Page 153 of False God

I continue stirring a cube of sugar into the flavored water, watching it dissolve while analyzing the sentence structure. It feels like an intentional phrasing. An indication he wants me to stay. But maybe he’s just being polite because it’s obvious how far out of my way I came to see him. Subtle—casual—isn’t showing up at a guy’s house with two oversize suitcases.

“I have a flight out of Heathrow on Thursday morning.”

Today’s Tuesday. Icouldstay two nights.

“Are you planning to see Chloe while you’re here?”

I swallow, glance at him, then admit, “I don’t know. I didn’t tell her I was coming.”

Surprise flashes across Charlie’s face. He doesn’t ask why, which I’m grateful for.

Instead, he says, “I have a meeting in London tomorrow morning. And then a garden party I’m supposed to attend in theafternoon. You could go see Chloe in the morning and then come to the event with me?”

“I don’t want to … impose.”

I’m expecting a tease about me showing up, bags in hand.

But his earnest response is, “You’re not.”

My inhale is unsteady. Part of me was hoping he’d push me away. Make me feel crazy for coming here even.Anythingto make my departure on Thursday easier. To convince myself this visit was a mistake.

“I doubt getting caught in a thunderstorm was on your daily agenda until I showed up.” I take a sip of tea. It’s too sweet—I added too much sugar—but the warmth is pleasant.

“I hate my daily agenda,” Charlie tells me. His tone is somber, his expression as stoic as the one immortalized on the wall.

“Then, change it,” I suggest. “Don’t dukes dowhatever they bloody hell want?”

He cracks a smile at my poor imitation of his voice but doesn’t comment. “Come on.”

I set down my empty teacup, abandon my blanket, and follow him back into the grand hall I entered earlier. Charlie heads straight for the stairs.

I run my hand along the varnished banister as I ascend, my gaze trailing over the portraits on the wall.

On the landing, I stop. “Is this your dad?”

I’m certain it is. There’s a striking similarity between the two men. They have the same nose, a similar jawline. Identical thick, dark hair.

The main difference in their appearances—aside from a few decades—is the harshness the artist managed to capture. It’s like a painting of a sculpture rather than a living, breathing being. A stiffness that’s uncomfortable to look at, let alone be around.

“Yes.” Charlie only glances at the portrait for a few seconds before continuing upstairs.

In the brief time I’ve been here, I’ve realized that Charlie’s feelings toward his father are much more complex than I initially realized. That there’s a lot more than grief there. There’s resentment. Maybe even bitterness.

A long hallway stretches from the top of the stairs.

“Nice house,” I comment as I head toward the rounded opening Charlie is walking under.

An end table with an expensive-looking vase sits to the left. I feel like I’m observing a museum.

He glances to the left, so I can see the corner of his mouth quirk up. “You miss the skyscrapers.”

It’s a statement, but I answer it like a question. “No, I don’t.”

New York is home. It’s familiar. It’s filled with family and memories with my closest friends.

But it’s also the city where my last name means the most. Where the spotlight is brightest and the whispers the loudest. Where I have to walk past the office I could have inherited instead of Kit.

Escaping all that—just being Lili—is really nice.

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