Jane stared at her phone, a mix of nerves and anticipation coursing through her as she wondered if Gregory would call her. Even though she hadn't seen him in over four years, she instantly recognized him on the news. The restaurant around her was cramped, loud, and filled with warm Goa air, fading into a blur the moment she spotted him on the muted TV screen. Her heart raced.
Just seeing him again, even on a screen, stirred emotions she thought she'd buried. He looked older, rougher around the edges, yet somehow more composed—his voice a touch gruffer, his eyes sharp but tired. And then came the gut punch: standing behind him was Marianne.
Her throat tightened. If she could've willed herself into that screen, she would have. Her heart ached—not for George, not for the loss, but for the grief etched across Gregory's face. She'd despised George Lawson for years, and now his death brought with it the very thing she'd longed for—opportunity.
"It should have been me," she muttered under her breath.
"I'm sorry?" Aimee, seated across from her, glanced up mid-sentence, still half-lost in her story.
Jane stood abruptly, tossing a few bills on the table. "Sorry, Aimee. I have to go."
"What? Why?" her friend asked, bewildered. "Where are you going?!"
"I'll call you!" Jane called over her shoulder, already halfway to the door.
Outside, the humid air clung to her skin. She slid into a taxi, the scent of ocean breeze and spices filling the car. Fumbling with her phone, she pulled up her father's number, trying to calm the hurricane of thoughts in her head.
The line clicked. Her father's groggy voice crackled through.
"Jane? What's wrong?"
Only then did she realize the time difference.
"Dad, I'm sorry…it's late, isn't it?" she said sheepishly, fastening her seatbelt.
"Yes… three in the morning. Is everything okay?"
She hesitated. Her stepmother's voice murmured something in the background.
"Yeah. Everything's great," she lied.
"You sure? You sound… urgent."
"I'm coming home," she blurted, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.
It felt strange hearing herself say it. But seeing Gregory again had shaken something loose. George's death had cracked open a door she'd assumed was forever shut, and she wasn't going to let that chance slip away.
***
She stared at her bedroom ceiling hours later, replaying the news footage in her mind. He'd changed his number. Of course, he had. Her father had made it clear—returning to the estate would cause trouble. She hadn't planned on making a scene. All she wanted was to see him again.
They used to write letters to each other—stupid, sweet, beautiful letters full of shared dreams and old English poetry. She wondered if he remembered any of them.
If not for George's interference, they might have made it. She had even bribed a maid to deliver her letter. If Gregory had ignored it, she'd take the hint. At least then she'd have closure.
But he hadn't.
Pamela's voice cut through her thoughts. "You haven't even been back a full day, and you're already getting tangled up with the Lawsons again?"
Jane didn't bother answering, her focus fixed on the phone screen in her hand.
Pamela lingered. "There's a James Balladeer on the phone. Says he's Gregory Lawson's assistant."
Her eyes widened as she shot upright, to stare at her step-mother holding up her phone.
"James?" she asked, already reaching for the receiver.
"Yes."
Her pulse thundered. This could only mean one thing. He got the letter.
"Hello?" Jane clutched the phone, breath hitching in her throat.
"I need my phone back as soon as you're done." Pamela's voice faded behind her before she closed the door. "Also, don't forget to take your medicine."