Page 1 of Pretender

CHAPTER ONE

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LINNEA

I plaster on my Goldilocks smile. Not so small it reveals my disappointment. Not so big it says I don’t care. Lady Beauchamp reaches across the wooden table, narrowly avoiding my half-empty wine glass.

“I’m sorry, Linnea,” she says, squeezing my hand, and there’s a hint of remorse in her green eyes. Or it might be relief. Hard to say without staring at her, and this is enough eye contact for me while she’s clutching me like this.

Another potential client turning me down makes my stomach hurt. London is big, but the pool of opportunities for my maximalist interior design company isn’t.

She lets go of my hand. Finally.

It was getting awkward.

The group of suited men in the corner have been glancing over here. I think they’re waiting for one of us to cry.

I clear my throat. “May I ask why?” My voice comes out even. Phew.

Lady Beauchamp blinks at me.

“It’s my home away from home,” she answers after a beat. “It’s my sanctuary and highly personal to me.”

I nod.

“Absolutely,” I say. “And it would be in capable hands. My process involves getting to know you and considering all your needs.”

She scans the room—the interior design, I assume. This is my work, after all. Two years ago, I transformed the whole look of this private members’ club, The Orion, and contributed to its roaring success. We’re in the main members’ lounge, the more subdued of the many rooms with its dark carved woods, leafy greens, and velvet maroon upholstery.

I’m brimming with ideas for her Kingston-upon-Thames mansion, which is why I invited her here tonight. I was going to take her to the Green Room to show how a faux-forest ceiling and wisteria canopy transport you to another world. Or the Pink Room, where the contrast of bright blue and pink upholstery among wood and plants takes your breath away.

But I hold my hands in my lap, keeping my back straight.

‘Don’t be over the top. They don’t care that you’re enthusiastic about design. You’re being unprofessional.’

Lady Beauchamp breathes out. And continues to breathe out.

Okay, I’m worried about her now.

Please say something.

“You’re just not the right fit, darling.”

Ugh. Not that. What does she mean? I’m an accomplished professional. I’ve won awards for my work.

Although I need to remind myself of that these days. My ex-husband managed to get half of LEAF Design Studio in our divorce settlement, and after paying him out, I’m in debt. On top of that, half of my team and all my hospitality clients (except my main one, thankfully) left me in the last few months.

Lady Beauchamp is, so far, the only residential client who has agreed to meet with me, and here she is, turning me down with some vague reason.

Fuck, this is hard.

She turns in her seat, eyes searching the space. “Do you know if Aiden is here today?”

“He could be, but I haven’t seen him.” Not that I’ve tried to. I prefer to avoid him.

Sure, avoiding your main client isn’t the best strategy, but unless we have specific business to talk about, I’d prefer to keep contact to a minimum. He might bring up Henry again. Aiden has seen more than anyone, thanks to my meltdown in front of him last year, and when he looks at me like he does, like he’s worried I’ll fall apart, the embarrassment of it all hits me again.

Fuck. Don’t think about it now.