The door swings shut behind her with a soft click.
And just like that, she’s in my house.
Standing in my foyer.
Looking around with wide eyes like she just fell through a portal into another life.
She turns in a slow circle, taking it all in—the curved staircase, the marble floors, the infinity pool glinting beyond the windows, the way late-afternoon light spills across the piano in the sunken living room.
“Do I need a map? A passport?”
“You’ll get used to it.” I start walking, motioning for her to follow. “Come on. Tour time.”
She trails behind me like she’s not sure she belongs here.
“Living room,” I say, gesturing with a dramatic sweep as we pass the sunken space with floor-to-ceiling windows, a plush leather sectional, and the baby grand. “Nobody really sits here. I’m usually outside, in the kitchen, or the studio. But it’s great for movie nights.”
Her gaze lingers on the piano. “Do you actually play?”
I glance back at her. “Well enough to make a room full of hipsters cry.”
Her mouth twitches, but she manages to hold it together.
Next stop: the kitchen.
“I like to cook. But my housekeeper does some meal prep too, so there’s always something edible in the fridge.”
“That must be… handy,” she says—and I’m pretty sure she gulps.
We pass the pool next—expansive, infinity-edged, glowing pale blue even in daylight, with a stone waterfall spilling in a soft, steady ribbon at one end. Beyond that, the pool house-slash-recording studio gleams like a minimalist spaceship.
“Studio’s soundproof,” I say casually. “So you should be good, even if I stay there late into the night. That sometimes happens when I’m on a roll.”
“Okay.”
We turn the corner and nearly run into Margot, my housekeeper.
She’s in sleek black, AirPods in, tablet tucked under one arm like she’s heading into a mission briefing. She’s French, one of the kindest souls on earth—but composed in that way that makes entire rooms behave.
“Margot,” I say, already easing a smile. “This is Olive. As I mentioned, she’ll be staying with me from now on.”
Margot’s glance is quick and kind, more welcome than inspection. “Olive,” she says, with a small nod that somehow feels like a curtsey. “Bienvenue. I hope your room is to your liking. Fresh linens are in the top drawer. The laundry schedule lives in the household binder.”
Olive blinks. “There’s a binder?”
Margot’s mouth tilts. “There are tabs,” she says, dry as good tea. “If you prefer chaos, we can negotiate.” She shifts the tablet to her other arm. “Shall I put the kettle on?”
“Yes, please,” I say, grateful for the way she makes everything sound simple.
“Very good.” She gives Olive another small, approving nod. “If you need anything, call my name. I appear.” Then she glides down the hall, already half-listening to something only she can hear.
Olive turns to me slowly. “What did you even tell her? Does she know about us? Is she aware that you’re, you know—?” She doesn’t finish the sentence, and I have no idea what she means.
“I told her you’re the love of my life, that I couldn’t wait any longer, and I asked you to marry me.”
“But what about the separate bedrooms? Doesn’t she think that’s… weird?” She frowns, clearly puzzling it over.
“What you should know about Margot,” I say, guiding her down another hallway, “is that she doesn’t ask questions. She’s very discreet. She was housekeeper to the British Prime Minister once.”
