If the previous day had ended like a symphony's swelling finale, the next morning unfolded in the quiet hum of a minor key. Layla awoke tangled in soft linen and sunlight, her mind looping Adam's kiss like the reprise of a hidden chorus—tender, urgent, unspoken.
But reality was already tuning up its dissonance.
She found a note on her nightstand in Adam's familiar script:
"Gone early. Needed air. Will explain later. Please don't pack your bags again."
That last line almost made her laugh. Almost.
Layla dragged herself out of bed and stared at her reflection in the grand mirror. Her hair was an untamed halo, and the oversized Oxford shirt she'd stolen from Adam's wardrobe gave her the look of a recently promoted cult leader.
A very confused, possibly doomed cult leader.
She threw on her favourite blazer—tartan-trimmed and cut sharp—and made her way downstairs, the echo of heels her only company. But as she neared the breakfast room, voices floated up like sour notes.
Evelyn Sterling. And Warwick.
"…if the girl remains, the press will spin it into scandal," Evelyn said.
"She is remarkably composed for someone in her position," Warwick replied, diplomatic as ever.
"Composure does not equate to class."
Layla stopped at the doorway. A part of her wanted to storm in with a tray of cheap bacon sandwiches and say, Good morning, my dear aristocrats—let me ruin your appetites with working-class charm.
But she didn't.
She just turned and walked outside, where the wind didn't whisper judgement and the grass didn't care who her parents were.
In the garden, she found David, barefoot in the dewy grass and reading a graphic novel.
"Where's Adam?" she asked.
"Riding, I imagine," he said. "It's what he does when things feel like a badly acted opera."
Layla blinked. "Riding what? Like… horses?"
David stared at her as though she'd asked whether the sky had always been that particular shade of blue.
"You mean he hasn't taken you to the stables?"
Layla shook her head.
David snapped his book shut. "Darling, how have you made it this far in an aristocratic love story without the equestrian montage?"
Ten minutes later, Layla found herself staring at a magnificent grey stallion named Apollo, who looked like he had thoughts and might write poetry if he could hold a pen.
Adam was already in the ring, galloping across the enclosure in graceful strides, the wind pulling at his coat and hair like something out of a particularly luxurious shampoo commercial.
Layla was not prepared.
She was even less prepared when he saw her—and smiled.
"Thought I told you not to pack," he called out, reining in the horse.
"I didn't," she replied. "But I did mentally book a coach back to North London about three times since breakfast."
He hopped down and approached her, sweat shining at his temples, eyes bright with something fierce and raw.
"Come ride with me."
She frowned. "You assume I know how to do that."
"I'll teach you."
"Oh, so now we're a Pride and Prejudice remake?"
He smirked. "Just get on the horse, Layla."
Layla hated how easily she let him lift her up onto Apollo.
She hated more how thrilling it felt when he climbed up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"I'm going to die," she muttered.
"You're going to glide," he corrected.
"Same difference."
But they didn't die. They rode slowly, then more confidently, Adam's guidance gentle, his voice low in her ear. She laughed—genuinely—when Apollo tossed his head as if showing off. She leaned into Adam's chest as they rounded the bend, and for a moment, she felt it again:
That impossible, suspended note between danger and beauty.
Afterwards, Adam led her to a hidden spot near the estate's private lake, a small bench under a weeping willow. They sat, side by side.
"About the letter," he said quietly.
"The one from your father?"
He nodded. "It made things clearer. But harder too."
Layla didn't speak. She let him unravel the silence.
"My mother thinks love is a luxury. A weak point. But my father… he always knew I needed something more than titles and trust funds. Something that made me feel."
"And I make you feel?" Layla asked, softly teasing.
Adam turned, meeting her gaze. "Like a storm set to music."
Layla's breath caught.
"You deserve a life of your choosing," he said. "If staying means sacrificing that, I—"
"No." She cut him off. "You don't get to make noble sacrifices on my behalf."
He blinked.
"I'm not here because it's easy," she continued. "I'm here because it's right. Even when it's messy. Especially when it's messy."
He leaned forward and kissed her—gently, reverently.
Then he whispered against her lips, "Marry me."
Layla froze.
Then she laughed. Not a cruel laugh, but a startled, nervous laugh.
"You're insane," she breathed.
Adam smiled. "Possibly."
"You haven't even seen me try to cook pasta."
He cupped her cheek. "Then teach me how to burn it together."
Later that evening, the estate was unusually quiet. The staff moved like shadows. The air felt charged.
Mira arrived by Uber in a cloud of Chanel dupe and judgment.
"Okay," she said, stepping into Layla's room. "Spill. And tell me this secret brother isn't secretly mine, because the vibes are immaculate."
Layla recounted everything—David's sarcasm, Evelyn's threats, Adam's proposal.
Mira gaped.
"So let me get this straight," she said. "A man who looks like a villain from a Regency novel kissed you, wrote you a symphony, AND wants to marry you, and your biggest concern is whether you burned your chance at a fashion internship?"
Layla sighed. "It's not that simple."
"Yes, it is," Mira said. "Do you love him?"
Layla looked away.
"I don't know if that's enough."
Mira softened. "It never is. But it's a hell of a place to start."
As night fell, a delivery arrived for Layla.
A velvet box, pale blue. No note.
Inside: a vintage Cartier ring. Not flashy—just elegant. Classic. A ruby center flanked by two tiny diamonds. It looked like something passed down generations. Something chosen, not purchased.
Layla stared at it for a long time.
She didn't put it on.
Not yet.
Instead, she sat at her sketchpad and began to draw—not for work, not for clients.
For herself.
The gown was inspired by the lake, the willow trees, the subtle swirl of grey in Apollo's mane. Sustainable silk, perhaps. Modern Victorian. Something that whispered rebellion behind its lace.
A wedding dress.
A dream.
Not a promise.
Not yet.
But perhaps…
A beginning.