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As we sit down to the impromptu pancake breakfast, a sense of ease settles over the room.
William, usually so composed and collected, takes on a softer edge as he speaks of his childhood, his eyes lighting up with fond memories.
"You know, my mother used to make pancakes every year on my birthday," he begins, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "She had this special recipe — light and fluffy, almost like eating clouds. She said it was a family secret."
His eyes, usually sharp and assessing when appraising art, now gleam with a childlike warmth.
The morning light catches in his tousled hair, giving it a golden hue that adds to the almost idyllic picture he paints with his words.
I smile, captivated by this new side of him. “That’s cute. Do you still make them on your birthday?” I ask, intrigued by the glimpse into his personal life.
William chuckles, a sound that’s surprisingly light and easy. “I try, but they never turn out quite like hers. I guess some things are just irreplaceable.”
There’s a hint of melancholy in his voice now, a soft note of longing that makes me see him not just as the suave art curator,but as someone who holds dear the simple, heartfelt moments of life.
“It’s nice to have those traditions,” I say.
He nods, a gentle smile playing on his lips. “Exactly. Every time I flip a pancake, I’m right back in her kitchen, covered in flour, trying to sneak bites of batter when she wasn’t looking.”
I laugh, picturing a young William, mischief in his eyes, in a kitchen filled with love and laughter. It’s a far cry from the polished, professional demeanor he usually exhibits, and it endears him to me even more.
He pauses and gives me a look I cannot read. “You know, you’re the first person I’ve told about that memory.”
My heart skips a beat as he gives me a dashing smile, his left cheek dimpling.
“Your mother sounds like she’s a wonderful person,” I say sincerely. “Are you still close?”
His expression changes, the light in his eyes dimming slightly. “She passed away a couple of years ago,” he admits.
I immediately regret my question, feeling like I’ve intruded on a private sorrow. “I’m so sorry, William. I didn’t mean to—"
“It’s alright,” he cuts in, offering a small, albeit sad, smile. “It’s part of who I am now.”
The room falls into an awkward silence, the air heavy with unspoken words.
I'm about to suggest we clean up when William surprises me with a proposal of his own.
"How about we explore the estate grounds today? I saw a greenhouse out back. Could be interesting."
The idea is a welcome one, and it promises an escape from the confines of the house and the complex web of lies I'm tangled in. "That sounds great," I say. "I'd love to show you around."
We finish our breakfast, and as we head out to the greenhouse, I feel a sense of relief.
The open space, the fresh air, and the simple act of walking side by side with William offer a reprieve from the chaos of my own making.
WILLIAM
Ican't help but marvel at how natural it feels to be around Emily. It's as if we're not two strangers navigating a business deal, but old friends catching up after years apart.
As we stroll along the grounds, the conversation flows easily, and I find myself more relaxed than I've been in ages.
We step into the greenhouse, and I'm immediately struck by the lushness of it all.
The air is warm and moist, filled with the earthy scent of growing things. Rows of vegetables spread out in front of us like a living tapestry, each leaf and vine meticulously cared for.
Tomatoes hang ripe and red, while lettuce and herbs form a verdant carpet beneath our feet.
It's a serene oasis, a world away from the structured, muted tones of London's urban landscape.
