The two of them looked at each other again.
“Good,” Daniel said. “We’ll fix the stairs eventually. It just always got pushed off.”
It was a little strange.
Don’t roam at night? Near the west wing? And the rest of the house had clearly been updated, so the fact that the basement stairs had been left out didn’t really make sense. But I wasn’t a contractor. Maybe it got overlooked. Or maybe the Winthrops didn’t feel like dealing with it. Renovations could be a nightmare: loud, messy, always more complicated than expected. Sometimes it was easier to close a door and pretend whatever was behind it didn’t exist.
“We’ll be right back,” Daniel said again as they headed off.
Their laughter echoed faintly in the distance, but the thick walls swallowed the sound almost instantly. Silence crept in quickly.
I turned and looked down the hallway. Something about Daniel’s parents’ room felt off-limits. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it felt too intimate. Too raw. But the other doors were fair game, and before I knew it, my hand was pressing down on the nearest handle.
The door creaked open to reveal a polished guest bedroom with a king-sized bed. The room had the same upscale, seacoast resort feel as Daniel’s: clean lines, subtle elegance, nothing personal.
I tried the room next to it. Similar layout, different color palette: deep crimson against soft cream, accented with brushed gold.
Two more guest rooms followed, each tastefully styled, each as impersonal as the last.
Then I opened the room directly beside ours.
This one was different.
Unlike the others, it looked like someone had actually lived in it. Not messy, not cluttered. Just touched.
The vanity on the far wall caught my eye first. It was sleek and modern. On top of it was a golden tray containing neatly arranged lipsticks and a compact powder box. It was asif someone had just used it and might walk back in at any second. The bed was made and there was something soft about the space. Warm. The artwork stood out immediately too. While the rest of the house had been decorated in muted seascapes and stiff family portraits of European-looking Winthrops, this room held bold, framed photographs.
One image showed Audrey Hepburn in black and white, holding a long cigarette, her outfit dramatic and elegant, topped with a massive hat. The others depicted other fashionable women I didn’t recognize in striking poses: in narrow alleys, Parisian rooftops, or moody cafes. Artistic, confident, artsy.
Curiosity tugging at me, I wandered a little deeper into the room. It didn’t feel like a guest room meant for people coming and going. This space felt personal. Like it had belonged to someone in the family.
“Hmm,” I mumbled. Maybe it had been a relative’s room. Possibly Daniel’s mother’s. Many wealthy couples had separate bedrooms.
Suddenly, something about standing in there felt wrong. Nosy. I slipped out and gently closed the door behind me, then headed back to our room.
The bed practically swallowed me as I sat on the edge and looked at the ocean through the tall windows.
The view was incredible.
I let the silence settle around me like a warm blanket. Hudson. Tara. This house. Daniel. The Breakers. The dogs. All of it. It felt incredible.
For a split second, I wondered if this could all be in my head. If I had finally lost it.
But logic kicked in hard and fast.
No. If I were that far gone, someone would have noticed. I’d be sitting in a psych ward, not wrapped in designer sheets looking out over the Atlantic.
This was real.
I was here. I was loved. And maybe I was finally part of something that felt like a family.
I leaned back into the white pillows and let my body sink into the softness. Whatever force had brought me here, after everything I had endured in life, it was a gift, and I would be forever grateful.
The phone on the nightstand rang.
I jumped slightly, caught off guard by the sudden sound. For a second, I hesitated. Then I reached slowly, as if picking it up might break some rich-person rule.
“Lunch is ready in the dining room,” Tara said on the other line.
