Chapter 6

Okay.

So.

I didn’t die.

I just had coffee with Ethan Quan and didn’t choke, faint, or confess my love while crying into a napkin.

That alone is worth a trophy. Or a plaque. Or a full-blown N*****x miniseries titled Girl, Calm Down.

As soon as I get back to the Carrington estate, I power-walk to my room like I’ve just shoplifted God and slam the door shut behind me.

Ten seconds later, I scream into my pillow.

It’s fine. I’m fine.

It was just a coffee meeting.

But it wasn’t.

Because I know what comes next. I’ve read what comes next.

In exactly twelve days, Anastasia Carrington returns from her dazzling European tour with her accent, her cello, and her tragic backstory about falling through a frozen lake or something. Everyone adores her immediately. Photographers show up at the gates. The tabloids do a glow-up montage.

And me?

I get quietly erased.

No dramatic showdown. No screaming. Just: “Lyra, darling, you’ve grown so independent—we think it’s time you found your own way.”

Translation: pack your things. We’re done pretending.

It’s not a guess. It’s a deadline.

I sit up, grab my laptop, and open the folder I started last week after rereading that chapter for the fifth time.

Project Fallback Plan: Homes That Don’t Come With Carringtons

A few listings sit bookmarked: countryside cottages, half-ruined farmhouses, weirdly romantic stone towers with broken chimneys. Places no one would ever think to look for a disgraced almost-heiress with good hair and abandonment issues.

I click through slowly, heart tapping out a rhythm that doesn’t quite match excitement—or dread.

I land on one listing.

A small, ivy-covered house. Two stories. Old wood shutters. A garden that’s clearly more weeds than anything else. The inside looks like it smells like books and dust and rain.

I love it immediately.

It’s far enough from the city that I could disappear.

Close enough that I could take a train back in for meetings. Coffee. People.

People like...

I glance at my phone. The screen is dark. No new messages.

I pick it up anyway. Open the thread with Ethan.

Re-read his last message like it’s sacred text:

“Tomorrow.”

That’s it. Just Tomorrow. No emoji. No punctuation. Somehow it still made my spine tingle.

I type.

Hey, I forgot to mention something—

Delete.

Thanks again for today. Really looking forward to talking more. If—

Delete.

Do you think the Carrington import line is going to tank as hard as I think it will? lol

Delete. Delete. Delete again. Toss the phone away. Burn the house down. 

I sigh - loudly. Toss the phone onto the bed like it offended me.

I want to talk to him again. Not just because I’m spiraling into a second-lead crush that could destroy me emotionally, but because he listens. Because he made space for me to speak without flinching. Because he looked at me like I wasn’t disposable.

And I need to hold onto that.

But not right now.

Right now, I need to be smart.

I click save on my real estate shortlist. Update the spreadsheet I’ve been building in secret: savings. expenses. escape routes. People to ghost.

I glance at the date on my screen.

Twelve days.

Twelve.

It’s not long.

But it’s enough to write myself a new ending.