Storm Reawakened

Preparations

Never in a million years, did I think I could find solace of routine in another world—muscle memory flexing as I give specific orders and directions to the Hawthorne staff to prepare for a wedding ceremony that neither Eli Hawthorne or I want.

But the show must go on.

Huffing, I haul another tall vase to set it deliberately where I want so that the fresh flowers can be placed the day of the wedding—if I act like the wedding isn't mine like this other worldly life, then I can do this. I can chew my nails through this with anxiety popping in once every now and then. Heavily relying on denial.

"Madam! Please!" cried Hamish, pebbled sweat on his brow as he watches me—appalled and amused.

I didn't think anything could surprise him, but he's had the shock of his life along with the rest of the staff after I came clamouring downstairs, wearing one of Eli's shirts—all of Evara's having too many ruffles or lace for practical work—and tucking it into riding pants and boots I found in my own designated closet (a major perk of being a Duchess is having a closet the size of a small boutique!) and started moving things about, personally check-listing items and organizing guest arrangements.

The servants whisper their mortification and shock—none of them expecting Evara Storm to lift a delicate finger but seeing me grunt, sweat, and pour my undivided attention over preparations has made them respect their mistress. No longer a formality but genuine regard—and after five days of this, they've gotten used to me scribbling things down and making tweaks, even seeking my guidance on certain points.

Silently, I extend a hand out for Hamish to pass over a leather folder with notes as I struggle with aligning the vase. "Here."

Uh. That's not Hamish.

Turning, I squint under the blinding sun and gesture for Hawthorne to move two steps to the left. "Thank you," I replied, sending a glaring frown at Hamish who comically recedes into the bushes of the Hawthorne garden.

"You've been awfully occupied," he remarked.

"Thank you so kindly, Duke of Obviousness. You should know, it takes a small army of people to plan a wedding."

I'm a specimen in a lab jar being scrutinized under his gaze—skeptical interest and hypotheses forming. "But you've never been one to enlist in said army."

"Anything else you'd like to critically examine, Duke?" I asked instead, refusing to admit my true occupation in life.

"We could discuss my shirts going missing, but I think I might prefer this somehow." His eyes make a quick sweep of my frame with an appreciative gleam.

Hello? Did the man just compliment me? His oversized shirt billowing while my hair is a tumbling mess in a bun—he chooses to acknowledge this version?

"I'll return them," I mumbled. The ridiculousness of him missing a few shirts while he stands immaculate from head to toe is beyond me.

"I'd also like to discuss the fact that my wife hasn't been coming to bed."

Heat tinges my cheeks and I spy a passing maid stifle a knowing smile. She's clearly got the wrong idea, but the way Eli Hawthorne phrases it, is like an open invitation to misconstrue.

"I've evidently been engaged in matters elsewhere, Duke. And for your information, since I'm still in the process of regaining my memories, I've made it imperative to visit the library every night to study."

"Study?" he questioned disbelievingly.

"Yes. And between that and overseeing an entire wedding, I've taken the liberty to sleep there."