Page 68 of Twins for the Off-Limits Lawyer

Unknown:Your departure arrangements have been made. Flight LHR-AUS 6 pm. Car service arrives 2.30 pm. Baggage allowance paid. Immigration concerns resolved. Don't complicate this further. — V

Even in destruction, Victoria maintained her efficiency. She'd planned my professional downfall and booked my exile in the same morning.

I stared at the message, feeling something inside me break completely. Not just my heart—that had been shattered when I walked away from Edward yesterday.

This was deeper, more fundamental. This was the destruction of hope itself.

There was a soft knock at my door.

"Miss Anderton?" Mrs. Worthington's voice was gentle, apologetic. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but there are reporters at the main gate asking questions. Her Ladyship thought you should know."

Reporters. Of course. The story would be everywhere by evening—the American gold digger who'd tried to seduce herway into British aristocracy and been exposed as a professional manipulator.

Victoria would make sure that version of events dominated the narrative.

"Thank you, Mrs. Worthington." I opened the door to find the elderly housekeeper's kind face creased with concern.

"I'm sorry about all this, miss. It's not right, what's happening to you. We've all grown quite fond of you, you know. You always treated us nicely. That matters more than you might think."

Her unexpected sympathy nearly undid my composure. "I appreciate that. Would you... would you mind not mentioning to anyone that I'm leaving? I'd prefer to go quietly."

"Of course, dear. Though if you don't mind my saying, that young man cares about you more than he knows how to handle. This isn't his doing."

"I know," I whispered. "That's what makes it so much worse."

After she left, I finished packing with mechanical efficiency. Two suitcases and a carry-on—everything I'd brought to England fit into three bags. The weight of the suitcase as I lifted it felt like carrying my whole English life, reduced to what could fit in an overhead compartment.

I left no notes, made no calls.

What was there to say? That I'd been naive enough to believe love could overcome family disapproval and business conflicts? That I'd trusted people who saw me as nothing more than a convenient pawn in their larger games?

The taxi ride to Heathrow felt like a funeral procession. London's familiar landmarks passed outside the window—the park bench where Edward had kissed me, the tea shop where we'd hidden from his Mother's social circle, the corner where he'd bought me flowers from a street vendor who'd called us "a lovely couple." Each memory felt like pressing on a bruise.

At the airport, I checked in with the efficiency of someone who'd done this journey many times before. The efficiency of my own departure felt surreal—passport, boarding pass, security, gate.

Just hours ago I'd been living a completely different life. Now I was traveling light, carrying only what I'd brought to England and leaving behind everything I'd tried to build. The flight attendant's bright smile felt like a mockery, but I managed to respond appropriately, to play the part of a normal passenger traveling for normal reasons.

It wasn't until we were airborne that I allowed myself to cry. Not the dramatic sobbing of movie heroines, but the quiet, steady tears of someone who'd finally accepted that some stories don't have happy endings.

The flight to Austin was long—ten hours to process the complete destruction of everything I'd worked for. By the time we began descent into Texas, I'd cried myself empty and found a strange kind of peace in the numbness that remained.

Mama was waiting at arrivals, her familiar face creased with worry and love. She took one look at me and opened her arms without questions.

"Oh, baby girl," she whispered into my hair as I collapsed against her. "Come on home."

The drive to our small town was mercifully quiet, though Mama couldn't stay silent for long. "You don't have to talk about it," she said, "But when you're ready, I'm here. And if you want to tell me which fancy British lady needs a good talking-to, well, I've got some thoughts on that too."

"That's what I figured when I saw the news online. Lord have mercy, honey, they made it sound like you were some kind of scheming fortune hunter." She shook her head with disgust. "But I know my daughter, and I know you didn't chase afteranybody's money. You've been earning your own way since you were sixteen."

The Texas landscape rolled past—wide skies and familiar horizons that felt like a balm after England's claustrophobic grandeur.

The air smelled different here. Warmer, dustier, carrying the scent of mesquite and possibilities that weren't hemmed in by centuries of tradition.

Our house looked exactly the same. Neat but modest, the front porch where I'd spent countless evenings dreaming of bigger things. The frame house with neat flower beds looked impossibly small after months in a manor with rooms larger than our entire ground floor.

But it also looked like safety, like a place where nobody expected me to be anyone other than myself.

"I made your favorite," Mama said as we pulled into the driveway. "Chicken and dumplings. And Mrs. Patterson next door sent over a peach cobbler when she heard you were coming home."

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