"You finally found mine. It's a good paycheck, Brooks. And unlike you, I know when to cash out."
"You're lying," he says. He steps closer, his eyes searching mine, desperate. "I know you. I know you're lying. What happened at the main house?"
"Nothing," I lie. "I just... I woke up. I realized I don't belong here. I don't want to be a Taylor. I don't want the pressure. I want my life back."
I turn away from him and march to the closet. I yank the door open.
Hanging there are the two outfits for the rest of the weekend.
I grab them, hangers and all. I walk over to the sofa where my open suitcase is sitting and toss them inside. I don't fold them. I don't care. I need to be gone.
I zip the suitcase shut with a harsh rasping sound.
"I'm leaving, Brooks," I say, grabbing the handle. "The waiver is signed. You'll get what you need on Monday."
I look at him one last time. He looks stunned, like he's in physical pain.
"Just tell them... tell them I got cold feet," I say, my voice steady. "It plays better for sympathy."
I echo his own words back to him. I see them land like daggers.
He flinches. He looks at me, and the light in his eyes goes out. The vulnerability he showed me ten minutes ago vanishes. The walls slam back up, instant and impenetrable.
"Fine," he says. His voice is ice. "If that's what you want. Take the money."
"I will."
I reach for my left hand. My fingers are trembling as I twist the diamond ring, the heirloom, the symbol of the lie, off my finger.
It feels like tearing off a limb.
I walk over to the table and set the ring down. The diamond sparkles under the kitchen light, cold and hard.
"You'll need this for the next one."
Brooks stares at the ring. His jaw tightens, a muscle feathering in his cheek.
"I need a ride. Please call the driver."
He stares at me for a long, agonizing second. Then he turns his back on me and picks up the landline on the side table.
"Have the car brought around to the guest cottage," he says into the receiver. His voice is devoid of emotion. "Miss Sullivan is leaving. Take her home."
He hangs up.
"He's on his way."
"Thank you," I say stiffly.
I don't wait inside with him. I can't stand the silence. I drag my suitcase out to the patio and stand on the gravel, staring into the dark garden, waiting for the headlights to sweep across the lawn.
Two minutes later, a black town car pulls up. The driver gets out to take my bag.
I get into the back seat. I don't look at the cottage. I don't look at the window to see if he's watching.
The car pulls away, crunching down the driveway, past the rose bushes, past the main house where Penelope is likely watching from an upstairs window, victory in hand.
We pass through the iron gates of Eastmoor.
