Chapter Text
She unlocked the door with muscle memory alone, shouldering it open with a sigh, her handbag slipping off one arm as she crossed the threshold.
Home.
For the first time in hours, no one needed anything from her. Not Chucky with his nervous spreadsheets. Not Blanket, cool and capable beside her all day. Not Gabrielle, who had been dispatched to Dorset Hall to check on the production line and, more importantly, remind Lord Max of the chain of command.
Delegating wasn’t easy. It never had been. But if Susie Glass wanted to keep what she’d built — and maybe, just maybe, build something more — she’d have to learn to trust her people. Fully. No backup plans. No last-minute rescues.
She dropped her keys into the catch bowl, kicked off her boots, and made for the stairs, blouse already half-unbuttoned, gold buttons catching briefly in her hair.
She passed her bedroom, but didn’t go in.
Instead, she opened the door beside it.
The spare room.
The empty room.
The air inside was still. Undisturbed. Afternoon light poured through the tall windows, casting a golden sheen across the floorboards. The cream-colored walls were bare. A single dust cloth covered the radiator. The corners had gathered delicate webs. The air smelled of quiet, of sunlight, and wood polish left unused.
She stepped inside barefoot.
The sound of her breath felt loud here.
This had always been the best room in the flat — the one with the view of the park. From this angle, she could see the little playground across the street. A crooked bench. A climbing frame. Nothing special. But the kind of place where someone might sit, gently bouncing a pram with one foot.
Susie’s throat tightened.
She’d never said it aloud — not even to Jack, not even in therapy.
But she wanted that.
She wanted something that didn’t vanish when the deal closed. Something that didn’t shift when power moved or people betrayed or titles got traded like poker chips. Something that couldn’t be bought, couldn’t be stolen. Something with roots.
A future.
A baby.
Something soft and real to show for the years she’d spent surviving.
Her hand drifted to her belly. Still flat. Still hers. But not for long, if things went to plan.
And wasn’t that the point?
She had the means. The freedom. The choice.
She could do this alone. Had planned to. Had researched every step, every risk. She’d been precise. Disciplined. Controlled. She’d followed the doctor’s recommendations to a T.
So why had the image changed?
Why had it shifted in the quiet, unguarded corners of her mind?
Why was it Eddie Horniman the fucking Duke of Halstead she pictured now?
She closed her eyes.
She’d kissed him once. Drunk. High as a kite. That ridiculous party with the Wards. She hadn’t meant to, or maybe she had. Either way, they swept it under the rug.
But it wasn’t just the kiss. It was everything since.
The way he noticed when she skipped lunch.
The way he didn’t interrupt when she was talking—even when she was tearing him a new one —just waited until she was finished.
The way he touched her, sometimes, lightly—a hand on the small of her back, or just above her knee, fingers brushing hers when he passed her a glass—like it meant something.
They’d fought. God, they fought. But it never broke them.
They learned each other’s rhythms. Learned when to push and when to hold back. They had grown together.
He was smart. Strategic. Quiet in the right moments. Unapologetically blunt in others. He made her want to be better without ever asking her to be less.
And worst of all:
A day without him was just... off .
Three, four days without him? Fucking Torture.
Somehow, he’d become her person.
And Susie Glass didn’t want a man—didn’t need one either. She didn’t want promises she didn’t believe in. And yet...
That image haunted her — the one she shoved away every night like a dangerous indulgence.
Eddie, standing in this room. Not in a suit, not armed—barefoot. In pajama pants. A baby cradled in his arms, his voice soft and low. That crooked smile—the one he saved for his nephew, or Freddy when he was hungover, or her, sometimes, when she said something that amused him.
It made her feel unsteady. Reckless—uncomfortably human.
She wasn’t supposed to want this. Not now. Not like this.
And still, she did.
Susie leaned on the windowsill and stared at the trees, their budding leaves whispering promises she didn’t know if she was allowed to believe.
Her throat burned.
She turned sharply from the view. There was nothing in the room but dust and light and the faintest echo of a life not yet lived.
She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a second too long.
Tomorrow would come.
And she would be ready.
Maybe.
She made it as far as the hallway before the tightness in her chest returned.
The silence pressed in — too padded, too still. The air in the flat felt thick all of a sudden. Smug, almost. Like it knew she’d let herself want something she shouldn’t.
Susie pushed off the door and marched into motion.
She didn’t think, just moved. Straight to the kitchen, then the sitting room, then back again—switching on the lights in every room like she could chase the weight out with wattage. She opened every cabinet, wiped down every surface that didn’t need it. The scent of lavender wax polish filled the air, sharp and clean. Too clean.
The hoover came out next. Then the mop. Then the stainless steel cleaner for the taps and the hood of the oven, even though she hadn't cooked in days.
She stripped her bed. Changed the sheets. Shook out the throw pillows like they’d said something rude.
She did all of it without pausing.
Because stopping would mean feeling it again.
That stupid room. That stupid ache.
That stupid image of him.
By the time she made it to the bathroom, her back ached and her palms were red from over-washing. Her muscles burned, her feet throbbed. She shed her clothes one by one, dropped them in a heap by the tub, and stepped under the hot water like it could scald the longing out of her.
It didn’t.
But it did soften her.
Just enough to breathe again.
She scrubbed her skin until it tingled, washed her hair, ran conditioner, and stayed under the spray until her fingers pruned.
When she finally stepped out, steam curling around her ankles, she wrapped herself in a towel and padded across the hall.
She didn’t bother with makeup. Didn’t bother drying her hair properly, either—just brushed through the damp strands with, did her best to tame her fringe, and tied them into a loose knot.
She pulled on a pair of soft mesh cotton lounge pants and an old white tank top that clung to her still-warm skin. No bra. No jewelry—she was at home, after all.
Her bare feet padded quietly over the wood floors as she made her way back to the kitchen, estrogen pill in hand, to fetch a glass of water. The only other sound around the house was the hum of the dryer. The windows had gone dark.
Tomorrow.
The appointment.
It was happening.
Susie had to believe she could still do it. She’d confirmed the time. Deleted the email. Read the pamphlet. Again and again.
She hadn’t told anyone. Not Jack. Not her father. Not Eddie — especially not Eddie. He would ruin it—or she deeply hoped he would.
Not with outrage. Not with manipulation. Just with that look. That impossibly calm, devastatingly sincere way of seeing her—the way his voice deepened when he said her name, like it belonged to him. Like she belonged to him.
And Susie couldn’t afford that. Not now.
She was thirty-four. A year away from being stamped geriatric on a pregnancy chart. She had money, a house, security—a rhythm. She wasn’t broken anymore.
If she didn’t do this now, she’d wait forever. Wait for the perfect moment. The perfect partner. The myth of it all. And she’d die childless. Alone. Unremembered.
Her fingers curled tighter around her glass. The silence felt padded. Suspended.
And then—
A knock.
Sharp. Firm. Sudden.
Susie startled. Truly startled. Like the floor had shifted under her feet.
No one knocked this late. No one ever knocked, period.
Her pulse jumped.
Instinct took over.
She moved silently to the hallway sideboard, reaching into her handbag. Fingers closed around the grip of her pistol—smooth, familiar.
She stepped softly toward the door, heartbeat thudding in her ears.
Paused.
Checked the peephole.
And there he was.
Eddie Horniman—standing like a storm she’d left unguarded.
Her breath caught. She let go of the gun, slid it back into the bag.
Her hand shook as she reached for the bolt. It slid back with a soft click. She opened the door wide.
His hair was damp, curlier than usual. Shoulders broad under his coat. A five-o’clock shadow cutting hard against the soft light behind her. Water dripped onto the welcome mat.
He looked at her. At her face. Her body. His dark gaze burned through the tank top she wore, her bare red-painted feet on Victorian tiles.
His expression flickered—barely—something sharp and raw flicking through his eyes.
“You’re not going to do it,” he said.
His voice was calm. Too calm . And so very deep, straight from the chest.
The air between them pulled taut.
Her skin flushed. Her breath hitched. Her knuckles went white as she gripped the door.
Her heart tripped , for fuck’s sake.
Something sharp twisted in her ribs.
Susie should’ve slammed the door. Should’ve told him to leave. Should’ve said something, anything.
But she didn’t.
Because some dark, stupid, buried part of her… had wanted this. Had fantasized about him turning up. Had desperately needed him to stop her.
And now it turns out he had.