Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
GREGG
Saturday
Ashcombe Manor
South West England
The English countryside unfolds in long, lazy stretches of green and gold as I guide my BMW M8 along the narrow lanes.
The engine’s low growl thrums beneath steadily, rising and softening with each curve of the road.
Late-morning sunlight reflects off the sculpted blue hood, throwing quick flashes of light across the hedgerows and the old crumbling walls that blur past.
Julian sits angled toward me, sunglasses in place.
He’s impeccably and simply dressed, as always, with a linen shirt that’s open at the throat and tailored trousers.
He’s the picture of unbothered elegance.
I’ve chosen a moss green blazer and a crisp white shirt.
Comfortable, yes, but selected with the subconscious precision of someone returning home fully aware they’re about to be assessed from every angle.
We haven’t spoken much since leaving London traffic behind.
The unbroken hum of the tires on the tarmac feels like enough for both of us, though I’d caught Julian’s sideways glances more than once.
Each glance is a series of silent questions, ones he doesn’t need to voice.
How ready was I to return home? Was I ready at all?
We are getting close now. Ashcombe lies ahead somewhere, still hidden behind winding roads and meticulously tended farmland. Soon the paths would narrow into manicured gardens and tight little topiaries, and then the long halls and the shallow conversations dressed up as polite inquiry. Home.
Julian slips off his sunglasses, holding them out as he inspects the lenses.
“So,” he sighs casually, though nothing about Julian was ever truly casual, “Celeste will be there?”
“Of course she will be.” I exhale slowly, my grip tightens on the wheel just a fraction. “She’s practically part of the furniture.”
“And by furniture,” Julian smirks, “you mean the piece your parents keep dusting off to remind you where they think your future lies?”
“That’s one way to put it,” I answer dryly. “They’ve been casually inviting her to every appropriate function since we were old enough to know which fork to use.”
Julian lets the silence stretch for a few moments before leaning in. “I know where your parents stand, but does Celeste know you’d fancy shared time with someone else?”
“She knows enough.” Even I can hear how thin that sounds. “We’ve never been anything. It’s all for appearances, which matters more to my parents than truth.”
“But?”
I sigh. “But… no. She doesn’t know. If anything, I get the impression she thinks I’m playing hard to get.”
“Not to push, aboki,” Julian says softly, his gaze warming. “But you’re still keeping that part of yourself locked away?”
A humourless laugh slips out. “Locked away, guarded by a moat, and patrolled by armed guards. You know my dad’s expectations aren’t exactly… moveable.”
“And yet,” Julian’s smile returns, “you’re grinning like a smitten schoolboy every time I say the name ‘Cameron.’”
Despite myself, my lips curve. “It’s so different with him.
” I take one hand off the wheel and adjust my cuff, pretending I’m trying to hide the warmth in my voice.
“He’s sharp and unpretentious. He sees through the facade without even trying.
Makes me want to be, well, not this version everyone expects. ”
“That’s rare for you,” Julian says, head tilted, studying me. “You don’t usually let anyone that close.”
“No,” I admit quietly. “But with him, it doesn’t feel like I need to let someone in. It’s more like he was already there, and I’ve only just noticed.”
The car’s low hum softens as I ease it off the main road and onto the long gravel drive. The crunch of pale stones under the tires fills the cabin, an unmistakable country-estate sound, deliberate and old-world in a way you can’t replicate anywhere else.
Ashcombe Manor rises into view at the crest of the hill, a grand Georgian silhouette against the pale summer sky.
The brick facade, half-claimed by ivy, glows warmly in the daylight.
The tall sash windows stand in perfect symmetry, and a glass-and-iron conservatory gleam on one side like a polished jewel.
Manicured gardens frame the south lawn in precise, elegant lines.
Beyond them, a walled garden hints at bursts of color I can’t quite make out from the car, just a wash of green behind stone.
I slow as we approach the circular turnaround where other guests had already arrived.
Lines of luxury cars like Land Rovers, Bentleys, and Aston Martins rest neatly along the border of gravel and vibrant grass.
I pull off to the side, close to the house but with enough room to make a quick escape later if the evening demands it.
I take a deep breath and step out, shutting the door behind me.
From here, the clipped lawn stretched out in a perfect sweep, as if someone had combed each blade into place for the occasion.
On the terrace, guests mingle in tailored suits and flowing dresses, hats catch the light when they turn.
Beside me, Julian’s gaze darts from the house to the crowd, his expression tight as he slips into a polished public armor I knew far too well.
“There’s Celeste,” he whispers, nodding toward a graceful figure in a wide-brimmed hat. She stands near the conservatory, champagne in hand, deep in animated conversation with an older couple.
“Well,” I sigh quietly, “here we go.”
The fresh scent of cut grass drifts through the still air, threaded with the faint sweetness of summer flowers. The gravel crunches under our shoes as we move toward the steps, the sound fading into the low rumble of refined chatter and the delicate clink of glassware.
When we step inside, the cool air of the entrance hall wraps around us, carrying the familiar blend of polished wood and fresh flowers. Ashcombe’s tiled hall stretches beneath a sweeping staircase, its balustrade gleaming in the soft afternoon light.
“Darling,” my mother’s voice floats through the entryway before she appears, each syllable so perfectly placed it could’ve been rehearsed.
Victoria Harwell steps out from the drawing room on the right, heels clicking smartly as she crosses from carpet to tile.
She looks striking, as she always does, her sharp, sculpted features makes her resemble the statues outside more than any mortal parent.
Her blonde hair is pinned into a French twist, not a strand daring to misbehave.
The silk of her champagne-coloured dress catches the light as she moves, shimmering with every subtle shift, and a single string of pearls rests against her neck, gleaming faintly like a period at the end of a sentence.
Her cool blue eyes sweep over me, appraising and calculating, then she presses a kiss to my cheek.
“This is a surprise! I thought you were in New York?”
“Happy birthday, Mum,” I say, returning the kiss. “I got back a few days ago, and Dad mentioned you were having a little get-together.”
“Well, I’m so glad you could make it.” She cups my cheek like she’s inspecting me. “And you look so well, too! But my love, this Italian linen, it’s ghastly.”
Then her eyes shift to Julian.
“And Julian, what a pleasure to see you again. It feels like it’s been years!”
“The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Harwell,” he replies politely.
She lifts a hand with a playful scoff. “Please, call me Victoria. You know better.”
“My apologies, Victoria.” Julian smiles.
“Of course you’ll both have to stay tonight,” she continues. “I won’t hear any argument about returning to London this evening.”
“Luckily, we came prepared for that,” I chime in. “Our bags are in the car.”
“Wonderful. I’ll have the housekeeper make up another guest room. Greggory, your room is always prepared. I hope you’ll both be comfortable after this evening. Though now that I think about it, we may really be at capacity.”
“Really?” I inquire. “Who else is staying?”
“Oh, darling, you’re so cheeky.” Mum laughs lightly. “Evangeline, Robert, and Celeste. You know how close our families are.”
Before I can respond, my father enters the hall.
Dad had a way of filling space simply by existing.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and impeccably groomed.
His graying hair is neatly trimmed, and those piercing dark eyes miss nothing.
The fine wool of his suit only helped him exude the confidence of a man accustomed to influence.
He extends a firm handshake to Julian, the kind of handshake men like him used to measure another man’s worth before turning to me.
“Good to see you again, Julian,” he says, genial but always assessing. “Welcome home, Greggory.”
“Thank you,” I reply, slipping into the familiar, practiced rhythm expected of me in this house.
The terrace stretches along the back of the house and wraps up the side toward the conservatory.
Large stone planters sit in perfect intervals along the perimeter, each holding a narrow Tuscan cypress or a spill of pale hydrangeas.
Laughter drifts around us, mingling with the steady clink of glassware.
Mum’s preferred soundtrack for any gathering.
Julian leans against the stone rail beside me, hands tucked casually in his pockets as he surveyed the guests drifting about.
“I always forget that your mother is quite the hostess,” he admits, snagging a glass of champagne from a passing server like he owned the place.
I could hear the amusement in his voice.
“I think she’s greeted every single person at least twice. ”
“It’s her domain,” I exhale, a half-smile tugging at my mouth. “She’s always known how to hold a room and look effortlessly in control.”
“Effortless,” Julian echoes knowingly. “And not exactly warm.”
I shoot him a sideways look. “No. She plays her part. Dad too. Though I wouldn’t call his role hospitable. You’ve seen it.”
“Mhm. His handshakes could freeze gin.”