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The finality of his statement leaves no room for argument.
I excuse myself, finding a quiet corner to call Sasha.
She hoped that William would be satisfied with just meeting the Art Queen’s charming granddaughter. So, I’m less than thrilled about having to burst her bubble.
My voice is a hurried whisper as I explain the situation.
“He’s not backing down. We have to get your grandmother to meet him.”
But the Art Queen is elusive. I’ve not seen her for years, not since Sasha started to take over her grandmother’s business dealings.
Sasha is quick to offer a solution, her words tumbling out in a breathless rush. "Take him to the estate, the one in your hometown. It's empty right now; then you can stall him while I arrange for my grandmother to be there.”
“Can’t she meet him here in London?” I whisper, not liking the idea at all.
The speaker crackles before Sasha replies with one word. “No.”
I clench the phone tighter, my gaze darting around the gallery as if the walls themselves might close in on me.
The estate she's referring to—our supposed haven—is nestled in the heart of Snowdrop Valley, a name as quaint and picturesque as the gossip-hungry townsfolk who inhabit it.
It’s where my life’s canvas was first stretched and primed, where childhood memories intertwine with the scent of pine and woodsmoke.
Sasha and I had first crossed paths there, two kids from different worlds finding common ground each summer in the sprawling gardens of her family's retreat.
But bringing William there?
The thought sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the London chill.
Snowdrop Valley might be a dot on the map, but it's a dot made up of interwoven lives and sharp eyes, where news travels faster than the wind through the valley.
Everyone knows everyone, and an unfamiliar face—especially one attached to a Willoughby—is bound to stir up more whispers than a winter storm.
Yet, as I run my other hand through my hair in frustration, a strategy begins to form like a sketch on a blank page.
If we stay within the confines of the estate, a beautiful cage of luxury and privacy, we might avoid the curious glances of the town.
I could keep William secluded, away from prying eyes and questioning looks.
It's risky, sure, as precarious as a tightrope walk above the valley itself, but it's a risk that comes with the reward of keeping Sasha's secret—and my own—safe a little longer.
"I'll take him there," I whisper into the phone, my decision firming up with each word. "We'll just have to lay low, stay out of Snowdrop's center. It'll be fine," I assure Sasha, though I suspect I'm trying to convince myself more than her.
But what choice do I have? With a shaky breath, I agree to Sasha's plan.
I return to William, plastering on a smile that I hope looks more confident than I feel.
"Let's arrange that meeting," I say, and the deal is set.
As we make our way out of the gallery, I can't help but feel the thrill of excitement mixed with fear. This is my big break, or my big breakdown.
Only time will tell.
EMILY
After a journey that felt like a mini-odyssey—first the transatlantic leap to New York, then squeezing into a plane barely bigger than a family car to hop to the tiny airport outside Snowdrop Valley—I'm more than ready to collapse.
But the universe, it seems, has other plans.
