Chapter Text
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Anilaphat Charlotte Creswick had the kind of background people in glossy magazines liked to describe as “charmed.”
Daughter of the Earl of Silverdale. Half Thai, half British. Educated, elegant, fluent in both English and Thai. Her father descended from an old English line of earls whose fortunes had long since started behaving like poorly timed stock investments, and her mother—Mom Luang Suchada Alissa Ratanapruk, better known in London society as Lady Creswick—came from Thai noble blood that still carried a faint, glittering weight in Bangkok’s social circles.
In reality, “charmed” mostly meant Anil was excellent at pretending things were fine while quietly holding the world together with caffeine and sarcasm.
At twenty-nine— almost thirty, she was an architect and urban designer who split her time between Singapore, Bangkok, and London—an orbit of airports, site visits, and half-unpacked suitcases. Her designs were sharp, practical, and slightly rebellious, much like their creator. She was polite enough to survive London dinners, Thai enough to order som tum extra spicy without blinking, and just ambitious enough to drive herself mad.
Technically, she was Lady Anilaphat Creswick, though the title only served to make hotel receptionists blink twice and ex-girlfriends joke about bowing. In modern life, nobility was just decorative—something you could neither spend nor escape.
Still, family was family. Which was why she was in London at all, having flown back for her father’s sixtieth birthday party. One night of crystal flutes, polite laughter, and strained smiles. One night of pretending that the Creswicks’ finances weren’t unraveling beneath all that gilt and champagne.
And now—
The morning after her father’s birthday party smelled like wilted roses and bad decisions. Somewhere in the kitchen of the Creswick townhouse, a champagne cork had rolled under the radiator and stayed there—like a tiny, guilty secret.
Anilaphat Creswick sat at the marble counter in her pyjamas, hair in a bun that could legally be classified as a warning sign, spooning the last of her cereal. Across from her, her parents conducted a familiar duet: he sighed about losses, she gasped about reputations.
“Darling, the point is not the money,” her mother said, one manicured hand slicing the air. “It’s how it looks. The Times already knows about the estate shares. If we don’t get ahead of this—”
Her father groaned, rubbing his temples. “Alissa, must we start the day with drama?”
“You call it drama, I call it damage control.”
Anil crunched another spoonful of cereal. “I call it breakfast entertainment.”
Her mother shot her a look — the one that used to silence her at age twelve and still, somehow, tried to work at twenty-nine. “Anil darling, this is not amusing. Your father’s name will be dragged through the mud, and mine along with it.”
Anil leaned back, chair creaking. “Or you could always stop reading the Times.”
“Don’t be glib,” Lady Creswick snapped. “The Creswicks are known for composure, not… sarcasm.”
“Clearly,” Anil muttered, staring into her empty bowl. The clink of the spoon felt louder than it should have.
Her father pushed back his chair with a weary sigh. “I’m going to the study. Call me when the storm passes.”
When the door shut behind him, her mother inhaled sharply—as if she could reorganize the entire family’s fortune through sheer willpower.
“I’ve been speaking with some of my old acquaintances in Bangkok,” she announced.
Anil didn’t look up. “Here we go again.”
Lady Creswick ignored her, smoothing the folds of her silk robe in a practiced motion. This wasn’t new; Anil had seen that look before, the quiet glint of a woman assembling a strategy. Her parents had clearly been circling this conversation over the phones or video calls for weeks—months, maybe—ever since the whispers about her father’s failed investment began. The talk of “reconnecting with old family friends” had started appearing at dinner, then resurfaced at the party last night between glasses of champagne and veiled concern.
Now it had evolved into a full plan.
“The Kasidits still hold quite a position in society in Thailand,” Lady Creswick continued, voice steady and purposeful. “Do you remember them?”
“Vaguely.”
“Well, they’ve always been gracious,” her mother said, a note of satisfaction creeping in, “and they owe our family goodwill.”
“Owe?” Anil arched a brow, lazily stirring the last of her cereal milk with her spoon. “You make it sound like we lent them money—which would be impressive, considering we don’t actually have any to spare.”
Lady Creswick gave her a look that managed to combine offense and condescension in one elegant motion. “Don’t be absurd. It’s social goodwill, Anil. Your grandfather— Lord Creswick helped their business during the oil trade years when he was stationed in Bangkok during post war. These things have long memories.”
“Mm,” Anil murmured. “So we’re cashing in a centuries-old favor? Very modern of us.”
Her mother didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she reached for her tablet, tapping briskly until an email opened—one of those polite, overly formal correspondences that smelled faintly of power and old money.
“I received a message from Khunying Punnapha Kasidit’s assistant this morning. They were most gracious. Apparently, their eldest son, Kittisak, has just returned to Bangkok to take on more family responsibilities. A brilliant young man, well-educated, well-connected—”
Anil groaned softly. “Let me guess: well single.”
Lady Creswick’s lips curved. “You’re quick, darling. They’ve suggested a friendly reintroduction when you’re next in Bangkok. A dinner, perhaps. You’re both of age now, and it’s time to rekindle—”
Anil nearly choked. “Rekindle?,” she repeated, voice flat. “You mean an arranged PR romance.”
“Don’t be vulgar. It’s simply dinner, and perhaps a few photos for the society pages. You could use the visibility, dear. An architect from a noble family—it’s a wonderful angle for your career.”
“My career’s fine,” Anil said, though her laugh was thin and tired. “It’s your reputation that seems to need an Instagram filter.”
Her mother’s lips thinned, but she didn’t answer. Instead, her mother sighed in the long-suffering way only aristocratic women and opera singers seemed to manage. “Anil, must you always be cynical? It’s an opportunity. A good match could help both families restore confidence.”
Anil blinked at her mother, incredulous. “Mother, you do realize it’s 2024, right? Not Bridgerton season three.”
Lady Creswick sniffed. “I don’t watch that sort of thing.”
“Of course you don’t,” Anil said dryly. “You’re too busy living it.”
Her mother gave her that look again—half scandalized, half exasperated—as though Anil had just used the family silver to eat instant noodles.
“I’m serious, Mum,” Anil went on. “Arranged introductions? Strategic dinners? Do we also duel for dowries afterward, or just hashtag it #DynastyGoals?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lady Creswick said crisply. “No one’s forcing you into anything. It’s simply good manners to honor the Kasidits’ hospitality. They were very kind to us once.”
“Kind,” Anil echoed. “Right. Because nothing says kindness like setting me up for networking by marriage.” She pushed her bowl aside and exhaled, somewhere between laughter and disbelief. “What’s next, a press release announcing my availability? Maybe a photoshoot with the family crest and a tragic lighting filter?”
Lady Creswick’s silence was far too measured for comfort.
“Oh my God,” Anil said, sitting up. “You already have a draft, don’t you?”
Her mother’s expression didn’t so much as flicker.
Anil groaned and pressed her palms to her face. “Fantastic. I can’t wait to explain to my colleagues in Singapore and Bangkok that I’m trending on Thai social media for being available property with dual citizenship.”
Lady Creswick, undeterred, reached for her teacup with queenly composure. “Anil, image is currency. You of all people should understand the value of design.”
“Yeah,” Anil muttered, “just not when it involves me as the floor plan.”
For a beat, the only sound in the kitchen was the faint clink of porcelain. Somewhere outside, London buses grumbled down the street, completely uninterested in the Creswick family’s descent into polite absurdity.
*****
By late morning, Anil had swapped her pyjamas for a tennis skirt and traded existential despair for mild sibling violence.
The Creswick family court — a tidy patch of Wimbledon envy behind the townhouse — gleamed in the weak London sun. Phillip Thanin Creswick, was already warming up with the enthusiasm of a man who took sports far too personally. On the sidelines, their youngest brother, Frederick Pichet, lounged in a deck chair, one hand holding a scoreboard, the other sketching in a battered notebook.
“Fifteen-love,” Fred announced lazily as Anil’s serve sliced clean past Phillip. “To the lady architect who definitely didn’t agree to be auctioned off this week.”
“Fred,” Anil said, smirking as she twirled her racket, “I told you, it’s not an auction. It’s a tasteful diplomatic catastrophe.”
Phillip missed his next return by a heroic margin. “You mean the Kasidits?” he asked, straightening his cap. “Mum mentioned them at breakfast. Said they’re quite well-connected in Thailand.”
“Mm, yes,” Anil said. “Apparently very eligible. Comes with a family fortune and a faint scent of opportunity.”
Fred shaded his eyes. “So you’re engaged now, or just emotionally colonized?”
Anil barked a laugh. “Neither, thank you. It’s just a dinner. With a stranger. Who probably thinks Forbes Asia is foreplay.”
Phillip frowned, not unkindly. “Anil, you know Mum’s just worried. She thinks reconnecting might help stabilize things. With Dad’s firm struggling and all…”
“I know,” Anil said, softer now. She bounced the ball once, twice. “But you’d think being broke would make us less concerned with royal PR, not more.”
Phillip shrugged helplessly. “She was raised in that world. Face matters more than figures to her.”
“Face doesn’t pay the mortgage,” Fred muttered.
Anil sent him a grateful grin. “Exactly. And besides, it’s 2024. People swipe right for romance now, not draft family treaties.”
Fred lifted his pen like a toast. “You deserve to love who you want, not what father wants.”
Phillip groaned. “Oh, please. Don’t start another manifesto. Last time you said that, Mum called your art ‘communist propaganda.’”
“It was conceptual,” Fred said indignantly. “And the Queen liked the post.”
Anil nearly dropped her racket laughing. For a few minutes, the court filled with the sound of bouncing balls, laughter, and the kind of sibling banter that briefly made the Creswick world feel almost normal.
But as Phillip called for another serve, she caught herself glancing east—toward some invisible horizon that stretched far beyond London. Bangkok. The name lingered like humidity in the back of her mind.
*****
The next morning, her inbox greeted her with its usual mix of project updates, client follow-ups, and one too many design newsletters—until a new subject line stood out:
Invitation: “Words that Bind Us” Charity Gala – The Kasidit Foundation for Literacy & Reading Access
Anil clicked it open, expecting some automated spam. Instead, she found a beautifully designed invitation, the kind with gold-trimmed borders and phrases like “black-tie optional” and “in support of children’s reading programs across Thailand.”
The Kasidit Foundation. That sounded… vaguely familiar. But what really caught her eye was a name buried in the CC line: Lady Pilantita Kasidit.
Anil squinted. “Lady who now?” she murmured.
She spun around in her chair and called out, “Mum! Why do I have an email from someone named Kasidit Foundation—and why is there a Lady in the CC line?”
Her mother looked up from the kitchen counter where she was trimming the ends off a bouquet of lilies. “Oh, that one. Yes, I gave them your email.”
Anil blinked. “You what?”
“They asked if I knew anyone who might like to attend,” her mother said, calm as ever. “It’s a charity event—about reading and education. I told them my daughter designs beautiful spaces for children and libraries, so of course they should invite you.”
Anil threw her hands up. “Mum, you can’t just sign me up for fancy galas like you’re RSVPing to a temple fundraiser!”
Her mother chuckled, arranging another lily. “It’s not a loss to even try, is it? You work all the time, never go anywhere that doesn’t involve blueprints or coffee.”
“Excuse you,” Anil said, pointing a finger in mock outrage. “I go plenty of places. Like… construction sites. Hardware stores. Book cafés—okay, fine, those count as coffee places, but still.”
Her mother gave her that look—the soft one that always came with a gentle jab. “When was the last time you actually went on a date, hm? Don’t think I’ve forgotten that charming Singaporean girl who used to send you those ridiculous macarons shaped like pandas.”
Anil groaned dramatically, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Oh no. Not this talk before I’ve even had breakfast.”
“I’m serious,” her mother said, smiling as she stirred her tea. “You have such a big heart, dear. Don’t let work keep all of it.” She said it with the same effortless warmth she used whenever she mentioned Anil’s exes—men or women alike. There was never judgment, never that dreadful pause people made when trying to be understanding. Just simple acceptance, as if who Anil loved had always been the least interesting part about her.
Anil sighed, defeated, slumping back in her chair. “You make it sound like I’m one birthday away from becoming a spinster.”
“Well,” her mother teased, eyes twinkling, “you said it, not me.”
That earned her a playful throw pillow lobbed across the kitchen.
Still, when Anil turned back to the screen, the cursor blinked beside that unfamiliar name—Lady Pilantita Kasidit. It shouldn’t have meant anything. Just another CC, just another event.
And yet, something about it stayed with her.
*****
Curiosity was supposed to be harmless. That’s what Anil told herself—right before her fingers betrayed her. She leaned back in her chair, opened her laptop, and typed the name that had been bothering her since breakfast.
Lady Pilantita Kasidit.
The internet answered faster than conscience could intervene.
Dozens of photos filled the screen in that too-perfect, too-polished way that only came from money and publicists. There she was: elegant, radiant, framed by chandeliers and charity banners. A walking advertisement for grace and generational wealth.
The captions read like a highlight reel of a life lived exclusively in first class:
Lady Pilantita Kasidit, eldest daughter of the Kasidit family, at the Siam Heritage Gala.
Chairwoman of the “Read for Tomorrow” Foundation, promoting literacy across rural Thailand. Graduate of Chulalongkorn University, First-Class Honours in Political Science; Master’s in Political Communication, Oxford University.
Anil’s eyebrows rose. “Of course. Oxford. Because where else would the children of Thai nobility go to master the art of sounding humble in three languages?”
She scrolled further—past the western gowns and gala dresses, into another set of images that made her pause. Pilantita in chut thai, the traditional Thai silk dress, standing in front of a temple courtyard at some royal ceremony. Gold and cream fabric wrapped neatly across her shoulder, a delicate pin catching the sunlight. She looked… not performative. Not like those half-hearted society gestures Anil was used to. But calm. Grounded. As if she wasn’t wearing the culture as costume, but as skin.
Her title flashed beneath the image:
Mom Rajawongse Pilantita Kasidit — daughter of Mom Chao Bhurinath Kasidit, descendant of the Suthipong line.
Anil blinked. “Mom Rajawongse?” she muttered. “Oh great. Actual royalty. I can’t even out-snark that.”
Another headline gushed about her:
Modern Grace: MR Pilantita Kasidit bridges heritage and progress.
Anil rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t quite suppress a reluctant, crooked smile. “She’s probably the kind of person who bows perfectly and runs a literacy program before breakfast.”
Still, she lingered on the photo—Pilantita smiling politely beside schoolchildren holding donated books, a strand of hair escaping her otherwise immaculate bun. Something about the image softened the sarcasm gathering on Anil’s tongue.
There was poise there, yes, but also warmth—an ease that didn’t look rehearsed. The kind of presence that came from someone raised in tradition but not trapped by it.
Anil leaned back in her chair and sighed. “Perfect. So she’s royal, educated, charitable, and photogenic. Mum’s going to combust when she sees this.”
She took another sip of coffee, muttering, “I can already hear the speech: ‘See, darling? The Kasidit family is so respectable—imagine being connected to them again!’”
She scrolled further, skimming another article headline.
The Kasidit Legacy: The Next Generation — Meet Kittisak and Pilantita Kasidit.
Ah, there it was—the real agenda.
A photo of the two siblings appeared side by side: Kittisak in a navy suit, perfectly groomed, flashing the easy confidence of someone who never had to second-guess a single decision in his life. Next to him stood Pilantita, elegant in an ivory gown, smile composed but not cold. Together, they looked like a pair of hand-painted porcelain figurines, the kind sold exclusively in duty-free shops for people who collected prestige.
Anil leaned closer, squinting at the brother. “So that’s the future savior of our family name. Great cheekbones, though. Probably gives TED Talks about innovation and family values.”
Her eyes flicked once more toward Pilantita, almost absently. Something about the way she held herself—quiet, deliberate, unbothered by all the attention—stood out from the manicured chaos around her.
“Pity she’s not the one Mum’s trying to auction me off to,” Anil muttered dryly, closing the laptop.
She had no idea, of course, how ironic that thought would turn out to be.
*****
Anil had barely closed her laptop when the universe—or rather, her mother—decided to appear. The late afternoon light spilled across the sitting room, gilding the porcelain teapot and the half-eaten plate of butter biscuits on the low table. Steam curled lazily from her cup, carrying the scent of jasmine and something faintly citrus.
“So,” Lady Creswick began, materializing in the doorway like a beautifully dressed omen. She held her own teacup with the kind of poise that made the simple act look like a still-life painting. “Have you replied to the invitation yet?”
Her tone was mild—too mild—which meant danger. The kind of tone that suggested she had been waiting all afternoon to bring this up, rehearsing her approach while the tea steeped.
Anil blinked up from her seat on the sofa, her shoulders still tense from hours of calls and spreadsheets. She hadn’t even taken a proper sip of her tea. “What invitation?” she asked, though she already knew. Her mother’s perfectly arched brow lifted as if to say: Don’t play dumb, darling.
Anil didn’t even look up. “You mean the one to the charity gala conveniently hosted by the Kasidits? I’m still recovering from the psychological warfare of the email header.”
Her mother tutted. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s just a charity event. And since we’ll already be in Bangkok, it would be rude not to attend.”
Anil’s spoon froze midair. “We’ll?”
“Yes, darling.” Lady Creswick crossed the kitchen with an expression that could only be described as innocent-with-agenda. “I’ve been meaning to visit my family—your Aunt Darika insists I’ve neglected her for too long. And your brother has a break from university, don’t you, Fred?”
From the corner of the breakfast nook, Fredderick looked up from his sketchpad, grinning. “Yep. five weeks off. I was thinking of going south after—Phuket, maybe Krabi—with some friends.”
Anil narrowed her eyes. “So this is a family holiday now? How convenient.”
“Coincidental,” her mother corrected smoothly. “Thailand’s always good for the spirit. Sunshine, good food, respectable company.”
“Translation: photo opportunities and arranged introductions,” Anil muttered.
“Darling, you make it sound so sordid,” Lady Creswick said, feigning offense. “We’re simply visiting family while attending a charity event to support literacy and education. You, of all people, should appreciate that.”
“I design buildings, Mum, not school curriculums.” Then Anil gave her mother a look over the rim of her teacup. “You do realize every time you say ‘darling’ like that, your Thai ancestors collectively sigh? You sound like a BBC presenter trapped in a soap opera.”
Lady Creswick sniffed, unbothered. “I’ve lived in Surrey for half my life. It’s called adaptation.”
“It’s called colonization,” Anil shot back. “You used to scold me for not saying sawadee ka properly, and now you pronounce ‘Bangkok’ like a foreigner.”
Her mother ignored the jab, smoothing the sleeve of her linen blouse.
“You could use a change of pace, sweetheart,” she said mildly. “You’ve been shuttling between Singapore and Bangkok for months. Meetings, airports, deadlines—no wonder you look exhausted. When was the last time you took a real break?”
Anil leaned back, letting out a soft laugh. “Define real break. If you mean one where I’m not answering emails in another timezone, then… sometime before the invention of Wi-Fi.”
Her mother gave her a long, meaningful look over the rim of her teacup. “Have you ever thought about settling down somewhere already? Bangkok, perhaps? It must be exhausting, living out of suitcases and airport lounges.”
Anil’s brows rose. “I’m sorry—did you just suggest Bangkok?”
There was genuine surprise in her tone. “Not London? Not ‘come home, darling, the garden misses you’ or some guilt-soaked plea about family dinners?”
Lady Creswick’s smile softened, fond and just a little wistful. “You’re more Thai than I am these days,” she said. “I see it every time you talk about your work, the way your face lights up when you mention a project in Chiang Mai or some street café in Ari. Thai blood runs thicker in you than the British half ever will. And that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Anil stared at her, caught between disbelief and something warmer. “You mean you wouldn’t mind? If I stayed there for good?”
Her mother reached for the teapot, pouring more tea with the same unhurried grace as always. “Of course not. You have our family there, roots, people who remember you beyond your job title. I’d rather see you happy in Bangkok than politely miserable in London.”
She set the pot down gently, her tone turning softer. “You grew up running around your aunt Darika’s garden, remember? You and her twins were inseparable back then—always stealing mangoes and blaming the gardener’s cat. And your uncle Prasert still asks about you every New Year; he keeps saying the family hasn’t been the same since you stopped joining Songkran.”
Anil smiled despite herself, the memories flickering to life—sticky hands, the smell of lemongrass and jasmine, the laughter that filled humid Bangkok afternoons.
“You belong there more than you think,” her mother went on, her voice warm with quiet conviction. “It’s where you spent your happiest years. And they’ve always treated you like one of their own, not just ‘the Creswick girl from London.’”
Anil laughed, shaking her head. “You’re full of surprises today, you know that?”
“I’m full of wisdom, darling,” her mother replied primly. “It just takes good tea to bring it out.”
She took a delicate sip, pinky raised just so—an image of practiced grace—before continuing in that smooth, deceptively casual tone that always spelled trouble. “And speaking of wisdom… it’s really not a loss to even try, is it? So, will you come to the charity gala with your old mother?”
Anil groaned, dropping her head back against the sofa. “Ah, there it is. I was wondering how long it would take for you to circle back to the matchmaking scheme.”
Lady Creswick merely smiled, the kind of smile that suggested she’d already won the argument. “Matchmaking scheme? Such an unromantic phrase,” she said, adjusting her pearl earring with studied innocence. “It’s simply a reconnection between two respectable families.”
Anil squinted at her over the rim of her teacup. “Reconnect, or recruit me for your social chessboard?”
Her mother ignored the jab, studying the color of her tea as if it held the secrets of diplomacy. “You may not remember Kittisak, the Kasidits’ eldest,” she said lightly. “You were children when our families last met, and he was away at school even then. But he’s quite accomplished now—runs the family’s real estate and philanthropic ventures. A very sensible young man, from what I hear.”
Anil raised a brow. “Sensible. The most romantic word in the English language.”
“Don’t be flippant,” her mother said, though her tone softened with amusement. “He’s handsome, accomplished, and—most importantly—unmarried. You’ll meet him at the gala. Who knows? You might even like him.”
Anil arched a brow. “Or I might run into him, smile politely, and escape to the bar.”
Lady Creswick set her cup down with deliberate calm. “As long as you’re smiling while you do it, darling and be open-minded, Anil. That’s all I ask.”
“Open-minded,” Anil repeated. “Sure. About dinner with strangers, humidity, and pretending I’m interested in men who wear cufflinks.”
Her mother smiled serenely, which was how Anil knew she’d already won. By the end of the day, her flight to Bangkok was booked, along with her mother and brother.
*****
The Heathrow terminal shimmered with that particular kind of morning chaos—rolling suitcases, coffee queues, and the metallic hum of flight announcements. The Creswicks, of course, managed to look like they were gliding through it all in a perfume ad. Two porters handled their luggage; a staff member from the airline was already waiting to usher them through a priority check-in lane.
Anil trailed slightly behind, phone pressed to her ear, her tone brisk and professional. “No, the zoning revision isn’t final yet—tell them I’ll review it after I land. Yes, Singapore team first, then Bangkok office.” She caught her reflection in the polished window and made a face—blazer over travel trousers, sunglasses perched like armor. The image of someone perfectly in control, if you ignored the faint stress behind her eyes.
Lady Creswick glided ahead with Fred, who was snapping photos of an art installation and muttering about how airports were “capitalism’s least creative architecture.” Their mother smiled indulgently. “He says that now,” she murmured to the attendant, “but wait until he’s flying economy next term.”
Behind them, Phillip and their father walked a few paces slower. The Earl’s expression was distracted, already half at the office; he’d been on the phone since the car ride, murmuring about investors and deadlines. Phillip, though, kept watching his sister—watching the way she laughed politely into her call and then sighed the moment she hung up.
At the check-in counter, the airline staff bowed slightly, taking their passports with a rehearsed smile. “Your seats have been upgraded to first class, Lady Creswick,” the woman said.
“Lovely,” their mother replied, her English accent soft but commanding. “We do appreciate your kindness.”
As the attendant stepped away, Phillip leaned closer to her and said quietly, “Mum, don’t push her too hard, yeah? She’s already juggling enough. If she doesn’t want any of this… maybe let her be.”
Lady Creswick turned to him, the corner of her mouth softening. “You sound just like your father used to when he was your age.”
“I mean it,” Phillip pressed, lowering his voice.
For a moment, something tender flickered across their mother’s face. She reached out and straightened his collar with a quiet sigh. “You always worry too much, darling. I’m not forcing her. I just want her to have a choice that isn’t work or exhaustion.”
Phillip gave a small, resigned smile. “You call that giving her a choice. I call it matchmaking with extra steps.”
That earned a laugh from her—a rare, honest one that echoed faintly through the terminal. “You and your sister both have far too much of my Thai stubbornness,” she said fondly. “Now, help me keep Fred from buying another duty-free fountain pen.”
Ahead of them, Anil was already boarding call in hand, the sleek figure of a woman halfway between countries and conversations—utterly unaware that Bangkok would not be the business-as-usual trip she expected.
When Anil finally ended her call, Phillip gave her a pointed look. “You’re supposed to be on holiday, you know. Try putting the office down for once.”
“Architectural crises don’t take holidays,” Anil said, slinging her phone into her bag. “They just get rescheduled across time zones.”
He smiled faintly but his eyes were warm. “Just—don’t let Mum talk you into anything you don’t want to do, okay?”
Anil arched a brow. “You mean, like getting engaged to someone I’ve never met?”
Phillip huffed a soft laugh. “Exactly that.” His voice dropped. “You’ve been the one holding everything together for us, and I hate that it’s you walking into this circus. You deserve to be happy, Anil. It’s 2024. A woman like you gets to choose her own life.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small, fond smile tugging at her lips. “You sound like Fred now.”
“Good,” he said, and pulled her into a quick, tight hug. “Then maybe you’ll listen to him.”
Fred, standing behind their mother, waved his phone in mock impatience. “Come on, guys, people are staring.”
Anil laughed as she stepped back. “Try not to let father’s firm collapse while we’re gone, brother.”
“I make no promises,” Phillip replied lightly, though the glance he shared with their father carried more weight than words.
When the goodbyes were done, Lady Creswick tucked her arm through Anil’s with a quiet, satisfied smile. “Shall we, darling? Thailand awaits.”
As they moved toward security, Anil cast one last look over her shoulder — her father’s steady nod, Phillip’s reassuring grin — before the crowd swallowed them whole.