Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Just as I head up, nearly at the landing, the housekeeper appears at the base of the stairs, her steps measured and silent, like she's part of the house itself. She looks up at me with her expression as cold as ever, and says flatly, "You left your sandwich behind, Madam. Did you change your mind? Would you like a green smoothie, after all?"
I pause, hand gripping the banister tighter, my breath coming short. The thought of eating downstairs, exposed to all these people who seem to hate me, twists my gut. No, I need walls, privacy.
"No, I haven’t changed my mind. Bring it up to my room, please," I say, my voice steadier than I feel, though it wavers just a touch on the word please.
Surprise flickers in her eyes—quick, like a shadow—but she doesn't say a word, just nods once and turns away. She disappears down the hall in the general direction of the kitchen.
I head back to my bedroom for the next three months, my sanctuary for now. Pushing the door open with a soft click, I sit on the bed and stare out of the window. What have I let myself in for? What a state Carolyn's life is in—cold stares from staff, a child who runs away from her because she has broken the promise of keeping a secret, a mother-in-law spitting disgust, a secret lover groping her in the conservatory. And Blake... God, Blake.
I have to negotiate this tangle for three months, weave through the lies without tripping, my every move watched, judged. It's exhausting already, like a weight pressing on my chest, making my breath shallow.
A few minutes later, there is a soft knock on the door, and the housekeeper comes in with a silver tray. She sets the sandwich and a tall glass filled with a bright green liquid on the coffee table and leaves, the door shutting behind her with a disapproving finality.
Immediately, I shrug off my jacket—the light wool one Carolyn had delivered, soft as butter but too warm in this humid air—toss it over the chaise, and dig into the sandwich. The bread is fresh, toasted golden, the bacon crispy and salty, melting on my tongue with that first bite, cheese oozing warm and gooey—cheddar, sharp and real, not the low-fat crap I've been forcing down. I've been starving for a taste of carbohydrates and fat. Those endless salads have literally left me feeling hollow. Now, I take big, satisfying mouthfuls, the flavors exploding, savory and comforting, juices drip down my chin. I wipe them with the crisp, folded linen napkin.
As I eat, my mind wanders over the events of the day. Other than the gardener's hot and unwanted hands, the welcome I’ve received has been unrelentingly cold. The worst of it all was meeting Blake’s flinty eyes. Unfortunately, I find myself inconveniently and terribly attracted to him.
Heat blooms in my belly just thinking about him.
He's more stunning in person than I had realized—those photos didn't capture the way his dark hair falls just so, or the cut of his jaw, sharp as a blade. He was dressed in a simple butter-yellow polo shirt, but he looked like he had stepped out of one of Ralph Lauren’s ads.
The way he lounged in his study with that massive desk and leather chair, smelling of money and power. I cannot believe he's real, that Carolyn would choose to have sex with the gardener boy over a man like him. God, that intensity in his eyes when he looked up, frowning, as if he saw me, really saw me. The thought makes my cheeks flush, and a sensual ache builds despite myself. My free hand presses into my thigh as I take another bite.
I stop eating. I can't process this mess alone. I shouldn't let it swirl in my head without an outlet. I need Emma to ground me. I set the half-eaten sandwich down, wipe my hands, and pull out the secret phone Carolyn gave me—a burner tucked in my purse, untraceable. I dial her number, and her ringtone starts buzzing in the quiet room.
When Emma picks up, her voice is bright and familiar, and it is like a rope thrown to a dying man. Everything will be alright.
"Jules? You okay?" she asks.
"Hey, Em," and the details spill out, about all the things that have happened so far—the unfriendly housekeeper, Freya's vase drama, the gardener's kiss that left me cold, Frances's acidic revulsion. "Everyone in this household hates me, Em,” I wail. “Like, visceral hate."
"Not you, but the real Carolyn," she corrects and laughs softly. "Damn…This is wild, Jules. Stick with it and see it all as a great adventure. You could anonymously write a book about it when it is all over, and it could be a bestseller… I notice you haven’t talked about the husband. Spill on Blake. What's he like up close?"