Chapter 20

The next day, I’m trying not to spiral.

Really, I am.

I sit at the little vanity in my hotel room, brushing out my hair in long, even strokes, willing myself not to look like a depressed Victorian ghost. The brush snags against the ends and tugs at my scalp, but I barely feel it.

The room smells like that stupid lavender pillow spray the hotel leaves on the nightstand.

My itinerary says I have a luxury underground wine tasting to attend this afternoon, and even if my soul feels like a stomped-on crumpled receipt, I have sponsors to impress.

So, I slip into a casual but sophisticated little white dress, short, flowy, effortless, and pair it with kitten heels that make me feel vaguely like a woman who has her life together.

I blow out my hair into soft waves and do my makeup just enough to hide the wreckage under my eyes. Concealer is a modern miracle. God bless the girlies who invented it.

The plan is simple: look cute, take pictures, survive.

Julian meets me downstairs, camera already in hand, practically vibrating with excitement. I slap on a smile for him because I don’t have the energy to explain that my soul is currently playing dead.

The car ride to the tasting room is a blur of London streets and Julian’s nonstop jokes. I melt into the buttery seat and take a deep breath. The car smells like leather and new money, and Julian starts clicking away before we even pull out of the hotel driveway.

“Give me mystery,” he says.

I stare out the window like a tragic movie star. Not because I'm trying to, but because it’s all I’ve got.

I let Julian do his thing, nodding and half-smiling when I’m supposed to, but it’s like my brain is underwater. Everything feels slow and muffled.

I keep replaying Callie’s plan in my head, and the more I think about it, the more of a bad idea it seems.

Forgive Monty.

Make him do this one thing.

The thought sits heavy in my stomach, and even though I know Monty deserves the worst, I can’t stomach the thought of using him like this.

The car slows to a stop, and I blink out of my half-daze and push open the door. Cool air rushes in, carrying the scent of rain-soaked stone and something faintly sweet, like crushed flowers.

I step out, smoothing my dress down automatically, and look up.

Above the ivy-covered alleyway, a wrought-iron sign sways lightly in the breeze: The Whisper Cellar.

The place is stunning.

Nestled underground, the entrance is hidden like a secret, and it feels like we’re stepping into another world.

The Candlelit corridors, heavy wooden doors, and velvet-draped tasting rooms with private tables make the place even more magical.

It smells like oak barrels, expensive cologne, and old stone walls that have seen centuries of secrets.

A glass of something bubbly is placed in my hand before I can even blink.

God, rich people know how to live.

The sommelier, a man who somehow makes suspenders look hot, guides us through several rare vintages, each one more delicious than the last.

They even bring us a complimentary charcuterie board, the fancy kind with truffle honey and cheeses that have names I can’t pronounce.

Somewhere between the third glass of wine and Julian making a truly heinous pun about "wine not?", I start to feel a little bit lighter.

Julian snaps a picture of me holding a tiny glass up to the light, laughing so hard my nose scrunches.

It looks like something straight out of Pinterest, soft candlelight, gleaming wine glasses, me in a white dress looking almost happy.

For a little while, I let myself forget.

I twirl my dress in the candlelight. I sip and snack and pose for photos like I’m starring in a lifestyle blog.

It’s easy, here. Easy to pretend everything’s fine.

When we finally stumble out into the evening air, giggling and wine-drunk on life, I’m buzzing in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol.

Shopping, I think. Shopping will complete the illusion.

I wander into the nearest boutique, and a bell whispers my entrance.

The boutique is charming, a nook-in-the-wall kind of place that looks rustic and vintage, and smells like sandalwood and old pages.

Golden lighting makes every silk dress shimmer, and I’m in love.

I come out an hour later, with two dresses, a pair of earrings, and even a pair of platform sandals I absolutely do not need but desperately deserve.

Retail therapy is cheaper than actual therapy.

Probably.

Maybe.

The sun is just starting to melt into the horizon when I make it back to my hotel.

I kick off my heels with a sigh, order room service without even looking at the menu (surprise me, chef), and flop onto the bed, scrolling through my phone while I wait.

And that’s when I see it.

Axton’s new post.

My thumb freezes mid-scroll.

It’s a glossy, perfectly staged photo of him and the skank, sitting at some godawful pretentious restaurant, a single candle flickering between them.

She’s smiling like she won the lottery.

He’s looking at her like she hung the stars.

"Some things are too precious to lose. Thank you for being the love of my life, even when others try to tear us apart."

The wine curdles in my stomach.

Am I completely delusional, or is this message meant for me?

Either way, I hate men.

Seething silently, my hand moves before my brain even catches up. I jab Monty’s name and hit Call.

It rings once.

Twice.

Three times.

And just when I’m about to chicken out—

"Charlotte?" Monty sounds shocked, breathless, like he’s been waiting his whole life for this.

I close my eyes and inhale through my nose, shoving down every ounce of pride I have left.

"Monty," I whisper, making my voice wobble just enough to sound heartbreakingly real. "I... I think I made a mistake."