Emily
The next day was supposed to be mine.
A rare, precious Sunday with no office meetings, no forced dinners, no rehearsed smiles. I had planned to spend it sprawled across my bed in oversized pajamas, curtains drawn, phone on silent. Maybe later in the afternoon I would go through some paperwork Adrian had sent me—notes from our last discussion about client negotiations.
But first?
Rest.
Peace.
Solitude.
That fragile plan shattered the moment the doorbell rang.
I was still halfway through my second cup of tea when the housemaid hurried to the living room.
“Miss Emily,” she called softly, “the Carter’s driver is here.”
My shoulders stiffened instantly.
Of course he was.
I stepped out into the hallway just as the driver entered, bowing slightly as he handed over an envelope.
