Chapter 17

If I had my way, I'd still be in bed right now, buried under a mountain of fluffy white pillows with the blackout curtains drawn and nothing but overpriced room service on my tray and a murder documentary humming softly in the background.

And for the record, I did order the room service, full English breakfast (fancy, I know), mimosas (plural), half a papaya that came with edible flowers I immediately posted on Instagram.

But lounging all day like a spoiled heiress wasn’t in the cards, because, surprise, I have a job. Even if it involves drinking mimosas for the aesthetic.

Callie, in all her Type-A glory, sent over a schedule so meticulous it practically had footnotes.

She even color-coded it. There’s a little sticky note next to each item with encouraging things like “Smile, bitch!” and “Tag the brand or perish.” Classic Callie.

I take a few quick Instagram stories, complete with a dreamy slow pan of the skyline outside my window and a fake-laugh selfie where I pretend I just happened to catch myself giggling at nothing. Totally normal, totally candid and totally curated.

According to Callie’s notes, I have an afternoon of “casual sightseeing (but make it aesthetic),” followed by a sponsored dinner at the hotel’s rooftop restaurant tonight.

A photographer will meet me in about an hour, but until then, I’m meant to hit a few spots to get some "spontaneous" content. There are even notes beside each place like: St. Dunstan’s ruin; think ethereal, haunted vibes (DON’T trip) and Borough Market; foodie shot opportunity, maybe flirt with a barista?

The thing about London is that it doesn’t care if you’re ready for it. It just is. One minute the sky’s a charming shade of dove grey, the next minute it’s crying cold, damp tears on your perfectly blown-out hair.

And honestly, it’s not killing my mood. I have a cute trench coat, I’m listening to Marina on full blast in my AirPods, and I’ve had just enough sugar to ignore the fact that my internal organs are probably shutting down from jet lag.

I step out of the hotel lobby and the air hits me with that crisp, faintly metallic smell of an oncoming drizzle. I pause on the pavement, wrestling my tiny umbrella out of my bag when a few rogue droplets smack against my forehead.

Rude.

I mutter a warning to the sky, “Don’t you dare,” but London, being the petty weather diva it is, responds with a sudden gust of wind that nearly snatches the umbrella right out of my hand.

So much for having a perfect day.

The umbrella jerks sideways, half flips, and flutters into a sad, lopsided arc before collapsing into itself like a defeated marshmallow. Cute.

“If London weather wants to humble me, it can get in line,” I mutter to myself, wringing out my damp hair with the grace of a drowned Victorian ghost.

I dart inside the first café I see, cheeks flushed, hairline damp. It’s the kind of bougie London café that smells like roasted hazelnuts, bergamot, and something else I just can’t place my hand on.

The baristas wear pressed aprons, and the pastries behind the glass counter look like they were hand-painted by angels.

I order a flat white and collapse into a window seat, pressing the warm cup to my hands.

Outside, people in wool coats and expensive boots stroll like they’ve never slipped on wet cobblestone in their lives. I snap a few moody street photos from the window, my reflection catching faintly in the glass, hair slightly frizzed, nose a little pink, and text Callie my location.

Five minutes later, the café door opens and someone walks in. He’s tiny, like five-foot-five or something, with silver-streaked hair swept to the side, round glasses, and a lemon-yellow scarf that practically sings against the gloom.

He spots me, beams, and floats over to my table.

“Darling, you’re taller than expected and even more chaotic than I hoped.”

I love him instantly.

He kisses both my cheeks in that European way that always makes me giggle a little too loudly, and I introduce myself between sips of coffee.

“I’m Charlotte. Or Char or Lottie, if you want to pretend we’ve known each other forever.”

He grins. “I’m Julian. And I do want to pretend that.”

We click instantly, he has that kind of flamboyant, cheeky energy that makes you feel like you’re starring in your own vintage movie.

I tell him about the umbrella debacle, and he dramatically gasps and declares London “a violent mistress” while snapping a candid of me laughing into my coffee.

“This café is perfect. The lighting, the mood, the soggy umbrella in the corner, chef’s kiss,” he says, arranging me near the window for more shots.

We spend the next hour taking photos outside bookshops and pretending I don’t feel my thighs freezing off.

Every so often, Julian gasps and yells “Hold it!” before crouching in the weirdest angles to capture me looking like I “just happened” to be this effortlessly elegant.

We have lunch at another bougie spot, a place with velvet chairs, oversized menus, and truffle fries that cost more than some people’s rent. I joke that it feels like a date, and Julian winks at me over his espresso.

“Honey, with those cheekbones, it might become one.”

Back at the hotel, the concierge greets me by name and hands me a small envelope, something Callie arranged, probably. I thank him, then practically drag myself to the elevator.

I want to nap. God, I want to nap so badly. But dinner is in less than two hours, and napping would lead to oversleeping and oversleeping would lead to me showing up in a robe with a pineapple bun, smudged eyeliner and a crick in my neck.

So instead, I blast some Florence + The Machine, hop into the world’s fanciest shower (with pressure that feels like God’s own fingers), and start getting ready.

My makeup is simple: a glowy base, a little shimmer on the lids, bold mascara, and my signature glossy lip. I twist my golden-blonde hair into an elegant updo, tugging a few tendrils loose to frame my face.

Then I slip into my black silk dinner dress, it clings just right, okay maybe a little too tight on my boobs, but who’s watching? And slide on my favorite Jimmy Choos (yes, I say that about all of them, but I mean it this time).

I glance at myself in the mirror, smoothing the fabric at my hips. I look like the kind of woman who ruins men’s lives with a wink. For a second, I actually see myself. Not Monty’s girlfriend. Not someone’s one-night stand, just me.

And damn… he never deserved me.

I grab my tiny designer clutch, spritz some perfume on my wrists, check the time, yep, a little late.

I head down the hall toward the elevator. My heels click with a satisfying sound, echoing against the polished marble.

The hotel is quieter now, low-lit and humming with the soft sounds of music and clinking glasses. I’m the only one in the elevator, and as the doors begin to close, I lean toward the mirrored wall and reapply my gloss, just a little swipe to perfect the look.

And then, right before the doors shut, someone stops the elevator.

The metal doors slide open with a gentle ding.

I don't look up right away, but then it hits me.

That scent.

Not today, satan, not today.

“I hate my life.”