But around four p.m., my eyes drift to the screens again.
Vera is walking slowly down the hall. She’s changed clothes, now wearing a different sweater, this one a soft blue-gray that makes her skin look even paler. Her hair is down now, falling in loose waves past her shoulders, and her eyes are swollen and red-rimmed.
She reaches the library door and disappears inside.
I switch to the monitor in the library. She appears in frame, moving to the window seat. She hunches in there, drawing her knees to her chest, staring out at the grounds, just sitting there, completely still except for the occasional tremor that runs through her body.
She looks so small. So alone. So utterly beaten.
And something in me cracks.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m standing and grabbing my jacket. I tell my startled assistant to cancel my evening appointments, and then I’m in my car, pulling out of the garage and heading toward the estate.
I tell myself that I need to check on my investment and make sure she’s not planning anything. I need to see what’s wrong with her so I can determine whether it’s a threat.
But the truth is that I can’t stand watching her suffer anymore. Not like this. Not when it makes my chest feel like it’s being crushed in a vise.
The house is quiet when I arrive.
It’s just past five p.m., too early for dinner service, but too late for the afternoon routine. My footsteps echo on the marble floors as I move through the foyer, past the sitting rooms, and upstairs toward the library.
I pause outside the door, listening. Nothing. No sound at all. For a moment, I wonder if she’s left, if I somehow missed her on the monitors during the drive home. But no—where would she go? She has no phone, no car, no way out past the gates and guards.
I open the door.
She’s still huddled in the window seat, exactly as she was on the monitor. The late afternoon sun streams through the glass behind her, turning her hair into burnished copper andgold. The light is harsh and unforgiving, showing every detail I couldn’t see on the security footage.
Dark circles under her eyes, skin so pale it’s almost translucent. A hollowness to her cheeks that wasn’t there at the wedding. Her eyes are red and swollen from crying, her lips slightly chapped. She’s wearing that blue-gray sweater with dark jeans, and the clothes hang looser than they did a few days ago. She’s lost weight.
She looks fragile. Breakable. Like a strong wind could shatter her into pieces.
And beautiful. Even like this she’s stunning.
I shove that thought away violently.
She startles when she sees me, her eyes going wide. The book in her lap nearly falls to the floor. She catches it at the last second, her movements jerky and uncoordinated.
“I—I didn’t expect you,” she stammers, sitting up straighter, clearly trying to compose herself. “Mrs. Kozlov said you wouldn’t be home until late. I can leave if you?—”
“It’s my house,” I cut her off, my voice coming out harsher than I intended. “I don’t need to announce myself. And I certainly don’t need permission to enter any room in my own home.”
She flinches—actuallyflinches, like my words physically hurt her. Her hand tightens on the book, knuckles going white. “Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean?—”
She stops herself, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. A small red dot appears on her lower lip, and I watch her tongue dart out to taste it. She winces.
I should turn around and walk out before this gets more complicated than it already is. But instead, I find myself moving further into the room, closing the door behind me with a soft click that makes her tense.
I study her.Reallylook at her, not through a security monitor but in person, with the afternoon light showing me everything. From the way she’s positioned in the chair, she’s trying to make herself smaller. The tremor in her hands that she’s trying to hide. The way she keeps swallowing, like she’s fighting nausea.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask bluntly.
She blinks. “What?”
“You’re sick,” I state. “Every morning for the past three days, you’ve run to the bathroom. You barely eat. You look like death warmed over. So what’s wrong with you?”
I watch the blood drain from her face, her brown eyes going wide with what looks like panic. She clutches the book even tighter.
“I-I’m not sick,” she says, but her voice quavers. “I’m just—it’s just adjustment. To everything. New place, new... situation. Stress. Homesickness.” She forces a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m fine. Really.”
