Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Good luck, Little Bird, even I can’t decipher what I’m feeling.
I keep scrubbing. Ignoring her, I shove the rag against the counter so hard the muscles in my forearm strain.
My body feels like it’s been through a war zone. Everything burning.
She says my name quietly but sharply, like she’s poking the bruise. I put the rag down and then walk past her. Like I’m immune. Like the other night didn’t almost end with me kissing her senseless in the moonlight.
Because if I stop, if I look, I’ll forget what I heard.
And I can’t afford that.
I head to where I think best.
The boathouse is the only place on this estate that doesn’t try to pretend it’s something it’s not. It’s openly a piece of shit. It smells like dirt and is falling apart. But despite how gross it is, it reminds me of Victoria.
Once inside, I sit on the bench, fists tight, breathing through my teeth as the word pounds through me. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
No matter how much time has passed, no matter how many hours, it doesn’t lessen the pain.
The door creaks. I don’t turn. I don’t have to.
She walks in.
The sound of her footsteps echoes around me until she’s standing in front of me.
Now, I look up.
Her jaw is set. She doesn’t look the same today.
She looks pissed.
“Why are you avoiding me?” she snaps, storming closer, chin lifted in challenge.
“I’m working.” Except I’m not. I’m sitting empty-handed on a damn bench.
“You walked right past me.” Her voice hits me like a punch to the gut.
“Congratulations. You’re observant.”
Her eyes flash. “What the hell is your problem?” she demands, stepping closer into my space, like she wants to start a war.
“You, Little Bird,” I growl, heat rising. “You’re my problem.”
She freezes. Chest rising, falling. Eyes wide, bright, furious.
I don’t stop. Can’t.
“You walk around tossing scraps of attention like it’s a favor,” I bite out, stepping into her space. “Like I should be grateful you looked at me. Like I’m a toy you’ll outgrow the second your daddy pulls up in his private jet and whisks you back to your designer future.”
Her breath hitches. But I’m not done.
“News flash—” I move closer. Close enough to feel her inhale. “I’m not one of your manicured boys in polos. I don’t fetch. I don’t kneel. And I sure as hell don’t need a rich girl slumming it for a little summer entertainment.”
The slap comes fast. Sharp. Loud. Honest.
My head snaps to the side. The sting blooms across my cheek.
And I deserve it. All of it.
But then, before I can breathe . . .
She grabs my shirt. Fists it. Yanks me toward her with a sound that’s half sob, half fury.
And kisses me.
Hard and furious.
Desperate in the way only suppressed things can be.
It steals my breath.
My thoughts. My restraint.
And I kiss her back. I kiss her like she’s oxygen. Like I’ve been denied air for years. Like I mean to set her on fire. Because I do. Because she already lit the match.
And I’m nothing. Not to her. Not anymore.
11
Victoria
Days have passed since the kiss, and I keep waiting for something to happen. Anything.
And then it does.
The note is slipped to me.
One minute, Lorenzo is just passing by in the hall, and the next thing I know, something small and folded is tucked beneath the book I’m pretending to read on the couch.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even glance my way. He just keeps walking like he didn’t light my entire chest on fire with one motion of his hand.
I wait a beat. Two. Long enough to pretend I’m not dying to open it.
Then I slip my finger under the fold.
Meet me on the roof.
Five words.
I stare at it intently. It feels like a challenge.
I don’t even know how to get to the roof. Of course, he would choose somewhere unreachable. Somewhere forbidden.
Am I up for the challenge?
I stare at the note, heart thudding against my ribs.
Yes.
Later, I’m in my room brushing my hair and trying not to overthink my pajama choice (and doing a horrible job at that).
Because who overthinks pajamas for a rooftop rendezvous? Apparently, me. That’s who.
I’m mid–internal argument with myself when a soft scrape breaks across the floorboards. A slip of paper slides under my door.
I freeze mid-brush. Then stand from my vanity to go pick it up.
Another note.
I open it. This time, a tiny pebble falls out. Weird. I place it in my pocket and continue to read what he wrote.
Servants’ stairwell. Midnight.
My pulse jumps so fast it’s almost embarrassing. Seventeen years in this house and I’ve only used the servants’ staircase a handful of times.
Midnight.
When the time comes, I head toward the meeting spot.
The hallway is dark. Colder.
We aren’t in Kansas anymore.
I feel like I’m living a double life. Right now I’m the Victoria no one sees. Not the polished or perfect one. No, this version is rebellious. This Victoria doesn’t care if she gets caught sneaking around in the wrong part of the house.