But there’s no sign of him at 7:05. At 7:15, the omelette cools, but I refuse to start without him. Eating with him yesterday meant the world to me, and last night changed it forever. He didn’t promise we’d have breakfast together every morning. But after those words he growled in my ear, I thought we would.
At 7:30, my stomach revolts. I lift the lid off the plate and finally take a bite, but the food tastes like ash. He’s not coming. Whatever I thought last night meant, I was mistaken.
Ten minutes later, as I’m finishing my cold eggs, the front door creaks open. My heart leaps, and regret settles into my gut. I should have waited.
Smoothing down my dress, I hurry out of the dining room and down the hallway toward the foyer, my pulse racing with anticipation. I don’t know what I’m expecting: an apology? A repeat of last night? At the very least, some acknowledgment that I didn’t imagine what we did in the dark.
Mr. Rochester steps inside in a charcoal three-piece suit, but he’s not alone.
A woman in a cream cashmere coat glides through the front door like she’s walking a red carpet. She’s tall and willowy, with glossy black hair pulled back in aperfect chignon and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.
She moves with an ease I’ll never possess. Polished. Controlled. Nothing like me. She surveys the foyer like she owns it, with the indifference of a lady used to entering grand mansions.
A second man limps behind her, carrying a matching set of Louis Vuitton luggage. A chauffeur’s cap sits low on his face, obscuring his features, but I’m too freaked out by this female interloper to care.
“Blanche,” Rochester says, his voice rich with affection. “Welcome to Rochester Manor.”
Blanche. Of course her name would be something so perfect.
She turns in a slow circle, taking in the grand staircase, the oil paintings, the crystal chandelier. When her gaze lands on me, hovering in the hallway like an unwanted shadow, her lips curve into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“How perfectly charming,” she says, her voice carrying the faintest hint of a British accent. “And you must be the help.”
The words hit me like a slap. Not Annalisa. Not even who are you? Just the help. Like I’m a piece of furniture.
Mr. Rochester’s eyes flick to mine. There’s no recognition. No heat. No trace of the man who held me while I shattered around his fingers. Just the cool glance of a man dealing with an employee.
“Miss Burlington, may I present Miss Ingram, my fiancée.”
EIGHTEEN
THE KEYHOLE
Spreading your legs in the shower only piqued my interest. It barely makes you safe.
You think I cared how delightful you sounded begging? It’s nothing compared to how a woman sounds when I make her choke.
I’m not testing how prettily you moan, my sweet. I’m testing how well you endure.
Crawl for me, little Annalisa.
Be useful. Learn your place.
Or you’ll end up rotting underground like the others.
NINETEEN
My fiancée.
The word slices sharper than a knife to the gut. My face freezes into a blank mask, but on the inside, I’m bleeding.
Blanche saunters over to Rochester and leans into him like she’s staking a claim. He slips an arm around her waist and pulls her into his side. The pair of them stare back at me—her smirking, him unreadable. I can’t tell if they want me to curtsey, grab her Louis Vuitton luggage, or drop dead. Instead, I gape, my breath shallow.
The silence stretches between us until Rochester finally clears his throat. “Breakfast for two, Miss Burlington.”
“Of course,” I say, my voice distant.
Before either of them can order me to take her bags, I turn toward the hallway. My legs wobble, like they’re on the verge of collapse, and the marble floor feels like a chessboard with me as the sacrificial pawn. Dead aristocrats on the walls follow my retreat, their smug faces saying I don’t belong.
