Maybe that’s what scares me the most—the not knowing. I’m not afraid of hard work. I’m not afraid of starting from scratch. But the thought of never finding thatthing? That terrifies me. I want to matter. I want something that feels likeminein a way this house, this marriage, can’t give me.
My mother had made it very clear that when I married Julian, there’d be no reason to get a job. And since we’d been married right after I graduated college, there was no time to dabble in anything.
I grew up the only child in an upper-class, English family. That meant my father worked and earned money, my mother spent her time at brunch and shopping, and the nanny raised me.
And when I learned that my parents planned to marry me off to Lord Julian Ashford? It seemed like a dream. He was a bit older, handsome, titled, and he’d take care of me forever.
I don’t think they ever expected Julian to turn his back on his aristocratic duties, or for him to take my side over and over and over.
I don’t think they expected us to walk away from everything in England to move to Southern California, but here we are.
In the end, we chose happiness over heritage. The freedom of being selfishly, recklessly in love, and finding a place that was all our own—without the weight of his title and estate holding us captive—felt like the first thing we’d ever truly owned.
No expectations. No duty. Just us, carving out a life that wasn’t dictated by bloodlines or obligations.
That’s why he built this office for me.One day,he’d said.
I sit down in my white chair and spin around a few times. I remember what I said about the magnolia tree, and suddenly, I have a thousand ideas for the housewarming party.
Grabbing a fresh notebook and a pen, I begin writing things down with a large smile on my face.
I don’t know what my business will be yet, but as I stare out the window, I have to hope it’ll come to me soon. Maybe I just need a sign.
Or maybe it’s time I stop waiting for signs and create one myself.
CHAPTER TWO
THE REUNION
Julian
I grimace as I lift the barbell again, grunting as I finish the set.
Setting the weight down, I do the other arm as I focus on my form in the mirror. Ifuckinghate this. I swear this gym is filled with masochists. There’s no other explanation. Every time I pick up a barbell, I mentally draft a resignation letter to fitness, but then I remember the smoothie bar and suck it up. It’s the only thing keeping me from skipping out entirely.
At least with cardio, I can zone out and watch TV. But weight training? It requires my full attention, which is extremely hard, and it’s boring. My mind keeps flitting between ten different things I’d rather be doing, but counting reps helps to yank my focus back to what I’m doing. I promised myself I’d work out more regularly for my mental health, so here I am—at Crestwood’s most exclusive VIP gym. I had a gym in our town house in London, but I never used it. I figured if I paid for a membership, I’d come more often.
So far, so good.
Tracking every weight increase, every rep—as if the numbers mean something more than just strength—helps keep me sane. It’s ridiculous, I know, but I enjoy seeing tangible progress.
Toweling my face off, I walk over to where I set my phone down.
Sophie Love <3
I just learned people microwave their tea here. I think I’m experiencing culture shock. Help. Me.
I laugh as I text her back.
That has to be a cardinal sin.
I shake my head, picturing Sophie’s horrified face as she holds a mug like it’s been cursed.
Should I call the embassy? You could claim asylum.
Sophie Love <3
I’ll look into it. ;)
