Fiancée. He has a fucking bride-to-be.
How could I have been so stupid?
The pieces slam into place with sickening clarity. The mask, the darkness—all those strange kinks were plausible deniability, so I could never be sure it was him.
Rich men don’t have relationships with the help. They just take what they want, leaving women like me with the bitter taste of feeling used.
Gil did the same thing, didn’t he? Made me feel special, wanted. But when he had to choose between his bosses and our relationship, he handed me over like a tithe. I should have seen this coming. Should have known a man like Rochester wouldn’t waste precious time on someone like me.
By the time I reach the kitchen doorway, my chest is so tight that I’m barely getting air into my lungs. I stumble inside and cling to the counter’s edge, holding tight as the room tilts sideways.
“Get a grip,” I say to myself through clenched teeth, but it’s futile.
The way he touched me last night, his masterful commands, his declaration of ownership all felt real. The praise when I submitted to him, the gentle way he caught me when my legs collapsed. All of it just another performance. Another wealthy bastard amusing himself while his real life waited in the wings.
Shit.
How the hell am I spiraling? This isn’t even new.
I stalk toward the refrigerator and fling open the door, reminding myself I have more to worry about than being used by another rich asshole. Even if he disgusts me now, I can’t gather my dignity and leave. He’s the only thing keeping the cops off myback.
Hands shaking, I take some eggs and crack them into a bowl. The yolks break and bleed into the whites like wounds seeping into snow. I whisk them harder than necessary, working out my rage on the breakfast ingredients.
Muscle memory is the only thing keeping me functioning. I make the same French omelette I prepared for this morning’s romantic breakfast, then add the same fresh herbs and sides.
When I carry the plates into the dining room, Rochester sits buried in his newspaper, and Blanche leans back in her seat, examining her manicure with bored elegance.
She glances up as I approach, her dark eyes raking over my tight uniform with obvious amusement. “Mrs. Fairfax, isn’t it?”
Clenching my teeth, I set down her plate. “It’s Annalisa Burlington.”
Her brows rise as if we weren’t just introduced half an hour ago. “Edward mentioned hiring a nanny, but I assumed you were Fairfax.”
Heat floods my face. I walk around the table and set down Rochester’s plate. He doesn’t even look up from his newspaper. He just sits there like I’m invisible, like his fingers weren’t in my pussy hours ago, like he wasn’t calling me his good girl while I came apart on his hands.
“You know, based on your bulk,” Blanche adds, her gaze following me across the dining room.
This bitch is testing my limits. Daring me to say something, to strike back. I grind my teeth, not letting this woman goad me into getting fired.
“Mrs. Fairfax is away,” I say, the words clipped. “I’m filling in.”
“Howversatile of you,” she says, her gaze flicking down to my chest.
My throat tightens. I should walk out while I still have my self-respect, let her fester with her two-timing fiancé. But as I turn to leave, Rochester clears his throat.
“Miss Burlington.” His tone is cool, distant. “Air out a guest room for Miss Ingram.”
I stiffen, my stomach tightening. Then I turn around to find Blanche glaring across the table at Rochester.
“Edward, darling, surely we were going to share.”
Rochester finally looks up from his paper, disinterested. “Not before marriage, my dear.”
Triumph flares in my chest. Without meaning to, my lips quirk into a smile. I don’t know why because he’s still a cheating bastard. Blanche leans forward and pouts, trying to capture his attention. When that fails, she reaches across the table to touch his hand.
My eyes narrow. Why is Rochester keeping his distance? Most men would be all over a woman like her, especially if they’re engaged.
She catches me looking and hisses, “What are you still doing here?”
