What the hell have I gotten into?
I can't quite process what is going on—Blake's voice, low and commanding, echoes in my head, those icy-gray eyes holding mine, searching my face, like he can see right through my colored contacts, my shining bob, the whole damn charade.
My knees still feel like jelly, wobbly from the rush of nerves that hit me the second I stepped into his presence. It was as if he owned the air in that room. I can still smell his subtle cologne—something woody and expensive, like sandalwood mixed with power. It clings to me even now.
I'm rushing for the stairs now, my flats slapping softly on the marble, legs trembling with every step, like they've forgotten how to work after being pinned under his gaze. The grandcurving staircase looms ahead, that polished banister calling like a lifeline, and I grab it, steadying myself, the wood warm from the late-summer sun streaming through the tall windows, casting golden pools on the floor that make the whole foyer feel alive, humming with light. Outside, through the glass, the gardens stretch lazy and green, hydrangeas still blooming fat and purple, the humidity hanging heavy, making the air feel thick, sensual against my skin, sticking the black dress to my thighs as I climb.
Just as I head up, nearly at the landing, the housekeeper appears at the base of the stairs, her steps measured and silent, like she's part of the house itself. She looks up at me with her expression as cold as ever, and says flatly, "You left your sandwich behind, Madam. Did you change your mind? Would you like a green smoothie, after all?"
I pause, hand gripping the banister tighter, my breath coming short. The thought of eating downstairs, exposed to all these people who seem to hate me, twists my gut. No, I need walls, privacy.
"No, I haven’t changed my mind. Bring it up to my room, please," I say, my voice steadier than I feel, though it wavers just a touch on the word please.
Surprise flickers in her eyes—quick, like a shadow—but she doesn't say a word, just nods once and turns away. She disappears down the hall in the general direction of the kitchen.
I head back to my bedroom for the next three months, my sanctuary for now. Pushing the door open with a soft click, I sit on the bed and stare out of the window. What have I let myself in for? What a state Carolyn's life is in—cold stares from staff, a child who runs away from her because she has broken the promise of keeping a secret, a mother-in-law spitting disgust, a secret lover groping her in the conservatory. And Blake... God, Blake.
I have to negotiate this tangle for three months, weave through the lies without tripping, my every move watched, judged. It's exhausting already, like a weight pressing on my chest, making my breath shallow.
A few minutes later, there is a soft knock on the door, and the housekeeper comes in with a silver tray. She sets the sandwich and a tall glass filled with a bright green liquid on the coffee table and leaves, the door shutting behind her with a disapproving finality.
Immediately, I shrug off my jacket—the light wool one Carolyn had delivered, soft as butter but too warm in this humid air—toss it over the chaise, and dig into the sandwich. The bread is fresh, toasted golden, the bacon crispy and salty, melting on my tongue with that first bite, cheese oozing warm and gooey—cheddar, sharp and real, not the low-fat crap I've been forcing down. I've been starving for a taste of carbohydrates and fat. Those endless salads have literally left me feeling hollow. Now, I take big, satisfying mouthfuls, the flavors exploding, savory and comforting, juices drip down my chin. I wipe them with the crisp, folded linen napkin.
As I eat, my mind wanders over the events of the day. Other than the gardener's hot and unwanted hands, the welcome I’ve received has been unrelentingly cold. The worst of it all was meeting Blake’s flinty eyes. Unfortunately, I find myself inconveniently and terribly attracted to him.
Heat blooms in my belly just thinking about him.
He's more stunning in person than I had realized—those photos didn't capture the way his dark hair falls just so, or the cut of his jaw, sharp as a blade. He was dressed in a simple butter-yellow polo shirt, but he looked like he had stepped out of one of Ralph Lauren’s ads.
The way he lounged in his study with that massive desk and leather chair, smelling of money and power. I cannot believe he'sreal, that Carolyn would choose to have sex with the gardener boy over a man like him. God, that intensity in his eyes when he looked up, frowning, as if he saw me, really saw me. The thought makes my cheeks flush, and a sensual ache builds despite myself. My free hand presses into my thigh as I take another bite.
I stop eating. I can't process this mess alone. I shouldn't let it swirl in my head without an outlet. I need Emma to ground me. I set the half-eaten sandwich down, wipe my hands, and pull out the secret phone Carolyn gave me—a burner tucked in my purse, untraceable. I dial her number, and her ringtone starts buzzing in the quiet room.
When Emma picks up, her voice is bright and familiar, and it is like a rope thrown to a dying man. Everything will be alright.
"Jules? You okay?" she asks.
"Hey, Em," and the details spill out, about all the things that have happened so far—the unfriendly housekeeper, Freya's vase drama, the gardener's kiss that left me cold, Frances's acidic revulsion. "Everyone in this household hates me, Em,” I wail. “Like, visceral hate."
"Not you, but the real Carolyn," she corrects and laughs softly. "Damn…This is wild, Jules. Stick with it and see it all as a great adventure. You could anonymously write a book about it when it is all over, and it could be a bestseller… I notice you haven’t talked about the husband. Spill on Blake. What's he like up close?"
I know I won't be able to respond without blushing, without lighting a fire inside. I don’t want to do that, not over the phone where she might hear the heat in my voice—so I put on an offhand tone. "Polite, cold... I see why their marriage went stale."
"But he’s handsome, right?" Emma insists, I can hear the grin in her words. "I can tell from his picture. Does he really look that good in real life?"
I pause, my cheeks burning now, filled with relief that she can't see me. "So-so," I say, lying through my teeth, and Emma laughs, clearly not buying it but letting it slide.
I think I hear a noise in the corridor, so we hang up.
She signs off with "Call anytime, babe—stay safe.”
I ignore the green smoothie and finish my meal by washing it down with some iced tea from the tray. It’s unsweetened and brewed strong with a slice of lemon. It slides down my throat, cool and tart. I’ll have to sneak some packets of sugar into my room. I don’t know how Carolyn manages to live without sugar.
My stomach is full, and I'm exhausted, the day's whirlwind is finally crashing over me like waves on the sound outside. After taking off my dress and kicking off my flats, I steal underneath the covers. Just a little nap will revive me. The duvet is soft and heavy like a cocoon, and I drift off to sleep.
Chapter Eleven
BLAKE
