Chapter Thirteen: Interlude of Glass and Guilt

The first raindrops tapped against the tall windows of the Sterling estate like a prelude, soft and uncertain. Layla Bennett stood by one of them, arms folded, the sleeves of her wool-blend blazer damp from her walk through the misty garden. She wasn't supposed to be in this wing of the house—Lady Evelyn had made that abundantly clear last week—but Layla needed air. Or space. Or something that wasn't crystal chandeliers and silverware worth more than her entire wardrobe.

The storm gathering outside mirrored her mood. Her thoughts were scattered, playing a messy sonata of worry and doubt. She had tried to sleep, to distract herself with sketches, even with Mira's ridiculous meme-drenched voice notes, but nothing worked. Not after what she'd overheard.

Last night, tucked in the shadowy corridor outside the music room, Layla had heard Lady Evelyn's voice—measured, cold, and merciless.

"It's a phase, Adam. You'll outgrow it, as you outgrew those violin tantrums. This girl is a distraction. A temporary escape."

A pause. Then Adam's quieter reply. "She's not temporary."

Layla had backed away before she could hear more. Maybe she should've stayed, demanded answers. But pride—or fear—pushed her into silence.

And now, she stood here, surrounded by gilded frames and old oil portraits of past Sterlings, wondering where she fit in this curated lineage of prestige.

Footsteps echoed from behind her.

"Did you get lost, or are you admiring my great-great-uncle Arthur's magnificent sideburns?" Adam's voice teased gently.

Layla didn't turn. "I didn't mean to be here."

"I hoped you would be," he said, his voice softening. "This room used to be my sanctuary. Before it became a relic."

She finally turned around. Adam looked less polished than usual—his shirt sleeves rolled up, collar slightly askew. His hair, normally combed to the inch, was tousled like he'd been running fingers through it all morning.

"Relic's a good word," she said. "Everything here feels preserved. Like nothing's allowed to change."

His gaze followed hers around the room. "That's the point. The Sterlings like legacy to look unshaken—even if it's built on cracks."

Layla exhaled a quiet laugh, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Is that what I am? A crack?"

Adam stepped closer. "You're the part that doesn't pretend."

She wanted to believe him. Desperately. But the memory of Lady Evelyn's words clung to her like damp wool.

"I heard what she said," Layla whispered. "Last night. About me being temporary."

Adam closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw tightening. "She's wrong."

"She doesn't think so."

"I don't care what she thinks."

Layla looked up at him, eyes sharp with something between defiance and heartbreak. "You might not now. But one day, you'll have to. This life—your life—it's not built to make room for girls like me."

Adam didn't answer at first. The only sound was the tapping of rain, steadier now, more insistent. He walked to the piano in the corner—an old baby grand, aged ivory and faded black.

"She said the same thing when I told her I wanted to compose music," he said finally, his fingers hovering over the keys. "Told me the world doesn't need 'aristocrats playing artist.'"

He pressed a single note. Then another. A minor chord, aching and bare.

"You're not temporary, Layla. But I need you to believe it, too."

She walked to him slowly, drawn to the ache in his melody as much as the fire in his voice. The piano between them became a strange kind of bridge.

"I want to believe it," she said. "But I also want to stop pretending that this doesn't hurt."

He nodded once. "Then don't pretend. Let's figure out how to make this work for real."

That afternoon, Layla took the train back to her flat in Peckham. She needed space—not because she was running away, but because clarity rarely came with chandeliers overhead. Her room welcomed her like an old friend: uneven floorboards, the comforting smell of coffee and lavender oil, and her design sketches strewn across her tiny desk.

Mira barged in five minutes after Layla texted her.

"You left a literal palace to come back to this?" Mira looked around dramatically, then grinned. "You're mad. And I love it."

Layla let out a half-laugh. "Needed real air. And maybe a few insults from you to keep me grounded."

Mira flopped on the bed. "Okay, what happened? You're broody. Like Jane Austen levels of emotional repression."

Layla explained everything—from the overheard conversation to the strange moment with Adam by the piano. Mira listened, unusually quiet, twirling a ring around her finger.

"I don't think she's just being snobbish," Mira finally said. "People like her... they operate out of fear. Losing control. Losing reputation. But it doesn't mean she wins."

"She has all the power," Layla said.

"True," Mira agreed. "But you've got the one thing she can't fake. Adam's actual respect. And if you leave now, you're giving her exactly what she wants."

Layla thought about that. Then nodded slowly. "I need to do something."

Mira's eyes lit up. "Ooh, revenge?"

"No," Layla said with a small smile. "Better. I'm going to prove I belong."

Three days later, Layla returned to the estate—but not as a guest.

She'd asked Yusuf, in a flurry of bold desperation, if he could get her a meeting with the coordinator of the Sterling Foundation's upcoming winter gala. Not for the guest list, but for the wardrobe design. A high-society event needed bespoke gowns. And Layla Bennett knew how to sew magic.

"Darling," Yusuf had said over the phone, "I love chaos. Let me introduce you to Lady Rowena, the only woman scarier than Evelyn Sterling—and with twice the fashion sense."

Now Layla stood in the grand ballroom with her sketches in hand, her designs stitched with tartan silk, rich velvet, and sharp British tailoring. Her voice was steady. Her gaze was level.

Lady Rowena studied the collection, eyes narrowed behind jeweled glasses. After a long silence, she looked up.

"These are good."

Layla blinked. "Really?"

"Don't get giddy," Rowena said flatly. "I said good. Not genius. But they're unique. Clean. Respectful of tradition without groveling to it."

Layla's chest fluttered. "I was aiming for that."

Rowena handed her the portfolio back. "Design the lead gowns. You'll get a small commission. But it's a start."

As she turned to leave, she paused. "Lady Evelyn won't like this. Which is exactly why I'm approving it."

Layla grinned.

That evening, Adam found her sitting outside the conservatory, wrapped in a scarf, sketching on her lap.

"You're glowing," he said, sliding beside her on the bench.

"Must be the smugness of small victories."

He raised a brow. "What did you do?"

"I got hired by Lady Rowena."

He stared. "You're designing for the gala?"

"Just a few gowns," Layla said casually. "But it's a start."

Adam's smile was slow, proud. "You're incredible."

Layla leaned against his shoulder. "You're biased."

"Wildly."

They sat in silence for a moment before Layla spoke again.

"Adam… if we're doing this—really doing it—I need you to be honest with me. About everything."

He hesitated. "Even about... him?"

She lifted her head. "Him?"

Adam ran a hand through his hair. "My brother. The one no one talks about."

Layla's heart kicked up.

"I didn't know you had a brother."

"Half-brother," Adam said quietly. "Illegitimate. Scandal of the decade. Banished from the family tree like a smudge."

"Where is he now?"

"No idea," Adam said. "But he wrote to me once. Years ago. Told me to chase music. Said the rest wasn't worth it."

Layla swallowed. "And do you believe that?"

Adam looked at her. "I think I do now."