The early morning sunlight spilled across Emily's face, warm and insistent, nudging her awake. Birds sang outside her window, their chatter weaving with the faint hum of distant voices and clinking dishes,an unmistakable reminder she was no longer in her London flat, but back in a house alive with wedding frenzy.
She stretched, took in a deep breath of lavender and linen, then pushed herself out of bed.After a quick shower and a dress chosen from the suitcase she hadn't properly unpacked,she smoothens the fabric before pausing at the mirror. The girl who had once hidden in this glass shy, hesitant, unsure was gone. The reflection now met her eyes steady, composed, and changed. Stronger. Time had carved its distance, but it had also given her edges she hadn't owned before.
When she entered the dining hall, the first thing she felt was a tap on her shoulder.
"Look who finally decided to grace us with her arrival," Edward drawled, a mock sulk on his face. "Three days to the wedding, my little sister."
Emily laughed, warmth chasing through her chest. "Edward…" She hugged him quickly, eyes bright. "I missed you."
Though he kept up the reluctant act, Edward's arms tightened around her in a familiar, protective squeeze.
"Emily!" Bianca swept in next, silk robe trailing like sunlight. She hugged her with a bride's glowing energy. "It's been too long. How's London treating you? And the wedding—oh, don't even ask. Your brother—" she rolled her eyes—"well, you know your brother."
Edward gave Emily a quick look over Bianca's shoulder, a silent save yourself, and Emily bit back a laugh.
She settled into a chair, breakfast plates gleaming under morning light, and let Bianca chatter about flower arrangements, guest lists, and how Edward had been both help and hindrance. Emily smiled, listening, her gaze wandering across the table—
And froze.
There he was.
Andrew Williams.
Exactly as she remembered, yet impossibly more. The easy charm, the way conversations bent toward him like flowers toward the sun. He stood at the far end, head tilted toward a young woman close to her age, her expression already softening under the glow of his attention. Of course, Emily thought, a sting curling in her chest. Some things never changed.
And then—he looked up.
As if her gaze had tugged his, Andrew's eyes found hers. For a heartbeat, the clatter of cutlery and Bianca's bright voice faded into silence.
"Emily…" he said, voice carrying just enough to turn a few heads.
Her heart jolted, stopping for one impossible moment. The secret she had buried in ink and silence—her first love, written only between diary pages—was suddenly standing in front of her, alive, familiar, devastating.
Andrew's voice lingered in the air as he crossed the room, each step pulling her further into a storm of memory she hadn't planned to revisit. By the time he stopped in front of her, her heart was already caught between past and present.
Six years unraveled in an instant.
She had not always been this woman—confident, composed, sure of her place in the world. Once, she had been small and guarded, her life weighed down by the shadow of her father's anger. After her parents divorced when she was twelve, she learned too quickly that survival meant silence. Her mother carried them both through paychecks that never stretched far enough, while Emily balanced school with part-time jobs and baking classes, clinging to the dream of one day becoming a pastry chef. A dream of sweetness, in a world that often wasn't.
That was before Richard.
The first time her mother had brought him home, Emily had braced herself for disappointment. Men, in her experience, were never safe. They were cruel, self-absorbed, untrustworthy. She had expected Richard to be the same. But he wasn't. He was patient where her father had been volatile, steady where he had been storm. Slowly, against all her instincts, she let herself believe him. With Richard came Edward too—the brother she hadn't asked for but had always needed.
Six months later, her mother remarried, and Emily was swept into a world she had never known existed: glittering halls, endless parties, and high-society strangers who spoke as if they were made of glass. She felt like an intruder—until that afternoon Edward had grinned, clapped someone on the shoulder, and said—
"Emily, meet my best friend…"
Her breath caught at the memory, the image blurring before she could finish it. The laughter, the light, the boy with the golden smile—her mind refused to go further. Not yet.
The past slipped away like smoke, leaving only the present. Andrew's hand was outstretched to her, warm and steady.
She placed hers in his, pulse trembling under her skin.
"Andrew," she managed, her voice soft but clear, "it really has been a long time."