I stare at the photo a long time, then I close the drawer and lock it.
Thea.
She’s probably getting dressed for work with hateful thoughts toward me while planning her next escape.
Good.
Let her hate me. Let her fight.
It won’t change what I have in store for her, and when the truth comes out, when she learns who she really is and what I’ve done, what I’m asking of her, I’ll deal with the fallout.
But I won’t let her go.
Not a goddamn chance.
I check my watch and head for the door.
Time to see how my little maid is settling in.
CHAPTER 6
THEA
The uniform consists of a nice gray dress, a white apron, and sensible black flats that are a tad too small and pinch my toes.
“We’ll have new ones for you by tomorrow,” Oscar says, looking me over as I stand before a massive mirror in the den. “But do let me know if you start to blister.”
I can’t get over what I’m seeing.
“My outfit at the hotel was more like nurse’s scrubs,” I say, turning and taking note of the frill at the hem of my dress. “I feel like I’ve stepped intoDownton Abbeyor something. All I need is a feather duster and a British accent.”
Oscar chuckles. “The feather duster we can provide. I suppose you could practice the accent in your off time.” Another once-over. “But it suits you.”
His tone is warm and kind.
“Seriously,” I say, “I look like I’m about to serve tea to a dowager countess.”
His mouth twitches just a bit.
“The Moretti family doesn’t have a dowager countess, though Mr. Moretti’s great-aunt Carmela comes close.”
Despite everything, I grin.
“Now,” he says, “let us turn to the subject of your duties.”
Oscar takes me through the house, explaining my duties with the patience of a kindergarten teacher—dust the library, polish the silver, clean the linens in the guest rooms. “But,” he says, “do not go to the third floor—that’s Mr. Moretti’s private wing. Stay out of his office unless specifically summoned. Meals are served at eight, one, and seven. Staff eats in the kitchen after the family is finished.”
“Family?” I ask.
He nods. “Mr. Moretti’s cousins live on the estate,” he explains as we walk down yet another hallway lined with expensive art. “Miss Lara and Mr. Damian. They handle various aspects of the business.”
I don’t ask what aspects. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.
We’re halfway through the second-floor guest wing when I hear voices—young, loud, American—echoing up from the foyer.
“—telling you, it’s a supply chain issue, not a loyalty issue.”
“But you can’t have a supply chain without loyalty, Lara.”
