Page 16 of Forbidden Fruit

"Yes, yes," she waves dismissively. "This isn't my first rodeo with His Majesty." She bends down to address my cat directly. "We're going to have a lovely time, aren't we? I've recorded all the bird documentaries you enjoy."

Mr. Darcy blinks at her imperiously.

"And the boy?" Mrs. Feldman straightens up. "He's finally going to make an honest woman of you?"

My cheeks warm. "Well, I don't know for sure..."

"Hmph. About time. Five years is enough to know if someone's right for you." She adjusts her purple glasses. "Though in my day, we didn't waste so much time. On my second date with my Harold, I knew he was the one."

I smile politely, having heard the story of her whirlwind romance many times.

"Just remember," she continues, patting my arm, "marriage isn't about the ring or the wedding. It's about finding someone who sees the real you and loves you anyway."

"I know," I say, though a small voice inside me wonders if Jack truly sees me at all.

After Mrs. Feldman leaves, I double-check everything one last time: passport, sunscreen, phone charger, and the novel I've been trying to finish for months. I set my alarm for 5:30 AM, giving myself ample time to prepare before the car arrives.

As I slip into bed, Mr. Darcy curls up beside me, purring contentedly.

"This time next week, everything could be different," I whisper, scratching under his chin. "I could be engaged."

My cat blinks slowly, unimpressed by human milestones.

I check my phone one last time. Nothing from Jack. I type out a message. I am so excited for tomorrow! Then, I delete it. It's better not to seem too eager. Jack hates clinginess.

Instead, I set my phone down and close my eyes, trying to imagine the moment. Jack is on one knee, a velvet box in his hand, and the Caribbean sunset painting the sky behind us. Perfect. Just like I've always dreamed.

But as I drift toward sleep, I see not Jack's face but Clive's—those intense blue eyes, that slight smile when he said my name at Christmas dinner six months ago.

I jolt awake, disturbed by the direction of my thoughts. What is wrong with me? Fantasizing about my boyfriend's stepfather? I blame Holly and her ridiculous comments about Clive's photo.

Sleep comes fitfully after that, and my dreams are a confusing tangle of white dresses and blue eyes.

Becca

Morning arrives too quickly. I'm awake when my alarm goes off, having given up on sleep around 4:30. I shower, blow-dry my hair, and apply light makeup—just enough to look polished but not overdone.

At 6:55, my phone pings with a text:

Driver outside.

Five minutes early. I grab my suitcase and give Mr. Darcy one last cuddle.

"Be good," I tell him. "I'll bring you back something nice."

Downstairs, a sleek black SUV waits at the curb. The driver, a tall man in a suit, takes my bag.

"Good morning, Ms. Jamison," he says. "We'll be collecting Mr. Hanson next."

"Oh." I hadn't realized we'd be picked up separately. "Thank you."

The car is luxurious, with buttery leather seats and bottles of water in a cooler. As we navigate through early morning Manhattan traffic, I text Jack:

On my way to pick you up.

No response. Typical.

Twenty minutes later, we pull up outside Jack's Tribeca apartment building. The driver calls, and we wait. And wait. Five minutes pass, then ten.

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