Page 77 of Neighbor from Hell
The air smells of bergamot and vanilla, all of which should have been immensely relaxing. Instead, I find myself clutching my teacup like it is a lifeline. The tea’s warmth seeps into my cold, nervous fingers. My eyes dart around, taking in the floral curtains, the ticking grandfather clock, because I’m sittingacross from Hugh’s mother, and the weight of that reality is a knot in my chest, tightening with every breath.
I’m awed and jumpy despite how much I am trying not to be. I try to smile, but it feels shaky. Especially because she’s watching me, her gray eyes, so like Hugh’s, studying me with a quiet intensity, as if she’s peeling back my layers, seeing the mess of doubt and pain I’m trying to hide.
She’s striking, her silver hair swept into an elegant chignon, a brightly colored silk scarf draped just so around her neck, but it’s her face, the high cheekbones, the strong curve of her lips that startle me, because Hugh has them too. Now I see where his beauty comes from.
She lifts her teacup, her movements graceful, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile, and suddenly, I feel overwhelmed. Like a rabbit in front of a cobra. Unequal and incompatible. I can’t deal with people like her and her son. They are a different breed. I understand people like Annabel. They are my kind of people. I set my cup down, the saucer clinking.
“It’s been a real pleasure meeting you, Lady Montrose,” I say, my voice thin, unsteady. “But I should get back. I left… something on the stove at Annabel’s, and I don’t want it to ruin.”
It’s a feeble lie, and I know she sees through it, but I need to escape. I need air.
She lowers her cup, her eyes never leaving mine, and says, “Can I ask you something, Lauren? Will you be honest with me?” Her voice is calm, but there’s a challenge in her eyes.
“Okay, sure,” I say, my throat dry, because I don’t know what’s coming. At the same time, I can’t look away from her either, can’t break the hold of her gaze.
“How do you feel about my son?” she asks.
Her words are very direct and piercing just like Hugh’s, and it makes me flinch.
“I… I don’t want to talk about my feelings for him to anyone, not even you,” I stammer out a response. “I’m sorry if I come off as rude, but you’re a stranger to me. Please try to understand.”
She leans forward, her smile softening, but her eyes are sharp, unrelenting. “You don’t know me, but I thought you knew my son. After all the time you spent with him, it’d be disappointing if you didn’t.” She pauses, her voice lowering, each word deliberate. “I thought you’d know he wouldn’t hurt himself to acquire a property. If he wanted to, he’d do it without feeling a thing.”
Her words hit like a slap, and I bristle, my anger flaring, my voice sharp. “Isn’t that what he did? He’s a shrewd businessman. If he can get two for the price of one, why wouldn’t he? He got me, and he’s about to get my property too.”
She takes a deep breath. “You need to see past your anger, Lauren. I’m not telling you to believe him, but if you can look beyond it, ask yourself—do you really think he’d do something like this? Tarnish his unblemished reputation forever for a piece of land? You’re talking about a criminal offence. You could have died in there, and that would be murder? And if you were just a means to an end, why would he risk his own life to save you, hmmm? And while you’re at it, don’t skip the part where he’s hurting deeply too.”
She pauses to let her words sink in.
“Open your eyes, Lauren. Judge fairly. Don’t let others’ rumors and unfounded accusations cloud your judgment. I want a woman for my son who has her own mind, who investigates, who sees the truth, not just what’s whispered or what she has been told. It is not only my son who wants your property.”
Her voice is earnest, almost pleading, and she leans back, her hands folding in her lap.
“There, I’ve said what I wanted to. Now, if you both can’t get past this misunderstanding, then you are not the womanfor him, and he is not the man for you. I want Hugh to have someone who sees him clearly, who understands him for who he is. I hope you’re that person, because in all the years I’ve known my son, he’s never risked as much for a woman as he has for you. I’ve never seen him affected like this.”
The teahouse’s chatter fades to a hum as I process her words. I’m speechless, my throat tight, my mind filled with Hugh’s face—his hurt and shock when I accused him. My anger folds, and the old doubts creep in, stronger now than ever before. She has answered all the arguments I've presented to myself, and she is right—he ran into the fire, risked everything. Instead of being eternally grateful, I’ve pushed that important clue aside. Instead of trusting my own instincts, I’ve let Cecilia’s venom and the ex-girlfriend’s warnings shape him into a villain. My hands tremble as I process it all.
Lady Montrose signals the waitress, her movements graceful and elegant, and I watch wordlessly as she pays for the tea. I feel like a child next to her.
She stands, her coat rustling, and looks at me, her smile warm. “You’re incredibly beautiful, Lauren. I can see why he’s smitten. But I hope there’s more to you. I hope I see you again, but if not, I wish you a good life.”
“Thank you,” I reply, and she gives me a nod before taking her leave.
Afterwards, I cannot bring myself to move from my seat just yet. I sit there like a statue. The teahouse’s warmth has become suffocating.
Open your eyes, judge fairly.
I’m forced to think, to put my assumptions aside and question Hugh's motives in light of Cecilia’s and her so-called developers. What if she’s been playing me from the start, not working for the developers, but angling for a commission, a benefit? This I realize now sounds more plausible than myaccusation that Hugh was the one behind the fire. Cecilia would have much more to gain. And so what if it was her intention from the very beginning to paint Hugh black so that she could push me into her trap?
Annabel’s first words about him were glowing, full of admiration. When I think about it now… the ex-girlfriend’s bitterness at the club. ‘He will discard you like a used tissue’feels personal, salty, certainly not proof of arson or a selfish psychopath. So why did I so easily believe Cecilia's assessment without using my own experience with him?
Because I was terrified of my own emotions.
Dread grips me suddenly. If Hugh didn’t do it, if he’s not cold, not dangerous, then I’ve hurt him immeasurably. The very thought horrifies and pains me because if he is truly innocent, then I have hurt the one person in the world that I shouldn’t have. The one person who did more for me than anyone other than my mother.
I have to find out the truth because this guilt I cannot bear. This isn’t about feelings, not anymore. It’s about the truth, cold and hard, because I can’t be ungrateful, can’t wound someone who not only didn’t hurt me, but helped me immeasurably and even saved my life.
I make my decision.
