Chapter 8
EIGHT
GREGG
Gregg’s Townhouse
Egerton Crescent, London, United Kingdom
I wait at the edge of the café, and watch Cameron disappear down the street and become slowly swallowed by the rhythm of Kensington in the late afternoon. The city hums around me, but I stay still, caught somewhere between thought and feeling.
I should feel triumphant. The Wilmont deal is finally surging forward, Dad’s expectations are, at least for the moment, silent, and I’m back in London with momentum.
But none of it settles the way it should have.
Because my mind is stuck on the man with the expressive, deep, and storm-burdened eyes.
God. That smile of his. Bright, expressive, but reluctant too, like sunlight that had to fight its way through clouds. And when I asked about that place, that comforting, sacred place… the way he’d said, “Or anywhere with…” that clings to me like the fading notes of a melancholy tune.
There was something he wasn’t saying. Someone, maybe.
I take off my hat and run my fingers through my hair as I head home.
Maybe there had been some flirtation, but it felt like I’d glimpsed something far more complicated.
Cameron was holding something back. Not because he wasn’t interested, but some part of him was still living in a different chapter.
Crossing onto a quieter street, I listen to the gentle whisper of the park across the way, trees sway, bushes shiver with the breeze.
My thoughts are no better, contradictory and impatient.
Had I meant to feel anything? Too soon? Too much?
But something about him, his quiet strength, his restraint, the way he listened like it mattered, had gripped me harder than I wanted to admit. It had since the airport in New York.
He’s not looking for anything, I think to myself. The thought settles like a stone. Not a relationship, not a rebound, maybe not even a friendship. And yet, he'd shown up. He’d met with me. He’d let me see just enough to want more.
At the steps of my townhome, I find my key and let myself in.
I walk down the hall and up the stairs, into my living room.
The black piano waits in the soft afternoon light, gleaming.
I sit on the bench, lift the lid, and let my right hand fall onto the keys and play a slow descending baseline. It feels reflective and familiar.
You’re an idiot, I tell myself with a humourless smile. He’s grieving something. You saw it in his eyes. But I need more.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, swipe open the notification, and find a new email waiting for me.
To: Greggory Harwell
From: Daniel Cho
Subject: Wilmont Ideas
Hey Greggory! Hope you had a safe flight home.
Great presentation, but I’ve had some ideas I’d love to collaborate on regarding the project.
Are you passing through San Francisco anytime soon?
I know it’s a stretch but thought it was worth the ask, since Archeon has some property here.
I prefer in-person over zoom. Let me know!
-Daniel
San Francisco. That’s where Cameron is from, and where he’d end up at the end of his trip!
I’m unsure if it would be presumptuous to even consider the idea that he’d want me there.
But the thought lingers anyway, an opportunity to know him better, to gently peel back the layers he kept so tightly wrapped. To see him again after London.
Before I can overthink it further, my phone rings.
I answer with a steady breath. “Hello, Dad.”
“I assume you made it back to London,” he states, sharp as ever.
“Yes, I landed this morning. I’ve been catching up on the time change,” I lie.
“Shouldn’t be much to catch up on. You were only gone for a day.”
I roll my eyes, grateful he can’t see me.
“How did the meeting go with the investors?” he demands.
“It went well. Better than I expected, actually.”
“I should hope so,” Dad snaps. “Did they commit?”
“Yes.” I can’t help the small, proud smile that tugs at my mouth. “All three are onboard. Evelyn, Daniel, and Kenneth. All the agreements were signed before they left.”
There was a brief pause, then a low hum of approval.
“Good. At least I shouldn’t have to deal with any more delays from you.”
I elect to let that jab pass. “They were impressed with the blend of historic preservation and modern sustainability. Daniel was particularly drawn to the carbon-neutral approach.”
“Cho?” He scoffs. “The tech mogul? Let me guess, you tossed around all the right buzzwords? Green technology and exclusivity?”
“I used a strategy that worked,” I defend, my patience is thinning but stays controlled. “They’re sophisticated investors. They needed to see the vision and the numbers. And I delivered both.”
“Don’t get cocky, Greggory.” His voice cuts like a blade. “Signing papers is just the beginning. Now you have to ensure everything goes according to plan. There’s no room for error.”
I exhale slowly, centering myself. “I’m aware. But for once, can we acknowledge what went right? I secured the financing, the investors are confident. The parliamentary red tape has already been cut. The project is moving forward.”
“Confidence means nothing without results, and you’ll do well to remember that.”
“Right,” I mutter, then try to redirect. “Daniel has asked to collaborate on some ideas—”
“Ideas?” he interrupts. “Investors meddling too much can derail a project. Keep control of the vision. We don’t need Parliament pushing back because the plan suddenly changed.”
I nod to myself and concede the point. “Noted. But collaboration can strengthen the outcome if it’s managed properly.”
“This isn’t a Cambridge lecture hall.” His voice drips with condescension. “This is the real world. I know from experience, so keep control. And don’t forget, your mother’s birthday is Saturday. You’re expected at Ashcombe.”
The abrupt shift makes me blink. “Erm, of course. How could I forget? I assume it’s the usual spectacle?”
“Naturally. A garden party on the south lawn, followed by dinner. Your mother expects nothing less.”
“She’s always had a flair for the grand.”
“And she deserves it. Our family’s position in society is one that rarely exists today. The Earl and Countess of Westerleigh are attending with their daughter. So you will be there. No excuses. Understood?”
I clench my jaw, imagining forced conversations.
“Understood. I’ll be there.”
“Good, it’s settled. We’ll see you Saturday. Good evening.”
The line clicks dead.
“Good evening to you too,” I mutter under my breath, lowering the phone and rubbing the bridge of my nose.
Upstairs, steam curls into the edges of the modern bathroom, softening the sharp lines of white marble and brushed steel.
The rainfall shower pours steadily above me, muting the world outside meditatively.
I stand beneath it, letting the heat ease the tension from my shoulders, and I brace my hands against the cool tile, closing my eyes and tilting my head back.
Beneath the roar of the water, my thoughts drift unstoppably to Cameron.
From his hesitant smile, to the way his voice had faltered just slightly when he spoke about the past. There was a vulnerability in him.
I felt it as clearly as the water falling over me now.
And yet, despite that… or maybe because of it, I can’t stop thinking about him.
I shut off the water and reach for a towel, the quiet of my home settling around me.
The polished floor beneath my feet, the soft hum of the vents, and the understated elegance of the fixtures.
It all feels curated and intentional, a life arranged for success.
But in moments like this, stripped of Armani suits and investor meetings, it all feels like armor.
I wrap the towel around my waist and pad into my bedroom. The hues of cream and slate gray offer a calm reprieve, the only burst of color in the room is a dark-blue linen throw draped neatly across the bed. On the wall, the lone photograph of the Scottish Highlands hangs in quiet contrast.
Lochaven. My true home.
The wild hills. The silence of the pines. The freedom of space.
There, I don’t have to perform.
I sit on the edge of the bed and rub my hands over my face.
Mum’s birthday party was in four days, and Ashcombe would be overflowing with champagne and titled guests, the clinking of crystal glasses would echo down corridors older than time.
I could already hear my mother’s voice, “Do try not to brood in a corner this year, Greggory.”
And then there was Celeste, the daughter of the Earl and Countess of Westerleigh.
Beautiful, poised, and entirely oblivious to the fact that I have never once looked at her the way I had looked at Cameron.
Celeste and I have known each other since we were children.
Horses and hunting weekends, charity galas, winters in St. Moritz.
Her parents, Robert and Evangeline, had once tried to engineer an entire summer just to see if we might ‘grow fond’ of each other.
Our time at Cambridge had only made the notion more plausible on paper.
Study groups, shared lectures, and elegant evenings where one glass of wine too many softened the edge of my own self-denial.
Then one night came a party, the kind with too much champagne and too many expectations pressing in from all directions.
I had kissed her, and she kissed me back.
And in the morning, I wished I could erase all of it.
It had been a moment born of exhaustion and expectation, not desire. Yet the way she lingered in my life afterward, the gentle teasing, her hand on my arm just a second too long at every function… I knew it had planted something dangerous. False hope.
The cruel part is that Celeste is lovely. She is intelligent, kind, and effortlessly witty. She would make someone the perfect partner. Just not me. And she didn’t know that.