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It's been a week since the charity event, a week since my world imploded.
Holed up in my apartment, my existence is reduced to a series of sleepless nights and endless days.
I've barely eaten, my appetite a casualty of the chaos that's become my life.
I've blocked my father's number, the constant calls and messages only serving as a reminder of the betrayal and hurt I'm trying to escape.
My only solace has been my work, focusing on a new business plan, a way to rebuild what's been lost. But even that is a mere distraction, a way to avoid dealing with the gaping hole left by Emily's departure.
A soft knock on the door breaks me out of my reverie. I'm not expecting anyone.
Reluctantly, I get up and open the door. It's Sasha.
"Can I come in?" she asks, her voice hesitant.
I nod, stepping aside to let her in. "Sure."
I pour her a coffee, the familiar routine a welcome break from the turmoil in my head.
Sasha takes a seat, her hands wrapped around the warm mug.
"William, I need to explain something to you," she begins, her eyes meeting mine. "About why I asked Emily to pretend to be me."
I listen, my interest piqued despite the weariness that's settled deep in my bones.
"I don't know a thing about art," Sasha confesses. "And I've recently had to take over my Grandmother's estate. I'm totally out of my depth."
She pauses, taking a sip of her coffee. "My parents are dead. It's just me. I needed the deal with the Willoughby Gallery so much. I was running out of money and didn't want to mess it up. There was just too much riding on it."
I lean back, processing her words. It's a lot to take in.
"When I heard that Emily fell for you, that was never part of the plan. It just... happened,” she adds.
I run a hand through my hair, a mix of frustration and understanding swirling within me.
"Where's your grandmother now?" I ask, the question that's been haunting me since that night.
Sasha hesitates, then sets down her mug. "Grab your coat, William. We're going for a drive."
Intrigued and with nothing left to lose, I follow her lead.
We drive in silence, the cityscape giving way to the open countryside.
The journey feels like a metaphor for my own life - leaving behind the familiar, venturing into the unknown.
After what seems like hours, Sasha pulls up to a modest cottage, nestled among rolling hills. It's a far cry from the grandeur of Willoughby Manor, a peaceful retreat from the world.
"This is where she's been all these years," Sasha says softly, getting out of the car.
I follow, my heart racing with a mix of apprehension and curiosity.
The cottage, with its quaint charm, stands in stark contrast to the imposing grandeur of the manor. It's a haven of tranquility, a world away from the high society chaos I've been embroiled in.
We step inside, greeted by the cozy warmth of the living room.
The walls are adorned with paintings, each a testament to a lifetime of artistic mastery. There are nicknacks and memorabilia scattered around, each piece telling a story of a life rich with experience and creativity.
In the corner, I notice medical equipment, a silent reminder of the reality of Gloria Knowles' condition.
