored.”

“A coalition?” he repeats, his voice dripping with disbelief. “And what exactly do you plan to achieve with this… coalition?”

“Accountability,” I reply. “Over a dozen businesses are backing this. We want real answers, not a PR script and we want to hear them from the person who actually calls the shots.”

“There’s no need to escalate this further.” His voice is tight now, his patience wearing thin. “I’ve already told you, I have the authority to address your concerns.”

“Authority, sure,” I say, sarcasm dripping from every word. “But we both know you’re not the one who makes the real decisions. So how about we skip the middleman and go straight to the top? Who’s the actual head of this project?”

There’s a pause.

“Ms Ng…” His voice softens, almost patronising. “That won’t be necessary.”

“I disagree.” I push off the counter and pace the cafe. “If you won’t set it up, I’ll find out who they are myself. Trust me, it won’t take long.”

His silence stretches.

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” he finally says.

“Nope,” I reply, popping the ‘p’ with extra satisfaction.

He sighs heavily. “Fine. Expect a call soon.”

The line goes dead. I set the phone down and take a deep breath, my heart still racing.

***

“Lila, table four is asking for more oat milk!”

I balance two trays of cappuccinos in my arms, nodding toward Jess. The cafe is packed, students with laptops, couples on coffee dates, and our regulars lounging in the corner as if they’ve got nowhere else to be.

I thrive on mornings like this, where I’m too busy to think.

“Coming right up,” I call back, weaving through tables with practiced ease.

It’s past lunchtime when the crowd finally starts to thin, and I get my first real break of the day. I head to the counter and collapse on the stool behind the register, grabbing my phone from under a stack of invoices.

Twenty-two unread emails. Three missed calls. One voicemail. The cafe noise hums around me, cups clinking, chairs scraping, but it all fades into the background when I see the unknown number.

I play the voicemail.

I take a deep breath and bring the phone to my ear.

“Ms Ng, this is Ben Ashcroft.”

The name slams into me like a freight train. My breath catches.

It can’t be.

Not him.

My stomach does a weird little flip at the sound of his voice. It’s deep, polished, and calm in a way that demands attention.

“You’ve been persistent about speaking with someone at the top,” he continues. “I thought it was time we connected directly. Call me back at your earliest convenience.”

I blink at the phone, playing the message again just to be sure I heard it right. Ben Ashcroft.

No. Absolutely not. That Ben Ashcroft wouldn’t be calling me in a suit and tie, sounding like he’s got the weight of a multinational corporation resting on his shoulders.

He wouldn’t be leaving smooth, formal voicemails and calling me Ms Ng like we’ve never met before.

He wouldn’t even recognise the name, Ms Ng. That’s what I go by now.

I snort. Definitely not him.

It’s just a coincidence. A completely different Ben Ashcroft.

Still, my hands aren’t entirely steady when I set the phone down. Almost three o’clock. No point in waiting. I need answers and I need them now.

I take a steadying breath and press the number.

It rings twice before a calm, polished voice answers. “Ashcroft Holdings. How may I direct your call?”

“Hi, I’d like to speak with Ben Ashcroft, please,” I say, trying to keep my tone professional.

The woman pauses, and I hear the faint clatter of a keyboard. “May I ask what this is regarding?”

“It’s regarding the Silverbeck redevelopment project. I’ve spoken with James Harlow multiple times, but I insist on speaking to the head of the development directly.”

There’s a longer pause this time, just enough for me to picture her rolling her eyes and deciding how unimportant I am. “Mr Ashcroft is in meetings all afternoon. I can pass along a message.”

“He’s expecting my call,” I interrupt, injecting as much authority as I can manage.

Another pause. This one feels deliberate. “Hold, please.”

Soft jazz trickles through the line. Smooth and meant to calm people like me down. It does the opposite. My foot taps out a quick rhythm on the floor, each note stretching my patience thinner.

Finally, the line clicks.

“Ms Ng.” His voice is deep and deliberate, his words slow and measured, as if every syllable is carefully chosen. “I believe you’ve been asking for me.”

That voice. Dark, controlled, commanding.

For a split second, I’m sixteen again, throwing pennies into the water fountain. But that boy didn’t have this voice.

I force a steady breath, pushing the memory aside. It’s just a coincidence. A different Ben Ashcroft. One with far too much authority and a voice that could cut glass.

“You did say ‘at my earliest convenience,’ Mr Ashcroft,” I reply. “And this is it.”

“What can I do for you?”

There’s an ease in his tone, like he has all the time in the world to deal with this call. It grates on me.

“I’m sure you’re aware that I’ve been in contact with James Harlow regarding the development,” I begin, my voice steady but sharp.

“I’ve made it clear that this project is raising serious concerns for the local businesses affected.

The Silverbeck Business Coalition has formally requested a meeting with someone who actually has decision-making power. Someone like you.”

“Ah, the coalition,” he says, his tone thoughtful. “James mentioned it.”

“Then you’ll also know we’re not going away quietly,” I say, pressing my advantage.

He pauses just long enough to make me uncomfortable.

“Persistent,” he says finally. “I admire that.”

I don’t trust the warmth in his voice. It feels like a test, a subtle chess move to see how I’ll react.

“Well, persistence pays off,” I say. “I assume you’re willing to meet with us?”

He hums softly, like he’s considering it far more than necessary. “Of course. I’d be happy to meet… next month.”

“Next month?” My grip on the phone tightens. “We were aiming for something sooner.”

“Unfortunately, my schedule is rather full.” His voice stays calm, but the deliberate weight behind his words is impossible to miss. “But… well.”

Another beat of silence.

“I do have an opening next Wednesday,” he continues, like he’s granting me a favour.

“That should give you and your coalition plenty of time to prepare.”

I bite down on my frustration. He’s controlling the timeline, holding the cards close to his chest—and he knows it. But I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of rattling me.

“Fine,” I say, keeping my tone light. “We’ll see you next Wednesday at one. Bloom and Brew cafe.”

There’s a short pause, like he’s considering his next move. “I’ll be there. I’m looking forward to hearing your spirited opinions.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“Until then, Ms Ng.” His voice dips slightly on my name, just enough to send an unwanted ripple through me.

The line clicks off, and I lower the phone, breathing through the rush of adrenaline that leaves me slightly unsteady.

That was not how I expected this conversation to go.

The date is set. Time to make sure we’re ready for whatever slick corporate spin he tries to throw at us. My hands feel shaky as I place the phone back on the counter.

“Wednesday,” I mutter to myself, tapping my fingers on the counter. “Bring your best suit, Mr Ashcroft. This isn’t going to be a friendly coffee chat.”

In the back room, my mum hums softly again, snapping a stem and tucking it into an arrangement. I walk over, past the rows of neatly trimmed roses and tulips, and watch her work for a moment. She glances up with a warm smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You’re thinking too much,” she says.

“How can you tell?”

“Because you always get that little line between your eyebrows when you do.”

She studies me for a moment, her gaze soft but searching, then asks, “Was that the developers on the phone?”

I hesitate just a second too long, but nod. “Yeah. I managed to organize a meeting. Next Wednesday.”

Her smile falters, and she presses a flower into the arrangement. “Oh,” she says quietly. “That’s… soon, then.”

I can hear the worry in her voice, see it in the way her fingers still against the petals. It twists something deep inside me. She shouldn’t have to worry about fighting to keep her own shop standing.

I reach over, squeezing her hand. “Mum, I’ve got this under control,” I say firmly. “I promise.”

She nods, but the tension in her shoulders doesn’t ease. She tries to hide it, to be strong, but I see the worry in her eyes, the way her fingers hesitate over the flowers she’s arranging and that’s what hurts the most.

I’ve been handling things like this for as long as I can remember.

Translating letters, filling out forms, making calls, because English wasn’t my parents’ first language.

Even as a kid, I was the one making sure nothing slipped through the cracks, the one standing between them and the bureaucratic mess that always seemed stacked against us.

I’ll do it again.

If saving Bloom and Brew means stepping into the lion’s den, I will.