Chapter 16

If I thought he was broody before, I hadn’t seen anything yet.

Axton doesn’t even look at me for the rest of the flight. He sits there, stiff and silent, clenching his jaw so tight I half-expect to hear the sound of molars cracking like cheap porcelain. We don’t speak again. Not a word. Just six more hours of tension so thick it practically has a seatbelt.

When the plane finally lands in London, he’s the first to stand, grab his things, and disappear like I’m some stranger he accidentally sat next to, not the girl he practically snarled at two hours ago.

And for a second, a literal breath of a second, I feel a little bad for him. He looked... sad.

And I should care. I should.

But I’m tired. Jet-lagged. Cranky. And honestly? Too emotionally hungover to dig into that mess.

I drag my suitcase through customs, ignoring the ache in my shoulders and the way my hair's decided to frizz up like a rejected poodle.

England greets me with gray skies and a chilly breeze that smells faintly of rain and airplane fuel. But for once, the gloom doesn’t get to me.

Because as soon as I step outside, I see him.

A man in a black suit and cap, holding a sign that says Ms. Charlotte Montgomery in beautiful, swirly cursive like I’m someone important.

Behind him? A sleek black Mercedes with windows so tinted it probably has its own security clearance.

Oh.

I pause for a second, blinking. Then I laugh, like, actually laugh out loud, because last I checked, the company booked me in economy like I was a struggling backpacker from 2014.

But this?

This is the kind of welcome that makes me want to forgive the universe for every bad decision it’s ever thrown at me.

I was fully prepared to hail a questionable taxi and argue about tips with someone named Dave. So this is definitely a big upgrade.

“Ms. Montgomery?” the chauffeur says, stepping forward. His accent is proper. Polished. So posh it practically irons my clothes for me.

I nod, trying to act like this is normal and not the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in weeks. “That’s me.”

He smiles and takes my suitcase before I can even pretend to lift it. “Welcome to London. We’ll have you at The Rosebourne shortly.”

I climb into the back seat, sinking into buttery leather that smells like money and whatever cologne rich men buy at Harrods. The car glides onto the road like it's floating. I pull out my phone, and as if on cue, Callie’s name pops up with a text.

CALLIE: The car service is a sponsorship from Monarch Chauffeurs. Make sure you get a video for the story. And maybe a pic looking all casual in the backseat. Tag their page. Be cute.

ME: You are truly the wind beneath my bougie wings.

CALLIE: Don’t forget the hotel is part of the collab too. Film the check-in if you can.

Okay. Work mode activated.

I flip my camera around, filming a quick panoramic of the interior. The city outside the window blurs by, red buses, rainy sidewalks, old brick buildings that look like they’ve seen things. Everything feels historic and expensive. Even the puddles glisten with British charm.

And then we pull up.

I reach into my tote bag, fumbling for a tip, but he holds up a gloved hand. “Already taken care of, ma’am.”

Ma’am.

The hotel is… well. It’s not a hotel. It’s a dream.

Tall cream-colored stone with black wrought iron balconies. Ivy climbing the sides like nature knows it’s not allowed to be messy here. The doormen are in long navy coats with gold buttons. There’s a bellhop who looks like he could model for Burberry.

The chauffeur opens my door like I’m royalty.

I step out and immediately smell the crisp scent of lavender and something citrusy drifting from the entrance. The doors glide open, and I walk into a lobby that’s all warm lighting, velvet furniture, and soft classical music playing just loud enough to make me feel important but not so loud that it’s annoying.

The front desk woman, a well-dressed woman with a bun so tight it could cut glass, greets me with a smile and a British accent straight out of a BBC drama.

“Hi,” I say, handing over my ID. “I’m here to be unreasonably pampered.”

She blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, I mean, I have a reservation,” I recover, clearing my throat. “Under Montgomery.”

She types briskly, and I sneeze loudly. Like, full-body convulsion. A baby two feet away starts crying. I want to sink into the marble floor.

“Bless you,” she says after a pause, still typing like nothing happened.

She hands me a key card in a tiny envelope with my name on it.

I ride the elevator up, mirrored walls, gold accents, carpet so plush I feel bad for wearing airport shoes on it, and when I reach my floor, I just know this is going to be one of those core memories.

Then I open the door to my room.

And oh.

It’s perfection.

Cream and champagne-colored everything. Floor-to-ceiling windows with gauzy curtains and a view of the city skyline. A king-sized bed covered in pillows that look like they were fluffed by angels.

A soaking tub with golden fixtures. A welcome basket on the table filled with fancy chocolates, mini bottles of wine, and a handwritten note that says: We’re thrilled to have you, Ms. Montgomery. Enjoy your stay.

I slip off my shoes and let my feet sink into the rug. It’s soft. Like, puppy-ear soft. The air smells like eucalyptus and clean sheets. I walk over to the vanity, there’s skincare laid out with little tags that say “gifted by LUXE”, and I laugh, because honestly, who is this life?

I throw myself onto the bed dramatically, pulling out my phone to record a quick hotel tour for Instagram. I tag the hotel, the skincare brand, and the car service, throwing in a cheeky caption about how I clearly deserve this after the year I’ve had.

The likes start rolling in immediately.

And for a second… I actually feel good. Like maybe things are turning around.

Like maybe this trip is exactly what I needed.

I stretch out on the bed, watching the clouds roll by outside the window. The city hums below me, alive and buzzing, and I can’t help but smile.

Nothing can ruin this trip.