Edward Cavendish is the embodiment of British elite—composed, controlled, and permanently unimpressed. Born into old money and even older expectations, he carries the weight of generations of stiff-upper-lip tradition and emotional repression. A world-renowned surgeon. A ruthless perfectionist. A man who does not tolerate chaos.

Which is unfortunate. Because I am chaos.

He grew up in a sprawling 120-room manor with chandeliers in every hallway and bidets in every bathroom. I grew up in the staff quarters, peeking through the hedges at his world.

He has every reason to frown disapprovingly at me. And trust me—he does. A lot. I’m his little sister’s best friend—the bad influence. I had a disastrous fling with his younger brother. His ice-queen mother loathes me. My mum scrubs her floors. I sell gardening tools on a late-night shopping channel… in a pleated miniskirt, no less. We’re opposites in every way that matters. He’s Savile Row; I’m thrift-store chic. He’s vintage champagne; I’m corner-shop wine in a can. And honestly? I’m not even mad about it. And now, thanks to an unfortunate turn of events, the most intimidating man in Britain has caught me in his bed. Uninvited.

In a situation that’s… let’s call it compromising. This isn’t just a disaster. This is the disaster.