I hesitate, the cord twisting in my fingers. It would be so much easier to have it here, away from prying eyes, but that would just be cowardly. I need to start earning my keep.
"I'll come down, thank you," I murmur.
Hanging up, I rise and, smoothing my dress, steel myself for whatever comes next.
Chapter Eight
JULIET
Ihead down the stairs, my stomach is growling like it's got a mind of its own, starved after all that dieting crap. The bacon sandwich is calling me to it like a siren, salty and forbidden. Carolyn's video walk through showed the kitchen is off the main hall, but this place is a maze, every turn revealing more polished perfection. I wander through the foyer again, my flats echoing in the stillness and silence.
Beyond the regal dining room—God, it's stunning, with a long mahogany table that could seat twenty, and walls paneled in wood. I keep walking until I spot glass doors leading to what must be the conservatory. It is empty, and I pop in there, craving some moments of peace to recollect my senses, to breathe without the weight of eyes on me. My heart is still troubled by Freya's accusation, that little girl's hurt lingering like a bruise I didn't earn.
It's such a beautiful space, like stepping into a sun-drenched dream—the glass walls and ceiling arch high, letting in floods of late-afternoon sunlight that warms my skin and turns the air golden and hazy. Potted palms and ferns crowd the edges,their fronds rustling softly in the breeze from an open vent, and wicker chairs with plump cushions invite me to sink in and forget the world. There is an informal dining table, and my sandwich, covered by a glass dome, is sitting on it.
The views of the estate are breathtaking: beyond the French doors, the gardens stretch out in manicured waves, boxwood hedges clipped into perfect geometries, rose bushes heavy with late-blooming petals in shades of crimson and blush, the lawn sloping down to the shimmering blue of Long Island Sound, where sailboats bob like toys on the horizon. The sandwich is waiting for me, but I lean against a glass pane, cool against my palm, and close my eyes for a second, trying to ground myself in this borrowed paradise.
I'm enjoying it, really letting the peace seep in, when suddenly I feel a presence—someone is behind me, the air shifting, an unsubtle gaze that makes all my senses tense, my skin prickling like electricity's dancing over it. My pulse quickens; oh God, is it the husband, Blake? The thought sends a forbidden thrill through me, heat pooling low despite myself, but when I turn around, it's not him. A muscular young guy, every inch tanned and rugged, has stepped in through the French doors from the garden. His work shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, and dirt-streaked jeans hug his strong thighs; the scent of earth and sweat rolls off him.
His eyes rake over me, openly bold and appreciative. "Wow! I like the new you. You look fantastic," he says, voice low and rough as gravel. "I sure can see the differences." The way his dark eyes linger on my chest, the desire plain, hungry and unapologetic, and completely inappropriate.
Unless…
Oh God! Looks like there's a twist to Carolyn’s story. A little detail she didn't tell me—a secret affair, a loose end she forgot to tie up? I turn away, my cheeks flushing hot, trying to put spacebetween us without words as I try to think what I should do with this new development.
But turning away from him doesn’t put him off. To my shock, he heads in closer, his boots thudding softly on the tiles, and slides his big arms around me from behind. His actions speak of familiarity, like he's done this a hundred times.
"You never called," he murmurs, nuzzling my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
I'm frozen, too stunned to move away, my body is rigid as stone, my mind screaming what the hell while my skin fills with goosebumps. Until he begins to kiss my neck, lips rough and insistent, trailing down to my collarbone. That’s when the alarm blasts through me. I pull away from him, twisting out of his grasp with a gasp, my heart slamming against my ribs.
I stumble back a step and stare at him. It makes sense then, hitting me like a cold wave: Carolyn's having an affair with one of the gardeners. This guy's her lover, tangled in her web, and now I'm caught in it too.
"What's the matter?" he asks, confused, his brows knitting, and his hands still outstretched like he can't believe I've just pulled away from him.
He starts talking, words tumbling out in that rough voice, about how it's only when he's here, working on the gardens, knowing I am inside the house, that he feels relevant, but I didn't even call. Why? How could I be so cruel when I knew he needed me?
I feel incredibly uncomfortable, and heat floods my face. The conservatory feels too small, too exposed. What if someone sees us? But he doesn't seem concerned or want to leave. He looks with that hopeful, begging expression. I swallow hard and mumble some excuse— something about not feeling well post-surgery, and rush out of the conservatory. Damn. I had to leave my sandwich. I slip down a corridor, my flats silent on the rug.
But as I'm tiptoeing towards the stairs, heart still pounding, I run straight into Carolyn’s mother-in-law, Frances. She is standing there like a ghost in the shadows. She looks older than the photos, lines etched deep around her eyes, and I suspect she's old enough to see through ruses, through me. But she's more concerned with what she has obviously seen in the conservatory. Her gaze is sharp with revulsion. She shakes her head disapprovingly.
"Must you? You disgust me," she says, voice low and cutting, before she walks away stiffly.
I really can’t endure it—another sour, unpleasant encounter piling on. I decide to head back to my room for solace, hide under that wonderful cloud-like duvet and pretend this is all just a bad dream.
But just as I put my foot on the grand curving staircase, ready to flee upstairs and hide in my room, a man in a dour black suit, I assume he is Mr. Carson, the butler, appears from a side passage, his face a mask of impassivity, uniform starched to perfection.
"Mr. Bessant has requested your presence in his study, Mrs. Carolyn," he says, tone clipped, eyes unreadable.
"Now?" I ask warily. My voice is small like a whisper, stomach dropping like lead.
He nods once, with absolutely no sympathy. Clearly, he doesn’t care for Carolyn either. Except for the gardener, everybody else seems to despise Carolyn. No wonder she wanted to run away. I have no choice but to agree, but I'm not sure where the study is—another gap in Carolyn's briefing—so I ask the butler to lead the way, my words hesitant, hanging in the air.
His eyes flash for a split second. Suspicion, maybe? No doubt Carolyn has never requested such a thing of him, but his face remains completely impassive as he turns on his heel and leads the way, his footsteps echoing ahead.
He knocks formally on a heavy oak door at the end of a corridor, and a deep, commanding male voice calls out for us to enter. Blake’s voice sends a shiver down my spine.
"Thank you, Carson. I'll take it from here," I say to the butler, dismissing him with what I hope is Carolyn's cool authority.
