Page 19 of Hannah.

My fingertip hovers indecisively over the screen. Just a few days ago, I’d have been so ridiculously happy about an offer like this, but now….

Johan ignored me before. So maybe it’s time for him to get a taste of his own medicine.

I click the phone screen off and put it back in my bag, letting his message hang unanswered. It might make him reconsiderdoing it to someone else in the future. Ignoring him feels like a victory. And right now, I’ll take a win wherever I can get one.

The wheels of Astrid’s car eat up the miles, leaving Cambridge behind. The countryside opens up before us, a patchwork quilt of emerald fields and rustling trees, kissed by the red-orange glow of the setting sun.

Astrid is visibly relaxed, already anticipating a calm weekend with her family away from everything else. I know the feeling—I’m also looking forward to my first trip back to my family estate. Maybe I’ll take Astrid when I do and return the favor.

Her home isn’t too far away, but the closer we get, the fewer houses we see. Her family must own a decent swathe of land. As we finally reach the road that leads to her place, it’s clear now that Astrid’s family estate is pure British sophistication. The iron gate swings wide, revealing a pathway flanked by ancient oaks. The property stretches out, sprawling, with small flower beds and topiaries dotted about. The main house comes into view—a large, impressive example of classic Georgian architecture, timeless and elegant. Manicured gardens frame it, giving way to thicker groves of trees in the distance. They turn fall colors–yellow, orange, and red among the emerald.

“Welcome to Goschen Hall,” she says, her voice tinged with a playful pride. “We’re just in time for aperitivo.” She kills the engine and hops out. I follow, smoothing down my chinos, suddenly conscious of my appearance.

Standing at the bottom of the stairs is a woman in a dark navy suit who starts walking in our direction. Her short blonde hair, neatly styled, exudes an air of genteel authority. She must be in her mid-fifties, her demeanor as crisp as her outfit. For aninstant, I wonder if it’s Astrid’s mom, but her stance seems too formal for it.

“Welcome home, Miss Astrid,” she says, her voice carrying a refined accent as another man walks past us and opens Astrid's truck to take our luggage.

“Thanks, Lauren.” Astrid hands the key to the porter and, taking her handbag with her, she looks between me and the woman and says, “Oh, this is Hannah. Hannah, Lauren—the family’s butler.”

“Welcome to Goschen Hall, Miss Hannah.” Lauren tilts her head slightly in respect. “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay among us.”

“Thanks,” I say with a nod of appreciation.

Once we’re ready, Lauren turns and leads us towards the house. “This way, please.”

As we ascend the steps, Astrid leans in, her voice lowered to a whisper. “I hope you don’t mind the formality. It’s a bit old-fashioned, I know.”

“That’s alright.”

As we cross the threshold of Goschen Hall, the grandeur of the entrance hall envelops me. The floor, a polished expanse of marble, reflects the kaleidoscopic light streaming from the stained glass above, casting vibrant patterns around the room. Ahead, a majestic staircase with intricately carved dark wooden balustrades spirals upward, while the walls, adorned with gilt-framed portraits of stern ancestors, project a sense of deep-rooted history. Above, ornate chandeliers hang from a ceiling rich with detailed plasterwork, adding a touch of opulence that catches my eye and takes my breath away.

“My parents are in the drawing room,” she explains, walking ahead. “Let’s go say hello. I’ll give you the full tour later.”

I nod eagerly, curious about the stories those stern and regal faces might tell. Lauren opens the doors to a beautifully lit room that unfolds before me like a painting, every detail perfectlyarranged to blend elegance with warmth. Plush armchairs and deep sofas form a circle around the grand fireplace, which crackles gently, filling the space with a cozy glow. The walls are adorned with pastoral landscape paintings framed in ornate gold leaf, while lush, floral-patterned drapes cascade from tall windows, casting a warm golden hue over the room. A chandelier, delicate and sparkling, hangs above, its crystals casting shimmering patterns across the parquet floor.

Astrid leads me into the room, her smile as wide as ever. “Mum, Dad,” she says, gesturing to the elegantly dressed couple with champagne flutes in hand, “I’d like you to meet Hannah.”

Her mom is a picture of grace and sophistication–her hair is the same color as her daughters, just shot through with a little gray. Mrs. Goschen's eyes sparkle with a kind warmth as she takes my hand, her voice gentle.

“Hello, Hannah,” she says as we cheek-kiss. “Welcome to our home. Astrid's been talking so highly about you.”

Surprised, I blink a few times. Astrid told her parents about me? That’s so nice that I can barely believe it.

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Goschen,” I reply.

“Just call me Nina.” Her genuine smile eases my nerves, and I exchange a glance with Astrid, her eyes mirroring her mother's warmth. For a moment, I miss my mother terribly and I make a mental note to call her once we’re done here.

Her dad follows with a firm handshake, his presence exuding both authority and ease. “It’s wonderful to have you here, Hannah.” His handshake is firm, his smile genuine, but his eyes carry a depth of scrutiny that reminds me a little bit of my father when he’s doing business. Dad has softened over the years, his affection for his children coming easier and more often, but Astrid’s father still seems to hold his hard edge. “Astrid told us you just started at Cambridge, and you came all the way from the Netherlands?”

“That’s correct. I’m majoring in Art History, and I’m just as fascinated by oddities as your daughter seems to be.”

“That’s wonderful,” Mr. Goschen says with approval. “Astrid worked very hard for that exhibit. She’s quite proud of it, aren’t you, honey?”

Astrid rolls her eyes in annoyance, which makes me chuckle a bit. “Yes, Pa.”

After a few minutes of polite conversation, Astrid turns to me with a twinkle in her eye. “Let’s change before dinner. I’ll show you your room.”

She leads me up the grand staircase, its balustrades polished to a rich shine. The walls along the corridor are lined with portraits of individuals with stern faces and elaborate attire. I pause in front of one depicting a man in military regalia, his posture rigid and commanding. “Are these members of your family?” I ask.

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