I got the impression Carolyn treats staff like furniture and I’m supposed to do the same so maybe it’ll be okay if I ask him to remind me. I hesitate, then ask, "It feels as if I’ve had my head operated on and not my nose. Remind me, what do I usually call you?"
"Franklin, Ma’am," he replies, but this time his eyes crinkle up in the corners with amusement.
It's a little amusing to me too, this charade starting so absurdly, so I just smile, a genuine curve of my lips. I nearly start chatting with him out of habit, the old Juliet bubbling up—but I manage to stop myself in time. I clamp my mouth shut, the words dying on my tongue.
I look out of the window as we pull away, and watch the city go by—Central Park's foliage turning gold, pedestrians in light jackets hurrying along Fifth Avenue. Wonder surges through me as the Bentley's smooth ride carries me forward.
My new life has just begun.
Chapter Seven
JULIET
The Bentley's engine’s gentle vibration comes to a stop, and Franklin steps out smoothly, circling to open my door with a nod that is at once professional and deferential. I slide out, my flats touching the gravel drive with a soft crunch, and the mansion rises before me like a dream made solid—far more beautiful and impressive in real life than the video walkthrough Carolyn had emailed me. A tour of manicured gardens and halls so large her footsteps echoed. Amazed, I'd watched the video on loop in my tiny apartment.
The late-summer sun hangs low and golden, bathing the Georgian facade in warm light and making the white stone glow against the deep green lawns that roll down to the edge of Long Island Sound, where the water sparkles like scattered jewels. The air is thick with humidity, carrying the salty tang of the sea mixed with the sweet bloom of late hydrangeas bordering the drive, their fat purple heads nodding in the breeze.
It's overwhelming, this endless sprawl of wealth—gigantic columns soaring two stories high, black-shuttered windows, ivy climbing the walls in elegant restraint. My heart races. It is as ifthe house itself is alive, whispering promises of luxury I never knew I craved.
I step inside through the massive oak doors that swing open on silent hinges, and I'm astounded by the wealth on display—it's like walking into a page from Architectural Digest, but real, tangible. It wraps around me like a lover's embrace. The foyer stretches out vast and airy, marble floors veined in pinkish-gray underfoot, a massive crystal chandelier dangling overhead like a cascade of frozen raindrops, scattering lights across the walls papered in subtle silk damask.
A grand staircase, flanked by antique Chinese vases on pedestals, spirals upward, its banister carved mahogany polished to a gleam. Fresh flowers overflow from an enormous arrangement on a console table—peonies and lilies, their petals velvety and fragrant, arranged by some invisible florist. I'm used to cramped spaces, peeling paint, the hum of neighbors through thin walls; this feels like another world, seductive and intimidating, making my skin prickle with a mix of awe and impostor fear.
How does anyone live like this without feeling swallowed whole?
The first person I meet is Mrs. Dora Sterling, the housekeeper. She emerges from a door at the side like a shadow. Her uniform is a somber black dress with a belt. Her hair pulled into a severe bun accentuates the cold lines of her face. She looks at me with eyes like chips of ice, no warmth, just a flat assessment that makes my stomach twist. "I hope you've recovered well, Madam," she says in a voice devoid of genuine concern, more like reciting a script.
I nod, forcing a small smile, my throat dry. "Yes, thank you." The words come out in Carolyn's practiced cadence, but inside, I'm reeling. Gosh, Carolyn is not popular even with her own staff.
She doesn't soften, just tilts her head slightly, and enquires, "Shall I arrange for your usual green smoothie to be served for lunch, Madam?"
I know I should have the green smoothie—Carolyn's staple, kale and spinach whirled into oblivion with almond milk and a dash of ginger, the kind of thing that keeps her stick-thin. But I can't help myself; the extreme dieting has left me starving, with a constant gnaw in my belly that no amount of willpower can ignore, and Carolyn did say I could chalk up small changes to the surgery, blame the recovery for cravings or whatever. Plus, the thought of something hearty, salty, forbidden—it's too tempting. I wink at the housekeeper, a playful spark I can't suppress, and say, "You know what, Dora? I'm going to cheat today. A bacon and egg sandwich instead, please."
Her eyes widen, shock flashing across her face like a crack in porcelain. Her lips part for a second before she composes herself, nods stiffly, and moves away without another word. Her footsteps echo down the hall toward what must be the kitchen. I almost blurt out a request for a tour—my instincts screaming for guidance in this labyrinth—but I catch myself. I have time to explore myself. I freaking live here now. Asking for help from the staff would shatter the illusion before I've even started.
I decide to take my time, linger in the foyer a moment longer, letting the lavishness sink in. The space is a symphony of excess: a Persian rug underfoot, threads of wool in reds and golds, soft as a caress. The walls are lined with oil paintings in ornate frames—landscapes of the Sound, perhaps by local artists, their brushstrokes vivid and alive. An intricately carved grandfather clock ticks solemnly away in the corner, its pendulum swinging with hypnotic grace. The air is cool from hidden vents, scented with lemon polish and the faint floral murmur. It's sensual, this opulence—every surface begging to be touched, every detail whispering of money that flows endlessly.
Wonderingly, I head up the spiraling staircase, my hand trailing the banister, the wood cool and smooth under my palm. Just as I'm halfway to the top, the curve opens to a wide landing with more doors than I can count, I glimpse the little girl’s face between the banisters. Freya, peeking out like a curious sprite, her golden curls framing her adorable face. My heart swells; she's even sweeter in person than the photos, a bundle of innocence in a pink sundress printed with butterflies. I smile and start to walk toward her.
"Hi, Freya," I call, my voice warm and friendly.
But the reception I get is cold—her big eyes are reproachful, accusatory, like I've already betrayed her.
I draw closer, her little brows furrow. "You promised not to tell," she accuses, her voice small but sharp, laced with hurt that slices right through me. "You said it was our secret, but you told Daddy I broke the vase. I hate you."
She spins then, her sundress flaring, and runs off down the hall, her footsteps pattering away. The air suddenly feels heavier.
Oh dear. I have absolutely no idea what she's talking about—that vase, the secret, the telling. It's a blank in Carolyn's briefing, a detail she overlooked or deemed unimportant. But the guilt hits me anyway, hot and unwelcome, twisting in my gut like a knot; Freya's pain feels real, even if I'm not the cause. I hope I'll find out soon, piece it together without blowing my cover.
On my way to my room, I wander the hallway like a ghost, going from door to door—peeking into sunlit guest suites. All the while fighting the guilt of intrusion, as if I'm trespassing in someone else's dream. Each knob turns with a soft click, the doors heavy and oiled, revealing glimpses of lives I don't belong to—until eventually I find Carolyn’s suite at the end of the hall. Wow! Her bedroom is unbelievable in its scale. A sanctuary of cream and gold, walls paneled in soft silk wallpaper. A king-sized bed dominates the center with a tufted velvet headboard. It is piled high with pillows, and the duvet looks like a huge cloud of pure softness. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the gardens, and sheer curtains billow in the breeze from an open pane, letting in the distant crash of waves on the Sound.
There is a sitting area with a chaise lounge in pale blue facing a fireplace mantled in marble. I walk through to the huge closet—a walk-in the size of my old apartment, full of color coordinated racks of designer clothes. The shoe shelves display hundreds of gorgeous pieces of footwear. I open a drawer with neatly folded lingerie in silk and lace. The air smells of lavender sachets and faint perfume, sensual and inviting. My skin tingles as I trail my fingers over a luxurious cream cashmere coat.
I return into the room and sit down for a moment on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking luxuriously under me, to rest, to take a breath. This is real. This is actually real. I still can't believe this is my life now, even temporarily. I look around me, and the opulence cloaks me. A heady mix of thrill and terror makes my pulse race.
I’m so lost in awe, I jump when a soft ringing sounds out of nowhere. My hand flies to my chest as I scan the room. I spot the phone on the nightstand—a sleek white device beside a vase of fresh roses. Cautiously, I pick it up and bring it to my ear. It's the housekeeper.
"Your sandwich is ready, Madam. Shall I serve it in the conservatory as usual?" she asks. There is a coldness in her voice. It is obvious she does not approve of her mistress. "Or I could bring it up to you if you’re not feeling well enough."
