Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
CAMERON
Saturday
Ashcombe Manor
South West England
The last three days were nothing short of amazing.
I don’t know how else to describe it, like being privy to a secret that I didn’t deserve.
Someone that, over the last few weeks, I’ve grown to care about tremendously, to love almost dangerously, had taken control of my life and left me with nothing but air and light.
Gregg.
He did that. Scotland and Strathwyn had done that.
Our surroundings hadn't cared about expectations or social circles. Legacies or futures. We were able to simply exist with each other. We’d been simply inseparable in a way that felt reckless and inevitable.
Each morning we’d shared a walk through the mist-soaked grounds, his hand in mine, his thumb tracing my knuckles absentmindedly.
Lazy afternoons were spent in shadowed rooms, Gregg playing winsome melodies in the music room, the outside world blurring into the distance.
Nights with his mouth on my skin, laughter, and his voice against my ears.
It wasn’t just the sex, though there was plenty of it and it was phenomenal.
They were heated, hungry, and intimate, interactions that left me undone and smiling into his shoulder like I was possessed, and wanting more.
He was becoming my safety. Gregg looks at me like I’m not a risk, a burden, or some fragile thing.
He sees me as something he wants, something to keep.
When I told him I loved him that night by the fire, I thought it might break me open.
But instead, it stitched me back together.
We’d gotten back to London last night, and although the modern surroundings that welcomed us contrasted the Highlands we’d left behind, I noticed that Gregg didn’t seem to feel required to wear armor.
His phone and computer came to life with emails and messages that had been ignored, and his posture didn’t change.
He didn't force himself into the composition he usually carried when surrounded by this life and this world.
As much as he had helped heal me, maybe I had helped heal him.
But today, as we speed through the countryside, the world outside turns softer and darker with each mile.
The late afternoon light clings to the horizon in fading gold, the sky torn on whether it should be day or night.
Gregg grips the wheel with his right hand, his left always on my thigh, only leaving to manipulate the gearstick. But he is tense, I can feel it.
I shift in the seat, and glance down at myself for what feels like the hundredth time.
This morning, he’d told me about a party that was being thrown for him at Ashcombe, and he wondered if I’d be okay with joining him.
Obviously I said yes, because I want to be a part of his life, even if parts of it are extremely complicated.
But I didn’t have anything remotely appropriate to wear.
His solution, a walk around the corner to Harrod’s. Super casual.
“Please… let me spoil you,” he’d said.
A dark blazer and pants, beautifully tailored and structured in a way that makes me seem to stand taller the moment I put it on.
Beneath, a simple fitted shirt that is open at the collar, no tie.
Impossibly clean lines and incredibly expensive, but doesn’t scream it.
The whole thing gives ‘Pretty Woman’ energy, that is if Julia Roberts had been a flight attendant rebuilding a complicated relationship with vulnerability.
But as we get closer, and the landscape grows more and more manicured, more intentional, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m still underdressed.
Maybe under the clothes, I’m not enough.
Gregg’s thumb presses lightly into my thigh as if he senses my impending spiral. “You’re doing it again,” he says softly.
“Doing what?” I ask, trying to sound casual. But my voice betrays me. He does sense my feelings.
“Overthinking.” He glances at me sideways, his look feels like a physical touch. “You look perfect.”
“Babe.” I let out a breath that mixes nervously with a laugh. “You know your life. But I’m about to walk into a party hosted by a woman named Celeste, whose parents are part of the aristocracy, at a place called Ashcombe Manor.”
His mouth twitches. “Okay, that’s fair.”
“And your investors will be there.”
“Yes.”
“And your parents.”
A beat.
“Yes.”
Another beat.
“And Julian!” Gregg adds loudly, trying to soften the tension with humor. “Which honestly is one of the reasons why I’m not turning the car around.”
“Well,” I sigh, “at least I’ll have a familiar face to anchor to if I need to.”
“Hey! What about me?” he exclaims. “I’ll be there too, right by your side.”
A few minutes later, Gregg parks the car in front of Ashcombe, its windows brightly illuminated, casting a warm frame over the ivy that covers the tall brick walls. He leans over and quickly gives me a small kiss.
“You don’t have anything to prove,” he says. “No one to impress.”
I swallow down nerves and give him a small, reassuring smile. He takes my hand and brings it to his lips, squeezing it tightly as he kisses my knuckles. “This is your night. And I’m happy to support you,” I state. “I’m proud of you.”
The terrace is beautiful, illuminated by enormous gas torches.
Everything has a place, every chair angles just so, each table is dressed in a clean linen, the glassware glinting as it catches the remaining sunset and torchlight.
Beyond the balustrade, the lawn rolls out in a dark green sweep in a way so perfect it looks like a painting.
Manicured hedges and gardens, this place is like a postcard from an era long passed.
I follow Gregg in his stride, not too close to raise suspicion of anything, but close enough that I have him as a tether. The smell of freshly cut grass and flowers perfumes the evening, and there are the gentle clinks of champagne flutes against the murmur of money talking softly to itself.
“Greggory!” A light voice calls out, as if his name belonged to her.
“Celeste,” he greets back. “You look lovely tonight.”
So this is Celeste. The woman in the picture I saw in Gregg’s office the morning after I first spent the night.
Her pale red dress dances in the shadows cast by the torches, and her black hair is swept back, glossy and perfect.
Her posture is so poised and perfect, and she gleams at the sight of Gregg.
He gives her a peck on the cheek, and I feel something like jealousy rise inside me. Her smile widens, and then her gaze falls to me.
“Oh,” She tilts her head, eyes sparking with what I interpret as feigned interest. “And you must be Cameron.”
I blink, caught off guard by how easily she says my name. How quickly I’d already been folded into this world.
“Yes,” I say, offering my hand. “It’s nice to meet you Lady—”
“Oh please,” she interrupts, taking my hand giving it a delicate shake, her fingers cool against mine. “Just call me Celeste. We’re all friends here.”
“Oh, alright then. Nice to meet you, Celeste.” I blush with embarrassment. I don’t know why. “Gregg told me your parents are titled, he gave a quick society protocol lesson on the way here.”
She offers Gregg a strict look and places her hand on his bicep. “Darling, you mustn’t frighten him.” She looks back to me, her hand still on Gregg’s arm. “Technically yes, I’m Lady Celeste Thorne. But it sounds so stuffy at these casual gatherings.”
She’s got to be fucking kidding. Casual. Gatherings. Give me a break.
“But it’s so lovely to meet you, Cameron,” she continues on. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Her words are charming on the surface, but something about them makes my stomach dip.
I’m not sure if it’s the implication that I’d been discussed, or the fact that she said it with such easy ownership.
But before I can respond, she stops a server and plucks three champagne flutes from their tray, keeping one for herself and handing one to Gregg and I.
“Please, you must have something.” Her smile impossibly bright yet equally fake.
I hesitate and shake my head gently, placing the flute back on the tray. “Thank you, but I don’t drink.”
Celeste’s smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it sharpens into something more intrigued. “Oh?” she says, as if sobriety were an accessory or foreign concept. “Not even for a little celebration?”
“Not even for a celebration.” I keep my tone light.
Gregg looks at me, quick and almost imperceptible, warmness in his eyes.
“Hmm,” Celeste hums thoughtfully, taking a sip. “How disciplined.”
Before the conversation stretches into something more uncomfortable, salvation arrives in the form of a familiar voice.
“Cameron! Gregg!”
I turn and see Julian making his way toward us. He is unfairly put together in an effortless way, and he moves across the terrace with easy warm eyes that make my shoulders drop and relax.
“Thank god.” I sigh under my breath as he gives me a quick hug.
“Love you too, mate,” he murmurs, clasping my shoulder like we’ve known each other for years. “You’re looking remarkably alive for someone who voluntarily came to this.”
“Barely,” I whisper, the tension eases.
“Lady Celeste,” Julian addresses, winking. His tone polite and smooth.
“Honestly, you too?” she replies, the three of us in a strange triangle of formality. I can’t help but snort a laugh, trying hard and failing to hide it, earning myself a sideways glance from Celeste. “You of all people know I prefer to be called simply Celeste.”
“Celeste, love, you are anything but simple.”
“Well, that is true!” She laughs.
Gregg’s fingers brush mine briefly, and I hold onto the contact like a lifeline.
“Tonight looks wonderful, Celeste, truly.”
“I’m pleased you think so,” she agrees earnestly. “You know I love any reason to throw a soiree.”
“Greggory,” calls a warm and practiced voice, “there you are.”
“Hello, Mum,” he greets, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. “Hi, Dad.”