Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
The teahouse’s chatter fades to a hum as I process her words. I’m speechless, my throat tight, my mind filled with Hugh’s face—his hurt and shock when I accused him. My anger folds, and the old doubts creep in, stronger now than ever before. She has answered all the arguments I've presented to myself, and she is right—he ran into the fire, risked everything. Instead of being eternally grateful, I’ve pushed that important clue aside. Instead of trusting my own instincts, I’ve let Cecilia’s venom and the ex-girlfriend’s warnings shape him into a villain. My hands tremble as I process it all.
Lady Montrose signals the waitress, her movements graceful and elegant, and I watch wordlessly as she pays for the tea. I feel like a child next to her.
She stands, her coat rustling, and looks at me, her smile warm. “You’re incredibly beautiful, Lauren. I can see why he’s smitten. But I hope there’s more to you. I hope I see you again, but if not, I wish you a good life.”
“Thank you,” I reply, and she gives me a nod before taking her leave.
Afterwards, I cannot bring myself to move from my seat just yet. I sit there like a statue. The teahouse’s warmth has become suffocating.
Open your eyes, judge fairly.
I’m forced to think, to put my assumptions aside and question Hugh's motives in light of Cecilia’s and her so-called developers. What if she’s been playing me from the start, not working for the developers, but angling for a commission, a benefit? This I realize now sounds more plausible than my accusation that Hugh was the one behind the fire. Cecilia would have much more to gain. And so what if it was her intention from the very beginning to paint Hugh black so that she could push me into her trap?
Annabel’s first words about him were glowing, full of admiration. When I think about it now… the ex-girlfriend’s bitterness at the club. ‘He will discard you like a used tissue’ feels personal, salty, certainly not proof of arson or a selfish psychopath. So why did I so easily believe Cecilia's assessment without using my own experience with him?
Because I was terrified of my own emotions.
Dread grips me suddenly. If Hugh didn’t do it, if he’s not cold, not dangerous, then I’ve hurt him immeasurably. The very thought horrifies and pains me because if he is truly innocent, then I have hurt the one person in the world that I shouldn’t have. The one person who did more for me than anyone other than my mother.
I have to find out the truth because this guilt I cannot bear. This isn’t about feelings, not anymore. It’s about the truth, cold and hard, because I can’t be ungrateful, can’t wound someone who not only didn’t hurt me, but helped me immeasurably and even saved my life.
I make my decision.
Tomorrow morning I will go back to the manor and face him. I have to talk to him, hear his side of the situation, and only then can I finally make up my own mind on who tried to destroy me and who saved me. Part of me is scared to meet him again. After the way we parted, I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants absolutely nothing to do with me.
Chapter
Fifty-Three
HUGH
“We’re making good progress, Hugh,” Michael, my project manager, says, the architect’s drawing rolled up and tucked under his arm. His hard hat tilts as he gestures toward the scaffolding. "We’re aiming to have the house fully waterproof by dusk today. If the weather holds, we’ll start on the electrics and plumbing tomorrow.” He pauses, glancing at the crane, then back at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you happy with the pace?”
I nod, my gaze fixed on the workers, their orange vests bright against the house’s raw structure.
My hands are stuffed in my jacket pockets, my chest tight with a mix of purpose and determination, because every nail driven, every board laid, is for her, even if I tell myself it’s just to keep the estate pristine and erase the eyesore next to my property.
“Yes,” I say, my voice rough from lack of sleep. “Keep it on schedule and make sure no errors are made. I want it to be perfect.”
The words feel hollow because ‘perfect’ for what? For her to return and live like strangers next to each other, or just to prove I’m not the monster she thinks I am?
“Good. Come over here. The architect came up with some adjustments to show you.” I follow him to a folding table.
Blueprints are spread out, weighted with stones, and he points to a revised layout for the kitchen, his finger tracing new lines to replace a window with French doors and add a stone hearth. “The doors will open up the space and bring in more light,” he says, his tone eager. “And the hearth will add that historic charm you wanted. Should we go ahead with it?”