The next few days crawl by without answers. Rochester becomes a ghost, appearing only for meals with Blanche glued to his side. She clings to his arm during their morning walks. Drags him to the drawing room to plan wedding details. Monopolizes every second of his time like she’s afraid he might stray.
I get no midnight visits. No stolen glances. No opportunities to ask the questions burning holes in my brain.
On Tuesday morning, I dust the same bookshelf three times, hoping he’ll come to the study. Nothing. Wednesday, I linger in the hallway outside his bedroom, pretending to polish brass fixtures. He emerges with Blanche chattering about flower arrangements.
Thursday morning finds me mopping the same stretch of floor twice, waiting for a chance to corner him alone. But Blanche’s laughter echoes from the drawing room where they’re reviewing guest lists for their engagement party.
Suspicions pile up in my head like a stack of unpaid bills. Does he plan to divorce Blanche after the wedding? Get her money some other way? Or is he planning on keeping me as a side piece while he lives happily ever after with his rich wife?
My gut says he’s too smart to risk everything for me. But my gut’s been wrong before.
By Thursday afternoon, I’m ready to scream. But the rumble of car engines saves my sanity. I drop the egg basket and rush through the grounds, only to find the same black limousine that brought me here, followed by a red sports car and a silver SUV.
Blanche’s voice carries across the courtyard as she greets her friends.
“Even more rich assholes,” I mutter.
My stomach clenches as the strangers pile out of their cars. New faces. People who might recognize me from news reports or wanted posters. But I force myself to breathe. Gil’s boss wouldn’t report me to the police. That would be incriminating himself.
Still, my eyes linger on that red sports car. A few days ago, when Blanche showed up, I was planning to steal one of these vehicles if things got too bad. Now I’m conflicted as hell. This estate is still the perfect hiding place, but what’s Rochester’s plan to get around that prenup? How can we be together if fucking me costs him everything?
Indecision has me rooted to the spot.
“Blanche,” cries a woman with pink hair. She’s accompanied by a man in a leather coat who’s carrying a camera with interchangeable lenses. “Your new mansion is amazing.”
I retreat around the corner, not wanting to get captured by the equipment. Four others pile out of the SUV, each holding up their phones, capturing every angle of the house’s gothic facade. I can’t blame them. Rochester Manor is stunning.
The pink-haired woman is a cooking influencer with a following of three hundred thousand, but she acts like it’s three million. She brings a dozen containers of frozen appetizers and barks orders about presentation.
I spend the rest of the day shuttling between kitchen and drawing room, heating pigs in blankets, arranging spinach puffs on silver platters, garnishing sliders while she snaps photos for her social media. Every time I think I’m done, she demands more: different plates, betterangles, hotter food. I’m sweating through my uniform, racing back and forth with trays, losing hope of any chance to catch Rochester alone.
By evening, they’re on the second crate of wine and have filled the air with the potent stench of weed.
Candles dominate the table, burning bright. My chest tightens as I count the mess I’ll be cleaning tomorrow: wine rings on the mahogany, melted wax I’ll have to scrape off with my fingernails. Not to mention the pastries ground into the rugs.
The man in the leather coat beckons me forward with an impatient wave. I swallow back a surge of fury, keep my head down, and carry in yet another tray of drinks.
“Poor thing’s been running around like a pig in a blanket all day,” one of the women says with mock sympathy.
“Still think Edward is fucking her on the side?” another man adds with a chuckle.
Laughter slashes through the room like a whip. My face burns. I keep my eyes down so they don’t see me crack. After a deep breath, I glance at Rochester, searching his face for any reaction, but he sips his drink like I’m invisible.
“Burlington, you’re dripping sweat all over the crystal,” Blanche snaps. “Clean yourself up before you serve another drink.”
Their chuckles grate on my nerves. I watch Rochester’s expression, waiting for him to twitch, react, show some sign he gives a damn. Is this part of his plan? Does he need them to see me as harmless help?
His face remains blank. Unreadable.
My hackles rise. My skin prickles with irritation. Fuck this. I’m done being their entertainment.
I set down the empty tray and walk toward the door, my spine straight and my jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
“Mrs. Fairfax!” Blanche’s voice cuts through the laughter like a whip. “We need champagne. Now.”
I stop at the doorway, my hand on the frame. Every instinct screams at me to snap back. Or at least keep walking, but I can’t afford to get fired. Not yet.
So, I turn back, grab a champagne bottle from the side table, and return to their circle of cruelty. Hand trembling, I pour into Blanche’s flute. The golden liquid rises higher and higher.
