The heavy cream envelope arrived on Tuesday morning, delivered by hand when I wasn’t expecting anything at all. My name was printed elegantly on the front in silver ink: Mrs. Abigail Thorne. Inside was thick parchment paper embossed with a crest—a castle tower pierced by a crescent moon—and an invitation to Castle Montclair for a “Wellness Week of Earthly Delights.” A single line below the formal wording caught my breath:...

The Wedding The terrace was sheltered but warm, early spring light scattered between new blooms, the air heavy with the scent of blossom. She slid the hem of her dress higher, stretching her legs and allowing the warmth of the sun to reach her thighs, her head tilting in to the deep cushion of the lounger. She had bought the dress for this wedding, her friend’s daughter, a lavish event and one which she had initially resi...

I watch her. She seems nervous. But those familiar mannerisms, that head tilt, the downward look, eyes cast upwards, betray something else. She is flirting. I have seen it a thousand times. Always directed towards me. Watching it now, thrills and terrifies me. He recognises it too, leaning forward, his hand brushing her knee, a fraction below her hemline, gentle, casual, accidental? Those long legs hardly move, but it’s t...