Page 137 of Scandal
“Thank you,” I say. Then, before she walks away, I add, “Oh, and if you get a chance, go outside. It’s snowing!”
I rush down the hall, eager to find Asher and drag him outside, but when I reach our suite, it’s empty.
I let out a groan of frustration.
It’s been a tough six months. When Stuart passed away only four weeks after my kidnapping, we knew it wouldn’t be easy. Asher had to mourn the life of a man he barely knew, while also trying to fill his shoes that never truly felt right from the start.
It took some time, but I think we’re figuring it out, and like Evie suggested, we’re doing it our way.
We’ve scaled back on charity galas and are focusing more on actively engaging with the community—like volunteering and showing up for local events. We’re still donating to charity, but as Asher has said, it doesn’t have to involve a fancy dress or a dinner.
We’re still trying to navigate our music careers. Theodora has been surprisingly supportive of both of us—even Asher. I’m unsure if he’ll ever return to the music industry, but I’m glad to know it’s a possibility because, like me, that man has too much talent to waste.
There are no titles inside the walls of Blackstone House anymore. Why? Because this is a home, and it should feel like one. I never want our children to have to address us as anything other than Mom or Dad.
Or will it be Mum and Da?
Either way, we’re breaking the cycle, and it starts with the small things—like tearing down barriers and making this drafty old place feel welcoming again. Asher told me his grandfather once hosted holidays and gatherings, inviting the entire village, and I’d love to see us revive that tradition someday.
Once we’re not the talk of every journo in the UK.
But we’ll get there. Eventually.
The news of my kidnapping made headlines worldwide, and since then, reporters have been watching our every move, especially after Stuart passed away. It’s been overwhelming, especially since I still hate being the center of attention. But I know it won’t stay like this forever. They’ll eventually move on, and we’ll get our lives back.
Just as I’m about to leave our suite, I notice out of the corner of my eye a bouquet of flowers sitting on the coffee table in the sitting room.
Not completely unusual. Someone from the staff usually places an arrangement or two in our suite and then changes them out every few days to match the seasons. I’ve loved the moody fall tones and the splash of berries for the holidays.
But this is not a holiday arrangement.
It’s a giant bouquet of daffodils.
Daffodils in December?
I hesitantly walk toward the flowers, wondering where in the world you might find such a thing this time of year, and then I see a card with my name on it, written in Asher’s incredibly neat penmanship.
I pick it up and, with a slightly shaky hand, open the envelope.
Inside is a sheet of paper is written:
Even that day at the loch, I knew I loved you.
How about another first?
Meet me at the cottage.
Yours,
Ash
ASHER
“Tell me this isn’t a dumb idea,” I beg, suddenly second-guessing myself as I look in the small mirror by the bed.
“It’s a dumb idea,” Hendrix says over speakerphone. I turn to the side and frown.Maybe I should have gone with a suit…
“I told you to tell me it’snota dumb idea, asshole.”
