I let out a long exhale, the weight of it dragging through me, as I follow him up the steps to the tall glasshouse that looms above us.
My cheeks heat as I see Grandpa waiting for me by the pool.
Suddenly, my clothes feel like they’re ablaze—my dress torn, spoiled by Mason’s calligraphy, wearing his jacket.
I’m literally on a walk of shame all the way to London.
And I’m still a virgin.
Daniel summoned me here, like a subject to the crown, and never bothered to bless me with his royal presence. I didn’t even get a chance to pack a weekend bag or retrieve my phone. At least Jack made sure Penny’s was returned to her.
Meanwhile, I have been stuck here all day with nothing to do and no one to speak to apart from strangers; staff who greet me with the same plastered smiles and same rehearsed greetings, and guards who won’t let me drive my own car.
Grandpa lingered long enough to witness my humiliating parade, then he gave me a long lecture about Reginald Grant and his perpetual sour grapes, before he made an excuse and left.
After the accident, Grandpa struggled to cope in Etheridge Mansion, where Mum was raised. Soon after, he handed it over to Dan, with the rest of his estate, and moved to his flat in Chelsea. Poor Kate still runs back and forth, running both households. Like Grandpa, Dan also has trust issues.
So here I am, alone, trying to find something that belongs to me in this primly organized palace.
Not. One. Thing.
Dan was supposed to move everything from Manchester after he eagerly sold our house in record time. Don’t get me started on that. So, where the hell is everything?
I know every corner of this nine-bedroom house. Including the large cupboard under the home theater. As kids, Dan and I were always ready to hide when things heated up at family dinners. Even though we only spent six weeks here every year, Dan and I always had our own rooms for as long as I can remember. Nanna made sure they matched our bedrooms at home, so we felt comfortable. Though it was she who made this place special.
After going through every inch of the house, I head to Daniel’s room.
I storm around, yanking drawers open, some clean off their hinges, then move to the wardrobes. I climb up to the higher shelves and pull the matte boxes off, letting the contents spill onto the plush ivory carpet, then rummage through it all.
“Can I help you?” A silky voice disrupts my self-designed treasure hunt.
I look up from the floor in Daniel’s walk-in wardrobe, where I sit cross-legged with most of his possessions scattered around me.
A young redhead wearing a blue pencil skirt, a matching blazer, and a deadly expression scowls at me.
“Who let you in here?” she demands, leaning over and snatching the khaki jacket from my hands. “Whoever you are. Another charity case or a desperate family friend, you’re not allowed inDaniel’sbedroom. Wait outside.” She points to the door.
My lips twitch, fighting to curl, but I resist. I have had a long, boring day, and this is far too delicious to pass.
“Don’t you mean, Mr. Etheridge?” I say, in a sugar-sweet voice. “He told me to wait here. He won’t be long if you want to wait with me.”
Her brows knit, lips folding into a deep frown as I rise with a smile. She appraises me slowly, eyes dragging from my bare feet up to the freshly pressed skirt and top Kate laid out for me when I got out of the shower. Her lips pull down, imagining billions and diamonds slipping through her fingers.
“I see.” She purses her lips. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but there is no way Daniel Etheridge would go for a basic whore like you.”
“Bridget?” A voice I’ve known my entire life steps in, clad in a crisp dark blue suit, every strand of his blond hair set to perfection. “Did you just call my sister awhore?”
Bridget turns white as a sheet. Her eyes snap from Daniel to me, pupils dilating when recognition kicks in. Probably remembering that haunting funeral photo.
“I–I’m so sorry. I didn’t know,” Bridget stutters, “She didn’t say…”
Dan holds up a palm, his royal blue eyes slowly gliding overto me, calm and composed. His lips curl up on one side. He looks so much like Dad when he smiles. He’s taller than Dad, though, tall enough to be a basketball player, which is what he wanted to be before he traded up for the CEO life. It seems he’s bulked up a little since I last saw him, too.
“Can you give us a minute?” he says to Bridget, who looks like she might collapse under the weight of her own regret.
“Yes. Yes, absolutely,” she stammers, nodding frantically before scurrying out of the room.
“Can I have that back?” I drawl.
