The morning after David Sterling's return, the estate buzzed with a fresh and almost nervous energy. Layla awoke to the smell of espresso and sandalwood, the scent of expensive decisions brewing somewhere deep in the house.
She sat up slowly, her head still clouded with yesterday's revelations: secret brothers, barbed conversations, declarations in piano notes. It was all too rich, too unreal. She half-expected a camera crew to burst in and reveal it had all been an elaborate reality show prank.
Instead, her phone buzzed.
Mira: Babes. David is HOT. Why didn't you tell me the spare Sterling brother looks like a gothic poem??
Layla: Was too busy processing the fact that his mother wants to destroy me and possibly ban me from all upper-tier cheese platters for life.
Mira: Life goals.
Layla smiled faintly and tossed the phone aside. If Mira was texting jokes, the world hadn't completely imploded.
Yet.
Downstairs, the Sterling estate's drawing room had become something of a battlefield dressed in velvet and tea service. David sat stretched across a fainting couch like a misbehaving son in a renaissance painting, while Evelyn Sterling presided from her throne-like chair in a cream silk suit, stiff and pressed as her judgment.
Adam stood by the fireplace, arms folded.
"I told you, I'm not interested in the arrangement," he said.
Evelyn didn't flinch. "It's not an arrangement. It's a solution."
"To what?" Layla's voice interrupted as she entered. Her tone was calm but defiant. She was dressed in a soft, earth-toned two-piece she'd designed herself, the tweed jacket lined with a burst of scarlet silk. A quiet nod to her roots—and her fire.
Everyone turned to her.
"To the stain," Evelyn said, not even blinking. "You."
David winced. "Mother, really."
Layla stepped closer. "What exactly do you think I've done?"
Evelyn gestured coldly to the thick file on the coffee table. "You've brought press. Noise. Gossip. A girl with an accent, a postcode, and a past the tabloids love. Your presence distracts from everything this family has built."
"Or," David said, drawling, "maybe she's just the first person in this house who didn't have their personality ironed out at Harrow."
Evelyn's eyes sharpened. "You're not part of this conversation."
"No," David said. "But I remember what it felt like to be offered silence instead of love."
Adam spoke then, voice low and steady. "This isn't about protection. It's control."
"She's unsuitable," Evelyn said tightly.
Layla raised a brow. "I design clothes, not coups."
"You design disruption."
Layla tilted her head. "You're mistaking disruption for evolution."
For the briefest moment, Evelyn's gaze flickered.
A crack.
Then she stood. "Mr. Warwick arrives at four. Please be presentable."
She swept out.
"Mr. Warwick?" Layla asked once she was gone.
"Family attorney," Adam muttered. "If she's summoning him, it means something's changing. Probably inheritance terms."
David stretched. "Ooooh, drama. Anyone fancy popcorn?"
Layla blinked. "So, she's threatening to disinherit you?"
"Likely," Adam said. "Unless I walk away from you."
She went still.
"Would you?"
His answer was immediate. "No."
And then quieter, "But I won't let her ruin you either."
By noon, Layla found herself wandering the gardens to think. She found the greenhouse—of course the estate had a greenhouse, this place practically printed money—quiet and fragrant, filled with trailing roses and violet orchids. As she touched a petal absently, a voice behind her spoke.
"Do you know how hard it is to grow anything in this family?"
It was Sarah Lovell.
Layla turned. "You're not in heels. I'm alarmed."
Sarah gave a wry smile, barefoot in a pale silk kaftan, a crystal glass of water in her hand.
"This is my hiding place," she said. "The only part of the house that doesn't echo with ambition."
Layla looked at her warily. "What do you want, Sarah?"
"Don't flatter yourself. I'm not here to sabotage you."
"No? I thought it was part of the syllabus at Fancy Girl School."
Sarah actually laughed. "We don't all want the crown. Some of us just don't want to be told we can't wear it."
Layla leaned against the table of potted herbs. "Then what are you doing in this story?"
Sarah's gaze softened. "Maybe making sure you survive it."
Layla raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
Sarah looked away. "Because I didn't. Not really."
A long silence passed.
Then Sarah said quietly, "Evelyn tried to match me with Adam once. Years ago. But I said no. I'd seen what this house did to women it couldn't control."
Layla swallowed. "And now?"
Sarah's smile was brittle. "Now I stay close enough to watch. Not close enough to fall."
They stood together, surrounded by the perfume of overgrown roses.
For the first time, Layla didn't see Sarah as a rival.
She saw a warning.
That afternoon, Mr. Warwick arrived.
He was tall, grey, and unimpressed by sunlight, carrying a briefcase that might as well have been a coffin for optimism.
Layla wasn't invited to the meeting.
So she watched from the landing as Adam stepped into the oak-panelled study, David lounging nearby with a glass of something aged and obscene.
The door closed.
And she waited.
The hours passed slowly.
Layla sat by the window in the music room, sketching without purpose. Her pencil moved, but her mind didn't.
Until she saw it.
A sheet of music on the grand piano. A new one. Scrawled in Adam's unmistakable hand.
No title. Just notes.
She sat at the piano bench and began to play.
Softly, like touching a secret.
It was unfinished—but alive. A melody filled with tension and tenderness, a composition that held space for breath, for silence. For her.
He'd written her into the music.
When Adam finally returned, his tie was loosened, his hair slightly mussed. He looked like someone who'd walked through a storm with dignity and barely-damp socks.
He sat beside her silently.
Then he said, "They've updated the will."
Layla turned slowly. "And?"
"If I marry outside the family's social circle," he said, "I forfeit my title and my shares in the Sterling trust."
Layla's heart stuttered. "That's—half your legacy."
He smiled faintly. "Not all of it."
"What do you mean?"
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a smaller, older envelope.
"My father's last letter. Written before he passed. Warwick gave it to me today, said it had been held until I made a choice like this."
Layla blinked. "What does it say?"
Adam looked at her.
Then he read:
"Son—
If you ever find someone who makes you want to walk away from all this…
Walk faster."
The room fell still.
Layla felt something deep in her chest unravel—an ache, a relief, a surrender.
"I don't want to cost you everything," she whispered.
Adam reached for her hand. "You never have. You've reminded me what everything actually is."
They sat in silence, the half-played song still echoing in the air.
Then, softly, Layla said, "I think I'm falling in love with you."
Adam didn't speak.
He leaned in and kissed her.
Not like a man kissing a girl he had to protect.
But like a man kissing a woman who had already saved him.