Chapter One - Bergamot and Brittle Truths
The soft hum of the café wrapped around Erin like a familiar blanket. The air was a thick, comforting blend of roasted coffee beans and damp wool—the kind of scent that anchored itself to coats on rainy mornings. Outside, the rain tapped a restless rhythm against the tall windows, blurring the street into a watercolor of silver and charcoal.
Steam curled lazily from her cup. She cradled the ceramic between her palms, letting the warmth seep into her skin, though it did nothing to touch the hollow chill settled deep in her marrow.
Across from her, Maeve leaned back, one ankle hooked casually over the other. Her fiery red hair spilled in loose waves over her shoulders, catching the café’s amber light. Her green eyes—sharp, observant, and always a second ahead of everyone else—sparkled with a mix of genuine concern and practiced mischief.
“So…” Maeve began, tilting her head as a faint smirk tugged at her lips. “Tell me again how exactly the universe decided to use you as a punching bag this time.”
Erin let out a short, brittle laugh. It felt abrasive in a place this cozy, too sharp for the low murmur of porcelain and hushed confidences around them.
“Well… let’s see.” Her fingers traced the rim of her mug in slow, absent-minded circles. “In the last twelve months, I lost my mother, my job, and…” She hesitated, the name tasting like ash. “Sebastian Grey.”
Maeve let out a long, theatrical sigh, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “Ah. Sebastian Grey. The charming English catastrophe. Honestly, Erin—what did you expect from a man who uses more hair product than you do?”
Erin’s mouth tightened. “I thought he cared,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I really did.” There was a jagged edge beneath her calm now, a weariness that went beyond lack of sleep. “But he was just… elsewhere. Even when he was standing right in front of me.”
Maeve leaned forward, resting her elbows on the scarred wooden table. She covered Erin’s hand with her own—warm and unshakable. “I know you did. And that’s not a flaw, Erin. It’s a testament to you.” Her grip tightened. “But he’s Sebastian. A polished smile, a silver tongue, and the emotional depth of a puddle. You deserve a man who stays, and you know it.”
Erin’s shoulders sagged, the tension finally leaking out of her. She didn’t pull away.
“It’s just… one year, Maeve. Everything I built, everything I leaned on... it just collapsed.” Her gaze fell to the dregs of her tea. “And now the company. One email. That’s all it took to erase three years of late nights and lost weekends. All those projects I told myself would be worth the sacrifice… gone. Just like that.”
Maeve’s playful mask slipped, revealing something raw and soft underneath. “I know,” she said gently. “Losing a job you poured your soul into isn’t just a career change. It’s a mourning process. But Erin… you aren’t a job title. You’re brilliant. You’re the person who makes broken things beautiful again. That doesn’t vanish because some CEO failed to balance a spreadsheet.”
Erin closed her eyes, breathing in the citrusy ghost of bergamot rising from the steam. She hadn’t realized how brittle she’d become until she heard the truth out loud.
“I don’t know how to begin again,” she admitted, her voice faltering. “I’m exhausted. It feels like the ground beneath me just… turned to water. Mom. My work. My belief that people actually mean what they say.”
Sebastian’s face flickered through her mind—the easy excuses, the way he’d made her feel like she was the one being difficult for wanting honesty. Maeve caught the slight flinch in Erin’s expression but didn’t press the wound.
Instead, she gave a firm, certain nod. “You survive, Erin. You always have. But maybe it’s time to stop surviving and start hiding. Just for a bit. Somewhere the air is cold enough to remind you that you’re still breathing.”
Erin raised an eyebrow, a ghost of a smile finally reaching her lips. “Hiding? As in… disappearing into the wilderness?”
Maeve laughed, a bright, clear sound as she lifted her coffee. “Not the wilderness. My uncle—Alistair MacGregor—has a cottage in Scotland. A tiny village called Glenmorven. It’s tucked between a forest and a loch. Quiet enough to hear your own heart beating.” She watched Erin closely, the suggestion hanging in the air. “He barely visits. I thought… maybe you could use the key.”
Erin stared at her. “You think a drafty cottage in the Highlands is the cure for a ruined life?”
Maeve shrugged, her smile steady. “No. I don’t think it’ll fix the past. But it might give you the space to exist without an audience. Sometimes, a new beginning doesn’t have to be a grand gesture. It just has to be a different view.”
Erin’s fingers tightened around her mug. Outside, the rain continued to blur the world into gray streaks—but inside, for the first time in months, the air felt a little easier to swallow.
A flicker of a chance. Small. Fragile. But there.
