I pinch my lips shut and continue to watch her crash and burn.
“Tea,” Rochester says without looking up from his paper.
I walk around the table to pour, hyperaware of how close I have to stand to Rochester’s chair. His cologne fills my nostrils, different from the scent that was all over me last night. I can’t help thinking about how those same hands delicately stirring his drink circled my clit. And those cold lips touching the rim of his cup were telling me how much he loved my tits.
Blanche watches me serve with predatory interest. “How long have you been helping my fiancé?”
“About a month.”
“And what exactly are you doing for him?” Her eyes drag over my cleavage like she’s checking for bite marks.
My breath hitches. I resist the urge to raise a hand to my throat. She knows. Knows something happened between Rochester and me. Knows there’s a reason he doesn’t want her in his room. I shake off that thought and focus on her question.
“Cleaning, cooking,” I reply. “Picking up the slack for Mrs. Fairfax.”
“Are you sure that’s not all?” she snips.
I glance at Rochester again, who continues reading like he can’t hear the bitch’s insinuations. Last night, he was so attentive. Now he won’t pay me an ounce of attention.
“Will there be anything else?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“Actually, yes,” Rochester says without looking up. “See that the silver is properly polished. We’ll be entertaining guests.”
I retreat from the dining room, my veins throbbing. Through the doorway, I can hear them talking in low voices, her occasional laughter scraping against my nerves like nails on glass. Guests mean more snobs like Blanche Ingram and more chances of being recognized. And more thankless work. I need to get the hell out of here before anything else goes wrong.
That chauffeur I saw earlier has to be somewhere on the property. Maybe I can convince him to take me into town, or at least find out when he’s leaving. I continuedown the hallway, round the corner, and slip out the back door.
Fresh air hits my fevered skin, and I take a few deep breaths to calm my thoughts. Leaving the estate is for the best. I circle the mansion, finding the courtyards empty. With a sigh, I continue down the driveway toward a series of outbuildings, but there’s no sign of a car.
Days of wandering around already tell me that searching any further will be futile. The grounds stretch endlessly in all directions, with manicured gardens dissolving into wild forest, and rolling lawns that end at the cliffs. I walk toward the gates, but after nearly an hour, I find them already locked.
This estate isn’t my sanctuary. It’s turning into a trap.
Defeat weighs down my shoulders as I trudge back toward the house with a new plan. If guests are arriving soon, then I can leave in one of their cars. Yesterday’s list of tasks sits in my pocket like a blade, reminding me why I’m really here: not as a nanny, not even as a mistress. Just cheap labor.
The rest of the day crawls by like torture. I serve lunch trying not to overhear them plan their wedding. Grit my teeth while she prattles on about guest lists, flower arrangements, honeymoon destinations. Rochester’s responses are muted, noncommittal, but he doesn’t tell her to shut the hell up.
In the afternoon, I’m spying on them taking a walk through the gardens. She loops her arm through his, yapping about the upgrades she’ll make to the mansion and its grounds. When she mentions bringing in her own staff to replace Mrs. Fairfax, I know she’s really talking about me.
By evening, they move to the drawing room. I bringthem tea and find wedding magazines spread across every surface. Blanche drapes fabric samples over the furniture, holding swatches up to the light while Rochester sits in his chair looking indifferent.
“Which shades of white do you prefer?” she asks him. “I’m leaning toward ivory. It’s more classic, don’t you think?”
“Pure white,” he mutters.
She rears back. “But I’m hardly a virgin.”
I set down the tea service as he says some bullshit waiting to consummate their love. Bastard wasn’t so patient with me last night. Or the night before when he molested my feet.
By the time I trudge up the stairs to my room, every muscle aches from a day of being treated like a beast of burden. I lock the door behind me and lean against it, finally allowing my mask to slip.
It’s time to plan my next move. Vague plots to leave via the guests’ vehicles won’t cut it. I need something more concrete. But the moment I try to strategize, my mind goes blank. If my photos have circulated as far as the island, they’ll have people checking all the ports. There’s truly nowhere for me to go. I change into my nightgown and collapse onto the bed, too drained to think about tomorrow.
Sleep takes over before I can figure out what the hell I’m going to do.
Tonight, I dream about an early encounter with the cop, Callahan, when he cornered me outside my apartment, gripping my arm hard enough to leave bruises. He said my roommate had a warrant out for her arrest, and accused me of concealing her location. I really wasn’t, but he shoved his card in my face and ordered me to locateher or he’d investigate why a twenty-five-year-old with no visible means of employment could afford to live in such a fancy building.
Lots of girls have sugar daddies pay their rent. But I didn’t want the scrutiny. The last thing I needed was for him to dig up dirt on how I freed myself from being a teen bride.
