-P
Just P. Not even the C anymore.
I sit on the edge of the bed, which is so soft I sink into it. Through the window, I can see the ocean, gray now under the cloudy sky. Waves crash against the rocks below, and I can hear them even through the glass.
My phone buzzes. Chloe.
Did you land? Are you okay? I'm literally five seconds from calling the police.
I take a photo of the view and send it to her.I'm fine. The place is... intense.
INTENSE? Where the hell are you?
Malibu. In a guest cottage that's nicer than anywhere I've ever lived.
Have you met him yet?
Dinner at 7.
It's not too late to leave. Say you're sick. Say you changed your mind. I can book you a flight home right now.
I stare at the message for a long time. She's right. I could leave. I could tell Robert I made a mistake, ask him to drive me back to the airport, be home by midnight.
I need to see this through, I type back. I need to know.
Text me after dinner. And Jade? Be careful.
I will.
I set my phone down and lie back on the bed. The ceiling is high, with exposed beams that look like they were cut from whole trees. Everything in this cottage probably costs more than everything I own (or will ever own) combined.
What kind of person lives like this? What kind of person has this much money and decides to spend it on a stranger?
I should shower. Change clothes. Try to look like I belong here, even though I don't. Even though I'll never belong in a place like this.
Instead, I close my eyes and listen to the ocean. The waves have a rhythm to them, steady and relentless. They've beencrashing against these cliffs for thousands of years and they'll keep crashing long after I'm gone.
The thought should be comforting. Instead, it makes me feel small.
I close my eyes for just a moment, but when I wake up, the light outside is gone. The clouds are even lower now, pressing down on the ocean like they might smother it.
I take a shower in a bathroom that has heated floors and a rainfall shower head and tiny bottles of expensive soap that smell like eucalyptus and mint. The water pressure is perfect. Everything here is perfect.
Getting dressed is harder. I brought my best dress, a simple black thing I bought for grad school readings, but it looks cheap in the cottage's full-length mirror. My hair won't cooperate. My makeup looks harsh under the bathroom's expensive lighting.
At six fifty-five, there's a knock on the door.
I open it to find a woman in her fifties, wearing all black with her hair pulled back in a neat bun.
"Ms. Catalano? I'm Helen. I help manage the house. Mr. Crawford is ready for you in the main house."
"Okay. Let me just grab my phone."
"Of course. Take your time."
I grab my phone and follow Helen down the stone pathway. The main house is lit up now, warm light spilling from those massive windows. As we get closer, I can see inside. A living room with furniture that looks like art. A kitchen with an island the size of my entire apartment. And in what must be the dining room, a table set for two.
Helen leads me through a side entrance, into a hallway with polished concrete floors and abstract art on the walls. We pass a home office, then a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
