Three days later, my ankle felt so much better. Dr. Harrison's pills really worked, and the swelling was almost gone. I could walk around without wincing every step, though I still babied my foot a little.
"Quinn, sweetheart," Papá said over breakfast, spreading jam on his toast, "I'm throwing you a little welcome home party tonight. Nothing crazy—just some old friends who've been dying to see you."
I nearly choked on my orange juice. "Tonight? Isn't that kind of sudden? My ankle's still—"
"Much better," he cut me off with that smile that meant he'd already made up his mind. "Besides, the Langstons won't stop calling. Margaret's been pestering me every day since you got back."
My heart did a little flip. The Langstons! I hadn't thought about them in years. Richard was Papá's best friend from college, and Margaret was my godmother—the sweetest woman who always remembered my birthday and sent me care packages when I was little. They had a son too, though I could barely picture him. Some quiet kid who was older than me. They moved to New York when I was twelve, and we just... lost touch.
"Wait, they're back in London?" I asked, suddenly excited.
"Came back last year," Diego mumbled through a mouthful of cereal. "Their son's some big shot now. Runs their London office or something."
"I can't wait to see Aunt Margaret again," I said, using the name I'd called her since I was tiny. "God, it's been forever. Nine years?"
"Since your eighteenth birthday," Papá nodded. "Right before you left for Spain."
By evening, our house looked like something out of a magazine. Mrs. Chen and the girls had gone all out—fresh flowers everywhere, candles flickering, the good china sparkling. It felt warm and magical, exactly what you'd want for a homecoming.
I picked out a navy blue dress that made my skin glow and felt comfortable enough for my still-tender ankle. Low heels this time—I'd learned my lesson about London sidewalks the hard way.
The first guests were Papá's work friends and their wives. Nice people who remembered me as a little girl and kept gushing about how grown-up I looked now.
"Quinn, darling, you're absolutely glowing," Mrs. Pemberton cooed, squeezing my hands. "Spain was obviously good to you."
"Thank you. It's so good to be home."
I was chatting with Mr. Pemberton about my studies when I heard Papá's voice boom from the front door.
"Richard! Margaret! Get in here!"
My stomach fluttered with excitement. I excused myself and hurried toward the entrance, my ankle barely bothering me anymore.
"Quinn!"
Margaret Langston looked exactly like I remembered—classy, warm, with these kind blue eyes and silver hair that was perfectly styled. She wrapped me in the biggest hug, and I breathed in her familiar Chanel perfume.
"Look at you!" she said, holding me back to really look at me. "My God, you're stunning. When did you become such a beautiful woman?"
"Aunt Margaret," I laughed, feeling tears prick my eyes. "I missed you so much."
"And here's our little scholar," Richard said, stepping up with that gentle smile I remembered. He looked distinguished with his salt-and-pepper hair and those same blue eyes as his wife. "Master's degree with honors. We're so proud of you, Quinn."
"Uncle Richard." I hugged him tight, feeling like that little girl again.
"Now," he said, "there's someone you need to meet again. Well, re-meet."
Margaret practically glowed with excitement. "Quinn, you remember our Leo, don't you? Though honestly, I don't think you'd recognize him if you tried."
I turned around, expecting to see that awkward teenager from my fuzzy childhood memories. Instead, my heart stopped completely.
Standing there in a perfect black suit was him. The man from the airport. The one who caught me, who carried me, who made my heart race with just one look. The man I hadn't been able to stop thinking about.
Leo Langston.
"Holy shit," I whispered before I could stop myself.
"Quinn?" Margaret looked worried. "Honey, are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
I stared at him, memories crashing over me like waves. The little boy who used to tease me at family parties. The quiet teenager who shot up like a weed and got all serious. The young man who left for college right before they moved away.
But this wasn't that boy. This was the gorgeous, powerful man who had swept me off my feet—literally—three days ago.
"Leo," I breathed, my voice shaky. "I remember you."
He looked at me with those same dark eyes that had haunted my dreams, but there was nothing warm about them now. Nothing like the concern I'd seen at the airport. He looked... cold. Distant.
"Quinn," he said, and my heart did that stupid flutter thing again. But his voice was formal, like we were strangers.
"I have to thank you," I said, stepping closer even though my ankle twinged. "For the airport. You saved me from face-planting on the pavement, and I never even got your name—"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he cut me off, his voice like ice. Those beautiful eyes looked right through me. "We haven't seen each other in years."
I felt like he'd slapped me. The excitement, the recognition, the gratitude—it all crashed down around me. "But you... at Heathrow, you caught me when I fell. You carried me to my car—"
"You must have me confused with someone else," he said, dismissing me like I was nobody. "Excuse me."
And just like that, he walked away, leaving me standing there like an idiot.
"What on earth was that about?" Margaret asked, clearly confused.
"I... I thought he was someone else," I lied, even though I knew with every fiber of my being that Leo Langston was the man who had rescued me.
The rest of the party felt like I was underwater. I smiled, I laughed, I caught up with old friends, but part of me was always watching Leo. He was charming with everyone else—cracking jokes, asking about their families, being the perfect guest. But whenever I got near him, he turned into a stranger.
At dinner, he sat across from me, and I caught him looking at me more than once. But the second our eyes met, his face would go blank, and he'd look away like I didn't exist.
"Leo's doing so well," Margaret was telling Papá proudly. "Took over the London branch of Richard's company. Very successful, very focused."
"Just like his father," Papá said. "I bet Quinn would love to hear about your work, Leo. She just finished her master's in art history."
Leo's eyes flicked to me for maybe half a second. "How nice," he said, and the way he said it made it clear he thought it was anything but nice.
I wanted to crawl under the table. What had I done to deserve this? And why was he lying about the airport?
When the party finally ended around eleven, Margaret pulled me aside while the men were getting their coats.
"I don't know what's wrong with Leo tonight," she said quietly. "He's usually so much nicer than this. I hope he didn't hurt your feelings, sweetheart."
"It's okay, Aunt Margaret," I lied. "Maybe he's just tired."
"He works too much," she sighed. "Maybe you two can talk properly another time. You used to be such sweet friends when you were little."
I watched their car pull away, my chest tight with confusion and hurt. Leo Langston was definitely my airport hero, but for some reason, he was determined to pretend it never happened.
But why?
---
A whole week passed, and I couldn't get Leo out of my head. My ankle was completely better—Dr. Harrison said I was good as new—and I'd been trying to settle back into London life. But every quiet moment, I found myself thinking about those dark eyes and that cold rejection.
It was Sunday night, and the three of us were having dinner in our small family dining room. Mrs. Chen had made my favorite roast chicken with those amazing rosemary potatoes, and for the first time in days, I felt relaxed.
"So, Quinn," Papá said, cutting into his chicken, "we need to talk about what comes next."
Uh oh. I could hear it in his voice—this was going to be The Conversation.
"What do you mean?" I asked, though I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly what he meant.
"Well," he set down his fork and looked me straight in the eyes, "you're done with school, you're back home, you're twenty-three. It's time to think about your future. About the company."
My stomach dropped. I'd been dreading this moment ever since I decided to come home.
"I've actually been thinking about that," I said carefully.
"Perfect!" His face lit up like Christmas morning. "I've been waiting for this day. The business could really use some fresh ideas, and having you on the team—"
"Papá, stop." I took a deep breath. "I'm not taking over the company."
The silence was deafening. Diego's fork froze halfway to his mouth. Papá just stared at me like I'd told him I was joining the circus.
"What do you mean you're not taking over?" he asked slowly.
My heart was pounding, but I forced myself to keep going. "I mean I don't want to work for the family business. I have other plans."
"Other plans?" His voice got louder. "Quinn, this company has been in our family for three generations. Your grandfather built it from scratch, I've given my whole life to it, and it's supposed to be yours!"
"And I'm grateful for that, I really am," I said, trying to stay calm. "But Papá, if I take over now, then everything I worked for in Spain—all those years, all that studying—it's all for nothing. I didn't get a master's degree in art restoration to run a shipping company."
He looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.
"I want to use what I learned," I continued, my voice getting stronger. "I want to work with art, maybe open my own studio, work with museums. That's what I love, that's what I spent five years learning to do."
"Quinn, be practical," he said in that voice he used when he was trying to close a business deal. "You can do art as a hobby. The company needs you. Our employees need you. Our family legacy—"
"I've made up my mind, Papá," I said firmly, even though seeing the disappointment in his eyes was breaking my heart. "I'm not taking over."
He leaned back in his chair and just looked at me for the longest time. Then, out of nowhere, he smiled a little.
"You're just like your mother," he said softly.
Those words hit me like a punch to the chest. Papá never talked about Mama, who died when I was sixteen. She'd been an artist too—a painter—and I knew she'd struggled with being married to a businessman who didn't understand her dreams.
The quiet stretched on forever. Diego looked like he wanted to disappear into his chair.
Finally, Diego cleared his throat. "Hey, don't worry about it, Papá. I'll take over when I graduate."
Both Papá and I turned to stare at him.
"You will?" Papá asked.
"Sure," Diego grinned, cutting another piece of chicken like he hadn't just solved our family crisis. "Someone's got to keep the Rodrigues name going in business. Besides, I actually like this stuff. And Quinn's right—she should follow her heart. We can't all be shipping kings."
I felt tears prick my eyes. "Diego, you don't have to do this for me—"
"I'm not doing it for you," he said simply. "I'm doing it because I want to. You go save some old paintings, I'll handle the boats. Everyone wins."
Papá looked between us, and slowly, his face softened. "When did you two get so smart?"
"We learned from you," I said, reaching over to squeeze his hand.
"Speak for yourself," Diego said with fake offense. "I'm just naturally brilliant."
We all laughed, and I felt this huge weight lift off my shoulders. I'd finally told Papá the truth, and even though he didn't completely understand it, he was going to let me choose my own path.
"So," Papá said after a while, "if you're dead set on this art thing, what's your plan?"
"I want to start by reaching out to some museums here in London," I said. "Maybe get an entry-level job, build up some experience."
"And if you change your mind about the business..." he said hopefully.
"I won't," I smiled. "But I'll always be here if you really need me."
"Good enough," he said, raising his wine glass. "To following your dreams, even when your old man thinks you're crazy."
"To family," I said, raising mine.
"To not having to think about running a company for at least four more years," Diego added.
We clinked glasses, and I felt happier than I had since coming home. I had my family's support, I knew what I wanted to do with my life, and I could finally stop worrying about disappointing everyone.
Now if I could just figure out why Leo Langston was being such a jerk, everything would be perfect.