Bloody hell.
When she turns back to me, her eyes are sharp, the malice barely concealed. “Just how much do thosefriendsof yours earn, anyway?”
Is she serious?
“They’re quite successful, actually,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.
“Really?” She arches an eyebrow, her tone dripping with skepticism. “Then pray tell, why are they wasting their time here? Why do I see you giving them those longing looks whenever they are around?”
I flinch, caught off guard. “I… what?”
She turns away to scold two of our gardeners who are bringing another chair to a table. “Promptly, if you would. Our first guests will arrive in a matter of minutes, and we are far behind schedule.”
Just then, a young maid approaches out of breath. “Ma’am, some of the guests have already arrived,” she announces timidly.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Bring them through to the rose garden and make sure they’re offered refreshments,” my mother commands without missing a beat, then turns her icy gaze back to me when I already hoped she had forgotten about our conversation.
“Really, Amelia Charlotte, I can’t fathom why you entertain such fantasies. Men like that don’t waste their time without a reason. You’d do well to remember who you are and what your place is.”
Her words, sharp as thorns, dig into my already raw emotions and feed my insecurities. But they also awaken a defiant spark within me.
“They’re here for a conference,” I assert, standing taller and holding her gaze “And they care about more than just money and power.”
“Surely not,” she scoffs. “Wake up, girl. People maneuver for their own gain, especially men.”
Mother’s words are still hanging in the air when my father arrives with the guys in tow. They’re all dressed in crisp pants and shirts. My flowery, long-sleeved dress feels like another layer of the expectations pressed upon me in this house.
A twinge of guilt hits me—I hadn’t asked for their presence, yet here they are, caught up in the demanding spectacle of my family’s social expectations.
My father, having seemingly overheard Mother’s last words, interjects with his defusing skills. “Ah, speaking of beneficialassociations…” he chuckles, gesturing toward the guys, “… we’ve just had a rather delightful chat with Professor Donovan. He sends his regards.” My mother gives Grey a forced smile. “He’s the same spirited fellow I remember. I’m considering a visit to the States once I retire.”
My eyes widen as they find Grey’s. He smirks at first, but the smile quickly turns into a scowl.
He’s definitely pissed that I just disappeared for two days.
The buzz of arriving guests filters through the garden, and Mother turns to Father, her tone brisk. “Darling, would you please welcome our guests?” Without waiting for his response, she directs her gaze elsewhere, scouring the setup for any imperfection.
Father nods, a practiced smile already forming again.
This is all so fake I could puke.
Grey steps closer to me, his hand finding a gentle rest on my back, ready to guide me toward a table, but I resist his lead, stepping aside. He halts, his eyebrow arching in silent question.
I guess he would spank my ass now if he could.
Why does that sound like something I’d enjoy?
Before the moment grows awkward, my father turns back to us. “Amelia Charlotte is going to play the piano in the parlor. With the balcony windows open, it provides a lovely backdrop of music for the garden.”
The guys exchange quick glances, their brows furrowing in concern and confusion. My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I realize how this must look to them.
Yeah, I know.
I’m not more than part of the staff, or maybe even a dirty little secret kept away from the guests. Yet, paradoxically, being kept from the crowd is my best-case scenario for today.
“Enjoy the party,” I say, barely louder than a whisper, a hint of forced cheerfulness lacing the words. Without waiting fortheir response, I turn and walk into the house, my steps echoing softly as I make my way up to the parlor, the soft murmur of the first guests growing fainter with each step.
Upon entering, I swiftly move to the balcony doors, throwing them open to let the music drift out, but I draw the white curtains closed. I don’t want to watch the party unfold, nor do I want the guests—or the guys—to see me secluded up here.
