Chapter 13 #2
I snort a laugh, though it carries no real humour. “That’s him. He’s not here to enjoy anything. He’s here to decide who should stay in his orbit.”
Julian studies my face for a moment, then lowers his voice. “And the Thornes being here overnight? You think that’s just a happy coincidence?”
At the far end of the terrace, Celeste rounds the corner and spots us, immediately waving. Bright and enthusiastic as always, I force a small smile in return.
“No,” I murmur after a beat. “I’m sure it’s not. Mum will say it’s the guest list, but…”
“You had to be here. And she had to be here,” Julian finishes for me.
My jaw tightens faintly as I keep my polite expression in place. “Exactly. It’s their way of reminding me of their plan of what’s expected. That world certainly doesn’t change.”
Julian cocks his head. “And what do you want?”
I meet his eyes, feeling the weight of the question settle in my chest. “To be able to walk into a place like this without feeling like I’m playing a part.”
“Who’s playing a part?” Celeste’s voice drifts towards us, practiced and precise as the rise of a theatre curtain.
She glides across the terrace with a trademarked ease, the kind that comes only from knowing you’re being watched and enjoying it.
The pale pink silk of her dress catches the afternoon sun, shimmering with every step.
A matching wide-brimmed hat casts a soft shadow across her face, though nothing could dull the sharp gleam of her smile.
Her jet-black hair is swept into a perfectly controlled chignon, and pearl drop earrings sway when she turns her head.
Celeste Thorne does not simply arrive, she enters.
She extends her hand to me, and I take it automatically, falling into the role she expects.
“Oh, nothing,” I say with a smile that feels a touch too tight around the edges. I brush a light kiss over her knuckles, another performance. “Just a business partner playing a part I’m not exactly equipped to. It’s good to see you, Celeste.”
“It’s good to see you too, darling.” Her brow arches, amused. “Not equipped? That’s so unlike you.”
Julian cuts in before I had to answer. “Well, some performances call for the wrong lead. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I suppose.” She laughs softly. “Though I’m sure you could pull off anything, Greggory.”
My smile doesn’t slip, but I shoot a quick glance at Julian. He smirks behind his champagne flute, a silent reminder that Celeste doesn’t know what our conversation had actually been about. “Perhaps,” I reply evenly. “But sometimes the best role is the one you choose not to play.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she says. “I prefer to always play the lead.”
I offer her a polite smile, one that hopefully conveys ‘please stop talking, please take the hint,’ and ‘please rescue me, Julian,’ all at once.
She steps in just a little closer, lowering her voice in a way that flirts with a boundary without crossing it. “Greggory, it’s been far too long since we’ve properly caught up. Perhaps later you could walk me through the garden? Just us?”
Julian hums a laugh beside me. “Sounds like your schedule is filling up fast, mate.”
Before I can form an escape, any escape, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
“Excuse me,” I apologize, grateful for the interruption. I pull it free and glance at the screen, my expression shifts warmly.
CH: Just landed in Bangkok, and finally in my room. Flight was uneventful.
CH: Hope you’re having a good day. I know you’re probably busy at Ashcombe.
I type back a response quickly, my thumbs flying across the screen.
GH: Save me!!!
CH: That bad, huh?
GH: Imagine a hostage situation, but with better canapés…
“I’ll see what I can do, Celeste,” I say smoothly.
The afternoon slips by with Celeste looping her arm through mine, steering Julian and me through the crowd scattered across the lawn.
Her voice floats beside me, light and practiced, offering polite introductions as easily as breathing.
Names, titles, pleasantries, it all blurs together, a well-rehearsed script I’d heard a thousand times before.
Julian plays along, charming as ever, but I don’t miss the way he keeps shifting to position himself between Celeste and me.
Protective, or perhaps just merciful. When an older couple from London asks one of those thinly veiled questions about my “future plans,” Julian jumps in with a joke about me being far too buried in quarterly reports to think beyond the next fiscal year. They laughed and I forced a smile.
But I can still feel the steady, familiar weight of expectation. It lingers in every handshake, every evaluating glance, every polite nod cast at Celeste and me as if we are some conclusion. As if the two of us standing side by side was not just convenient, but inevitable.
I tip back another glass of champagne. I’d lost count hours ago, but the warmth in my cheeks and the soft fuzz settling over my thoughts tells me I’ve probably had enough.
Or too much. Julian and I stand along an ivy-covered wall just outside the garden, watching Celeste glide through the crowd like a swan on still water.
“You know, aboki,” Julian whispers beside me. “You should at least tell her.”
I don’t look at him. “Tell her what, exactly?”
“Well, that you’re not interested,” he says, amusement tucked into every word. Then, leaning closer in a mock-conspiratorial tone. “Or at least tell her you’re bi. Might make the news land easier.”
I roll my eyes as I smirk. “I thought I brought you here for moral support, not P.R. coaching.”
“I’m only saying,” he replies, palms lifted in surrender. “You could spare her some heartbreak before your mother starts handing out wedding invitations.”
I give a dry laugh, following Celeste with my eyes as she floats across the lawn toward us. “Easier said than done.”
Celeste and I end up wandering to a quieter stretch of the walled garden. Bees hum lazily through the roses, and the sharp-sweet scent of lavender curls around us. Her dress sways as she walks, the wide brim of her hat casting a perfect, delicate shadow across her porcelain skin.
“It’s beautiful here,” she observes, brushing her fingertips along a cluster of foxgloves. “You must miss it when you’re in London.”
“I do,” I admit, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Though sometimes it feels more like I’m visiting than coming home.”
She looks over her shoulder at me with a small, knowing smile. “That’s because you’ve built your life elsewhere. But roots are still roots, Greggory. You can’t ignore them forever.”
The words land too close to the pressure I’ve been dodging all bloody day, but I force a light tone. “You sound like Dad.”
“Perhaps he and I simply see the same truth.” She steps in front of me, blocking my path with a playful tilt of her head. “Everyone here is wondering when you’ll stop hiding away in the city and… settle.”
I hold her gaze. Too long, because in the silence, Cameron surfaces in my mind, so close, only a text away. Julian’s voice echoes too. Tell her, make it clear.
My throat tightens. “Life’s a bit more complicated than that,” I finally say, shifting past her with a polite smile.
She matches my stride again, unbothered. “Complicated doesn’t scare me, Greggory. You know that. And you know that I simply adore you.”
We walk on, gravel crunching under each step. The words I don’t say press heavily against the back of my teeth. The truth I owe her, the truth I’m not ready to give. Because once spoken, there would be no unhearing it.
Later that evening, I follow Dad into the study. Celeste and her parents had already retired for the night, and Julian had slipped away to his room upstairs. When my father closes the door behind us with a soft click, it’s clear this isn’t meant to be a casual chat.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing toward one of the deep leather armchairs.
I lower myself into it, careful and tense, bracing for whatever is coming. He pours two whiskeys from a decanter into cut-glass tumblers and hands one to me.
“A toast to you, on a job well done.”
I’m frozen. In thirty-five years, I can barely recall a moment when he had offered me genuine praise. It wasn’t in his character.
“Thank you,” I acknowledge carefully. “Though Wilmont is still in the works—”
“Not the Wilmont project,” he interrupts with a dismissive huff. “Something far greater.”
Puzzled, I take a sip of the whiskey. It burns warm down my throat.
“You’re going to ask Celeste to marry you.”
I cough, his words landing like a slap. “I’m sorry, what?” I sputter.
“I saw the two of you today, parading about arm-in-arm. I always knew it was only a matter of time.”
My jaw works uselessly for a moment before I set the glass down with a heavy thud. “Dad, Celeste and I are only friends. Nothing more.”
“Well, that’s not what she thinks, nor what I heard on the terrace today.”
“Gossip,” I point out sharply. “Probably engineered by Mum and the Countess.”
“Don’t speak ill of your mother, Greggory.” His jaw grows tight. “Besides, it’s all perspicuous to your current standing.”
I drag a hand through my hair and rub at my temples. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.
“Your upbringing, closing a milestone deal for Archeon, coming here and sweeping her off her feet. They say you might finally be ready to settle down. And I’d like to believe that. With Celeste.”
“We’re just friends, Dad.” My voice comes out louder than I intend, desperate even.
He sits opposite me, matching my intensity.
“Friendship is a solid foundation. Stronger than any fleeting attraction. Besides,” he adds with a businessman’s cadence, as though he were pitching a merger.
“What more could you want? She’s well-bred, poised, from a family whose reputation mirrors ours. It’s logical, if not perfect!”