Chapter 4
Elara
"You're lying." But even as I said it, I knew she wasn't. Pieces were clicking into place. The way Marcus had been distant the last few weeks. The late-night phone calls he'd taken in another room. The way he'd seemed almost relieved when I'd said I wanted to wait until he was leaving to—
Oh God.
He'd never wanted last night to happen. He'd been pulling away for weeks.
And I'd been too blind to see it.
"I'm not lying, dear." Mrs. Cole's voice was gentle now, which somehow made it worse. "You're from the countryside, aren't you? Living in that run-down Ashford estate? How could someone like you ever fit into Marcus's future?"
My throat tightened. I wanted to argue, to defend myself, but what could I say? She was right. The Ashford estate was falling apart. Margaret and I lived in what amounted to a servant's quarters while Mrs. Ashford occupied the main house. I worked in the logistics department at Sinclair Industries—a nothing job that barely paid my rent.
I was nobody.
"If we forced him to break up," Mrs. Cole continued, "he might resist. You know how young men are—so sentimental about their first loves. But if YOU were the one to end it..." She let the sentence hang.
I understood. She wanted me to be the bad guy. To break Marcus's heart so he could run to this other girl—this perfect, well-connected girl—without guilt.
And the worst part? After everything that had happened this morning, after Vivienne's betrayal and Damien Sinclair's cold disgust and the way I'd given away something precious to a complete stranger, I had nothing left to fight with.
"I understand." The words tasted like ash. "I'll... I'll do what you're asking."
"I knew you'd be reasonable." Mrs. Cole's satisfaction was audible. "You're a sweet girl, Elara. I'm sure you'll find someone more... suitable. Someone from your own background."
She hung up before I could respond.
I sat there on my bed, phone still pressed to my ear, listening to the dial tone. The morning sun was streaming through my window now, bright and cheerful and completely at odds with the hollow feeling in my chest.
Everything I'd believed in—Marcus's love, Vivienne's friendship, the idea that if I just worked hard enough and was good enough, I could build a life that mattered—all of it was gone.
Shattered in the space of a few hours.
My phone buzzed with a text. Marcus again.
Just boarded. Miss you already. Can't wait to video chat tonight and hear all about your birthday. Love you so much. —M
I stared at the message until the words blurred together.
He didn't know. Didn't know that I'd been in the wrong room last night. Didn't know about Vivienne's betrayal or his mother's phone call or the way his perfect future was already mapped out without me in it.
He was going to London thinking everything was fine.
And I was going to let him.
I typed out a response with shaking fingers: Have a safe flight. We need to talk when you land.
Then I turned off my phone before I could see his reply.
I called in sick to work. Told my supervisor I had food poisoning, which wasn't entirely a lie—my stomach had been churning since I left The Plaza Hotel. She didn't ask questions. People in logistics didn't get questioned much. We were invisible, replaceable.
Just like me.
I packed a small bag with clothes that didn't smell like hotel rooms and mistakes. I needed to get out of the city. Needed to go somewhere that felt real, even if real meant going back to the one place I'd been trying to escape since I was eighteen.
The Ashford estate.
Margaret would be there. My mom—the only person who'd ever actually wanted me. Who'd chosen me from that orphanage twenty years ago and loved me despite Mrs. Ashford's constant disapproval, despite the way the rest of the family treated us like charity cases.
I needed my mom.
The bus station was crowded with the lunch rush. I bought a ticket for the 2 PM departure to the countryside, then sat on a hard plastic bench and watched people stream past. Businessmen in suits. Tourists with cameras. A young couple holding hands, laughing about something I couldn't hear.
Everyone looked so normal. So untouched by disaster.
I wondered if I'd ever feel normal again.
The bus ride took three hours. I spent most of it staring out the window, watching the city give way to suburbs, then to farmland and forests. The landscape became familiar as we got closer to the estate—rolling hills, old stone walls, the kind of rural poverty that looked picturesque from a distance but felt suffocating when you lived in it.
My phone stayed off in my bag. I didn't want to see if Marcus had texted again. Didn't want to know if Vivienne had tried to call. Didn't want to face any of it yet.
The sun was still high when I got off at the stop nearest the estate. I walked the last mile down the dirt road, my bag heavy on my shoulder, dust coating my shoes. The heat was oppressive—that thick, humid heat that made your clothes stick to your skin and turned breathing into work.
But I barely felt it.
My heart was frozen solid. Had been since Mrs. Cole's phone call. Since I'd realized that everything I'd built in New York—my job, my relationship, my friendships—had been built on sand.
The Ashford estate came into view as I rounded the last bend. The main house looked the same as always—imposing, slightly run-down, with Mrs. Ashford's prized rose garden out front. The smaller cottage where Margaret and I lived sat behind it, barely visible from the road.
Home.
If you could call it that.
I was halfway up the driveway when I heard the shouting.
I froze at the edge of the driveway, my bag slipping from my shoulder to the ground.
The shouting was coming from inside the main house. Mrs. Ashford's voice, shrill and vicious, echoing through the open windows. And underneath it, quieter, more broken—Margaret's voice, pleading.
I ran.
