The train to Kent feels approximately seven thousand miles long.
I've chosen my outfit with the precision of a war strategist: high-collared ivory blouse, buttoned to the throat like a Victorian governess with deeply inappropriate secrets. Which, technically, I am.
The secret being the purple-red mark blooming on my neck courtesy of a man whose fingers I can still feel on my thigh. A man whose phone number is burning a hole in my purse.
Every time the train lurches, I check my reflection in the dark window. Collar still in place. Hickey still hidden. Dignity still questionable.
My ancient phone buzzes. Mum, for the fourth time since I boarded.
Can't wait to see you darling! Richard is SO excited!
I'm excited too. Excited to spend a week pretending I didn't let a stranger almost bring me to orgasm in a wine bar twenty-four hours ago. Family bonding at its absolute finest.
The station platform is cold and mostly empty when I arrive. A light drizzle has started, because of course it has. Kent in October delivers on atmospheric turmoil.
Mum spots me immediately and launches herself in my direction like a heat-seeking missile of maternal enthusiasm.
"Charlotte! Oh, look at you! Why are you dressed like a librarian from 1847?"
"Hello to you too, Mum."
She pulls back, examining my blouse with barely concealed horror. "Is this a fashion choice or a cry for help? You look like you're attending a funeral. A Victorian funeral. For someone you didn't particularly like."
"It's October. I'm cold."
"It's twelve degrees. You're being dramatic." She loops her arm through mine. "Come, come. Richard's already at the restaurant. He's absolutely dying to see you again."
The restaurant is predictably upscale—white tablecloths, candles, waiters who look personally offended by the concept of rushed service. Richard Crawford rises from his seat as we approach.
Fifteen years haven't changed him much. Still tall, still proper, still radiating that particular brand of British politeness that makes you want to apologize for existing.
"Lottie! What a pleasure." His handshake is warm. "You've grown into such a lovely young woman. Your mother talks about you constantly."
"All good things, I hope."
"Exclusively." He gestures to the empty seat beside him. "Oliver's running a bit late—work emergency—but he should be here shortly. I think you two will really get along."
I highly doubt that.
The Oliver I remember was three years older and roughly three hundred percent more evil. A demon child in polo shirts who treated my tears like entertainment. The last time I saw him, I was nine and sobbing inside a locked cupboard while he laughed.
Mum launches into a detailed monologue about centerpiece options. I nod at appropriate intervals while adjusting my collar approximately every thirty seconds. The hickey throbs beneath the fabric like a guilty conscience with a pulse.
"—and I simply couldn't decide between the ivory roses and the blush peonies, so I said why not both? Richard, darling, tell her about the cake situation—"
Movement catches my eye. A man approaching our table.
Tall. Dark-haired. Unfairly attractive in a way that should require a warning label.
My stomach plummets through the floor.
The silver medallion catches the candlelight, and suddenly the memory clicks into place with nauseating clarity. That medallion. I've seen it before—not just last night, but fifteen years ago. Around the neck of a cruel boy who locked me in cupboards and laughed while I cried.
Oliver Crawford.
Richard's son.
The retired gigolo who gave me a hickey that is currently burning beneath my high Victorian collar.
My future stepbrother.
Our eyes meet. His expression flickers—surprise, recognition, something sharper—before smoothing into pleasant neutrality.
"You must be Lottie." He extends his hand like we've never met. Like he didn't have his fingers between my legs twenty-four hours ago. "I'm Oliver. Lovely to see you again. You’ve changed so much."
The audacity. The sheer, breathtaking audacity.
I take his hand because refusing would raise questions. His palm is warm. I remember exactly where that palm was last night.
"Nice to meet you too."
The words taste like ash and irony.
Oliver slides into the seat across from me. His smile is perfectly calibrated—warm enough for family dinner, knowing enough to make me want to throw my water glass at his head.
"Dad's told me so much about you," he says smoothly. "Accountant, right? Helen mentioned you work with numbers."
"Spreadsheets, mostly." My voice sounds alien. Robotic. "Thrilling stuff."
"I imagine it requires attention to detail."
"Among other things."
Mum beams between us, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension thick enough to cut with the butter knife. Richard nods approvingly. "Isn't this wonderful? I always hoped you two would become close."
I nearly choke on my wine. Close. Yes. Extremely close. Wine-bar-under-the-table close.
Oliver's eyes dance with barely suppressed amusement. "I'm sure we'll find plenty to bond over."
I'm going to kill him. I'm going to reach across this beautifully set table and strangle him with his own napkin.
The waiter arrives. Orders are placed. Conversation continues around me while I mentally calculate exactly how many felonies I'm willing to commit.
"So, Lottie." Oliver tilts his head, the picture of innocent curiosity. "Anyone special in your life currently?"
"Recently single, actually."
"Pity. Though sometimes the best things come along when you least expect them."
His tone is innocent. His eyes are anything but. I want to crawl under the table and disappear into another dimension.
I adjust my collar. Again. The hickey feels enormous beneath the fabric, pulsing like a guilty conscience with a heartbeat.
Richard launches into a story about the venue negotiations. Mum interjects with commentary about floral arrangements. Oliver asks polite questions about my work, my flat, my commute—all delivered with perfect stepbrotherly interest that makes me want to scream.
Every response I give is clipped. Minimal. Professional.
His foot brushes mine beneath the table. I yank my leg away like I've been burned.
"Cold?" he asks innocently.
"Fine. Just fine."
"You seem tense. Long journey?"
"Something like that."
Mum frowns at me. "Darling, you've barely touched your food. And why do you keep fiddling with your collar?"
"Itchy fabric."
"It looks like silk."
"Itchy silk."
Oliver's lips twitch. I fantasize briefly about stabbing him with my fork.
Dessert arrives. I push meringue around my plate while Mum and Richard discuss the ceremony timeline. Oliver watches me with those knowing green eyes.
"I should turn in early," I announce abruptly. "Long day tomorrow."
Mum pouts. "But we've barely caught up!"
"Jet lag."
"You took a train."
"Train lag. It's a real condition."
Richard stands to hug me goodnight. Mum kisses both my cheeks. Oliver simply nods, that infuriating smile still playing at his mouth.
"Sleep well, Lottie. Looking forward to getting to know you better this week."
I flee.
My room is mercifully quiet. I lock the door, strip off the Victorian nightmare blouse, and stare at my reflection. The hickey blooms purple and damning against my skin.
The man who awakened my body is the boy who made my childhood miserable.
He's about to become my stepbrother.
He knows I've never had an orgasm.
His phone number is still in my purse.
I sit on the edge of the bed and wonder what exactly I did in a past life to deserve this spectacular cosmic joke.
The universe, apparently, has a deeply twisted sense of humor.