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)
Dora's birthday party.
I’m looking forward to it as I have put a lot of effort into it, and I can only hope it goes well. The mansion feels alive around me, distant sounds of birds chirping slipping in through the window that I left cracked open.
But as I sit up and push my hair out of my face, that excitement twists into a knot of nerves in my belly. Blake. He'll be there, of course. It's his house, his staff, his family. The thought of him in the same room again, those icy-gray eyes locking onto mine again, sends a shiver down my spine.
Thank God, I haven't seen much of him since that charged moment in Freya's room, when his lips brushed my forehead, and my body betrayed me with goosebumps that felt like fire. He's been out at the office or in his study, and I’ve had the party preparations to keep me busy.
Part of me was relieved—it's easier to breathe without him close, without that magnetic pull that makes my pulse race and my thoughts scatter. But another part, the one I don't want to admit to, missed the spark, and the way he looks at me as if I'm a puzzle he's dying to solve.
What if today, in the midst of the party, he corners me?
Asks questions I can't answer?
Or worse, touches me again, and I melt right there in front of everyone?
I shake my head and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My bare feet sink into the plush Aubusson rug. No, focus on the good. The party's going to be perfect. And Emma's coming with the painting—my secret lifeline in this charade.
I hurry to the bathroom, wash my face, and stare at my reflection in the mirror for a few moments. My eyes look brighter today, maybe from the anticipation of Emma being here, but I remind myself that I have to be super careful. No one can know she is my friend.
She’s arriving as the artist delivering a commissioned piece, nothing more. I have to play it cool, discreet, like we're almost strangers. My heart flutters at the thought of seeing her familiar face again—her wild curls and easy smile a reminder of my real life back in the East Village. It'll ground me, make this feel less like I’m trapped in a dream.
I quickly slip into a simple white linen sundress that makes me feel like I’m not trying too hard. The humidity makes everything cling, so I tie my hair back in a loose ponytail and spritz on Carolyn's signature perfume, the floral notes mixing with my own warmth in a way that still feels foreign.
Downstairs, there is subtle activity going on, the clink of dishes from the kitchen, the faint vacuum hum from a distant hall. I keep my steps quick and avoid the areas where Blake might appear. I peek into the music room briefly, and my heart swells at the sight. We've prepped it quietly over the last day with stacks of uninflated balloons hidden in one of the cabinets. The chocolate fountain people will arrive later, and I’ll have to direct them.
I don't linger.
Dora's in charge of the house, and I can't risk her spotting anything suspicious. I grab a freshly baked croissant from the breakfast buffet table and a cup of black coffee while my mind races through the tightly scheduled timeline for today. Emma should be here soon.
The doorbell chimes through the house like a soft melody, and my pulse quickens. Stuffing the last bit of buttery croissant into my mouth, I force a composed expression and head out to the foyer, but Dora has beaten me to it. Her salt-and-pepper hair is pulled back as neatly as ever, and her face set in that professional mask I've come to recognize—courteous but aloof. I hang back in the doorway, watching as she opens the massive oak door, a gust of wind rushing in with the scent of cut grass and salty sea.
Emma stands on the threshold. Her wild chestnut curls are tied back under a baseball cap, and she’s wearing overalls over an open flannel shirt. She looks every bit the struggling artist. She's cradling a wrapped canvas in her hands, her green eyes wide and flicking around the grand entrance.
“Can I help you?” Dora asks politely.
"Um, painting delivery for Mrs. Carolyn Bessant," Emma says with that Brooklyn lilt I know so well.
“I can take it for her,” Dora says, reaching a hand out.
She looks at Dora expectantly. “Uh… no. I need her stamp of approval.”
“Of course. Perhaps you will be good enough to wait in the reception room while I inform her of your arrival.”
I step forward then, my heart pounding so hard I swear they can hear it, but I keep my face neutral, and a touch of snobbishness like Carolyn would.