Then my phone buzzes again, but it’s not work this time. A text from her! I freeze, staring at the screen like it's a ghost from the past. My thumb hovers over the notification, a mix of curiosity and wariness twisting in my gut. What does she want?
I open it:
Frances is dining out with an old friend and planning to stay overnight in the city. I’m cooking. What do you want to eat for dinner?
Simple, domestic, but it throws me for a loop. Carolyn is cooking dinner for the two of us. This unexpected normalcy, and after last night's fire too. It's strange. Really strange. On top of the fact that in all our years together, a casual message from her, unprompted, like we're a normal couple checking in, has never happened before. I type quickly, my fingers flying over the keys amidst the lawyers' debating:
Whatever’s available is fine.
She responds almost immediately.Okay, got it.
And then, because I can't help myself, that pull draws me in despite the chaos around me, I ask:How was your meeting?
Her reply comes after a short pause.
It was good. We went to a spa. Really relaxing. Ready to continue what we started last night…
The words land like a bolt, stirring heat in my guts. I lean back in my chair. I ignore the team as an idea forms in my head. Freya couldn't garden today like she wanted, but maybe... I text back:
Freya’s been asking for a sleepover with one of her friends for ages. Feel like arranging it?
She replies promptly:Yes, I'll arrange it.
She asks again about dinner:Anything specific you want? For dinner, I mean.
I smile faintly at the screen, the boardroom fading for a second. Her persistence is oddly endearing:
Anything you feel like. I’m easy… when it comes to food.
She texts back with a cheeky face emoji:Yeah, me too… when it comes to food.
I set the phone down. The exchange lingers like a promise, cutting through my piss-poor mood as I dive back into the crisis. Determined to wrap it up soon.
Chapter Thirty-Two
JULIET
Emma's advice—to indulge, to let my powerful attraction to Blake run its course without fighting it. It’ll be easy. Just go with the flow, she said.
But look at what I’ve done.
I pace my bedroom with my phone clutched in my hand. The plush rug muffles my footsteps. Where do I even start with Freya's sleepover? It was supposed to be a simple meal for two. A sort of date. A way to test the waters without any strings attached. Instead, I’m drowning in my own deceit. Any move I make now will only pull me deeper into the web of lies Carolyn and I spun.
I don't know who Freya’s friends are, let alone which of them she could possibly spend the night with. Carolyn never mentioned playdates or sleepovers in the briefings. She, rightly, was more concerned that I learned to execute her routine and mannerisms flawlessly. She didn’t know I’d be trying to set up dinner dates with her husband. Panic flutters in my chest. What if I screw this up, pick the wrong child, and blow my cover? I stop pacing. I’ll just have to ask Freya directly.
Ask her the right questions and glean the information from her innocent chatter.
I push open Freya’s door softly, and the hand-painted sign swings gently. Freya is curled up on her canopy bed, taking a nap. Her small chest rising and falling evenly, curls splayed across the pillow like a halo. No help there—she's out cold, her face peaceful in sleep. I can't bring myself to wake her, not when she looks so sweet and untroubled. I back out quietly, and close the door with a soft click.
What do I do now?
I have no choice but to call Carolyn. She’s going to want to know why I’m arranging a sleepover for her stepdaughter. Oh dear. I’ll have to lie again. With dread knotting my stomach, I pull out the burner phone from its hiding spot under a stack of silk scarves in my drawer. My fingers are trembling as I dial her secret number. It rings and rings, the sound hollow in my ear, but she's not reachable—no answer, just voicemail. Maybe that’s for the best. I leave a message, my voice hushed and urgent.
"Carolyn, it's me. Freya wants a sleepover—any friends she usually goes to? Call me back soon."
I hang up and slip the phone away. A wave of isolation crashes over me. I'm on my own in this, no safety net. I clasp my hands together and think hard. And I realize that rather than get myself in trouble by stumbling over names I don't know, and risking suspicion from Blake or the staff, I'll just pretend that I spent all the time cooking and forgot about the sleepover. It's a flimsy excuse, but better than digging myself deeper into a lie I can't sustain. Relief trickles in, easing the knot a fraction. Yes, that'll work. I’ll play the distracted wife, buried in dinner prep.
I go to the kitchen and tell Vincent, the Chef, that he has the night off.
