Marcus’s phone buzzed. He checked the screen, then gave her a look that brushed just shy of apologetic. “I need to take this.”
“Of course.” She waved a hand like she wasn’t dying to know if it was his girlfriend. And if it was, what would she say about him living with another woman? Or about whatever it was he was hiding?
He gave a crooked smile. “Salty dreams, Francesca.”
Then he was gone. Door shut. Secret intact.
“Salty dreams? What does that even mean?” she muttered, scanning the room. Everything whispered old money left out in the rain. Dusty velvet drapes, an armoire with more attitude than function, and a bed big enough to host a summit.
She stood there…silk dress, heels, thermal monstrosity in hand…feeling like a woman trapped in the wrong life.
She didn’t belong here. Not in this manor, not in this town, not in whatever rerouted version of her life this was supposed to be.
And it was all Mr. Uptight’s fault.
When she got her revenge on that man, it would light up the night.
Restless, she slipped into the hall in search of wine. At the bottom of the stairs, she spotted a faint glow beneath a door.
Marcus’s voice filtered through, low and tired.
“It was their idea. And honestly, if one of us ends up making this our forever home, then the investment will have been worth it.”
Another voice: “Not it.”
Different one: “I’ve got another year on my contract. I’m out.”
Frankie froze. What was this? A secret brotherhood? A reality show?
“It might be Mom’s final wish,” Marcus said. “Does that not carry any weight with the rest of you?”
“I’m not saying we don’t care,” someone replied. “I’m saying we need time. It would be a big ask.”
Then Marcus again: “Look, I just need permission to pull funds for the internet upgrade. Once the renovations start, I’ll need connectivity to keep the crew running.”
A chorus of unenthusiastic approvals followed.
Frankie shifted, and the floorboard beneath her creaked like a traitor.
She held her breath.
“Francesca? Is that you?”
Crap.
She bolted, racing back to the bedroom and diving under the covers.
Footsteps followed. Stopped outside the door.
“Either I heard you,” Marcus murmured, “or the manor really is haunted.”
Silence.
He waited a beat. “Remember what I said about secrets. I’ll keep yours. You keep mine.”
Then came the quiet retreat of his steps.
Frankie let out a slow breath and stared up at the ceiling.
