Chapter Eighteen: Update

Layla’s POV

I woke up earlier than usual.

This was not by choice. My body had apparently decided that eight-thirty was a reasonable time to be awake on a Sunday, which I considered a personal betrayal given that I had arrived back in New York late the previous night and had been looking forward to sleeping until at least ten.

I sat up and looked at Ian’s side of the bed.

Neat. Untouched. Either he had made it himself before leaving or he had not slept in it at all.

I noted this and filed it away without examining it too closely.

We had landed last night after a long flight back from Bora Bora. I had maintained the silent treatment all the way home — through the airport, through the car ride, through the process of coming back into this house and settling back into the reality of being married to Ian Lawson in New York City rather than in French Polynesia. He had said a few things during the journey that I had declined to respond to. By the time we got home the silence had become its own kind of conversation — one I was comfortable having and he had apparently decided to stop arguing against.

Haze had gone to his parents’ house the same day we left for the honeymoon. The house was quieter without him. I had not realised how much his energy had filled the space until it wasn’t there anymore.

A knock at the bedroom door.

I frowned. Ian did not knock. Ian opened doors.

“Come in,” I said.

The door opened and a young woman stepped in carrying a breakfast tray — neat uniform, cheerful expression, the particular energy of someone who had been looking forward to this moment.

“Good morning, Miss Thompson.” She came in and set the tray carefully on the vanity table. “I brought you breakfast in bed.”

I looked at her. Did she just say Miss Thompson?

“Hi,” I said. “Who are you?”

“Oh — I should have introduced myself properly.” She smiled. “I’m Alexia. My mum is the cook here and I come in to help her. I’ve been working here for about four years.” She straightened up. “Please feel free to ask me anything, Miss Thompson.”

I tilted my head.

She had said it twice now. Miss Thompson. As if I had not spent the last week legally becoming someone else.

“Alexia.” I kept my voice gentle because she clearly meant well and had done nothing wrong. “You keep calling me Miss Thompson. Is there a reason for that?”

Her face shifted immediately — genuine alarm, genuine apology, the expression of someone who had made an error they had not intended.

“I’m so sorry, Madam. I should not have used your maiden name. Please forgive me.”

“I’m not offended,” I said. “I was just curious. It’s fine.” I looked at her. “And please — no Madam, no Miss Thompson. Just Layla.”

She nodded. “Yes, ma.”

“Alexia — where is Ian this morning?”

“Mr. Lawson went out very early,” she said. “Before any of us were up.”

“Okay. Thank you.” I looked at the tray. “And thank you for breakfast.”

“It’s our job,” she said warmly. “My mum made it. She’s downstairs.” She moved toward the door. “Let me know if you need anything.”

She left and closed the door behind her.

I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the tray.

Ian had gone out early on a Sunday morning. Without saying anything.

I don’t care, I told myself.

I got up, made the bed — because I was not a person who left beds unmade regardless of whose house I was in — and went to shower.

I carried the tray downstairs, I prefer to eat in the dining room than in the bedroom.

The kitchen was warm and smelled like something that had been cooking for a while — something with garlic and butter that made my stomach respond enthusiastically despite the fact that I was carrying a food tray in my hands.

A woman turned from the gas when she heard me come in. Older — warm-faced, comfortable in the space the way people were when they had been in it long enough to stop thinking about it.

“Good morning, Madam.” She smiled immediately. “I’m Martha. The chef.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “It’s very nice to finally meet you.”

“Good morning, Martha.” I set the tray down on the counter. “Please — just Layla. Madam makes me feel like I should be wearing pearls.”

She laughed — a genuine, easy laugh. “Alright, Layla.”

“And please tell Alexia she doesn’t need to bring food to the bedroom. I prefer to eat in the dining room unless I’m tired or working late. Is that alright?”

“Of course.” She was already steering me gently toward the dining room. “Go and sit. Let me bring you a fresh plate — that one’s been sitting a little too long.”

I sat.

Martha moved efficiently between the kitchen and the dining room, setting a fresh plate in front of me with the quiet satisfaction of someone who found real joy in feeding people.

“We were all so sorry not to be here when you first arrived,” she said, settling into a comfortable position near the doorway. “Mr. Lawson gave us all leave before the wedding. By the time we were back you’d already left for the honeymoon.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “You’re here now.”

“Alexia is my daughter,” she said. “She started here when she was eighteen. Mr. Lawson has always been very good to us.” She said it simply, the way people said true things. “Very generous. Very fair. He’s a good man.”

I looked at my plate.

Nice man, I thought. Nice to literally everyone on the planet apparently. Nice to the staff, nice to his family, nice to waiters in restaurants.

Just not to me.

I kept that thought exactly where it was — in my head, behind my expression, where it belonged.

“He is,” I said.

Martha smiled and went back to the kitchen.

I ate my breakfast slowly and looked out the dining room window at the Sunday morning. New York on a Sunday had a different quality than the rest of the week — slower, slightly softer, like the city had collectively agreed to breathe for a day before starting again.

I cleared my plate completely. Martha’s cooking was genuinely excellent.

My phone rang just as I was finishing.

Hailey.

I picked up immediately. “Hi babe.”

“Laylay.” Her voice was different. Not the usual bright, rushing energy — something quieter underneath it. Careful.

I sat up slightly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” A pause. “I would have waited until tomorrow when you’re back in the office but I couldn’t.” Another pause. “I have an update on the Scott deal.”

My stomach tightened.

“What kind of update?” I asked.

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