Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I playfully tsk while shaking my head. I’m apolitical. Blissfully ignorant. Just trying to keep my own shit together. And I have no idea what the current definition of feminism is, but I’m sure someone who needs a wife and a homemaker might not embrace feminism.
However, I’m not sure changing my title will hide the obvious, which is I’m being hired to do things Vera doesn’t care to do, or maybe she thinks they are beneath her.
Canning.
Gardening.
Ironing.
Polishing silverware that belonged to Mr. Morrison’s grandmother.
I’m not managing anything.
“All you need to know is I’m the queen.” She smirks. “And I don’t allow any political discussion when my daughter and husband are in the same house.”
I nod several times. That’s an excellent rule.
“I’ll get you a credit card, but for now, you can use mine to pick out some uniform options. Let me show you.” Vera taps her phone screen and angles it toward me. She smells like a bold perfume, probably something with a French name in a fancy bottle.
Just when I assume my day can’t get any better, she proves me wrong.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says.
I’m certain she doesn’t.
“But if this is what it takes to keep my husband happy, I think it’s worth it.”
I inspect the dresses. They’re 1950s-style housedresses with buttons, collars, and cuffed short sleeves. The possibilities make me giddy.
“I have a white apron that his mom gave me when we got married, but I’ve never worn it. You can wear it over your dresses, and he’ll be thrilled. Also, he has a”—she snaps her fingers—“what’s the right word? Affinity. Yes, he’s always had an affinity towards shoes that have ankle straps.”
“Oh, wedge heels would look great with this kind of dress,” I say.
Vera eyes me for a second before her grin swells. I’m exactly what she’s looking for but never thought she’d find. “Wedge heels would be perfect.”
Mr. Morrison doesn’t have an affinity, he has a fetish, and his wife is being very accommodating. This is how rich people show their love.
When I met Mr. Morrison, he didn’t come across as overly demanding or eccentric. Quite charming, actually. Just a nice guy with too much money and a wife who seems committed to fulfilling his needs as long as she doesn’t have to do it personally.
“If you need time off, just ask,” she says with a hint of desperation, as if my silence means I’m second-guessing everything.
Either this is a great job, and I’d be crazy not to take it, or something will happen and there will be the most obvious “hindsight” moment. But I need a job and a place to live. As long as I don’t end up in a dark room, chained to a steel column and used for sex, this might be the best job ever.
“I’ll go shopping for uh … uniforms tomorrow.”
Vera claps her hands together, rings clinking. “Are you serious? Yes!” She hugs me. “Thank you so much! We’ll feel like family before the end of the summer. I promise. And Hunter is a little quirky, but totally trustworthy. Now, if you have time, let’s go through everything.” Vera stands, adjusting the shoulders of her red V-neck dress that fits over her subtle curves like a second skin.
“Now?” I stand too. “Uh, sure.”
She loops her arm with mine like we’re best friends.
The wife and the homemaker.
Chapter Two
Alice
The world is filled with peculiar people.
Learn from them.
My first official day starts at five with meditation, followed by a three-mile run around the lake, shower, a protein shake with the meds that keep my brain from malfunctioning, and then I’m out the door. An illuminated path of textured stone pavers, thick green grass, and perfectly manicured hedges connects the guesthouse to the main house. I enter the six-digit code to the back door and step inside, exchanging my leather slip-on shoes for linen wedge pumps with an ankle strap. I wear my hair in a silky, straight ponytail with an elegant, thin headband in cornflower blue that accents the auburn tresses.
Light eyeshadow and mascara.
A touch of color to my cheeks.
Red lips.
“Good morning, Mr. Morrison,” I say, placing his black coffee on a porcelain saucer in front of him as he sits alone in the dining room overlooking the two-tiered fountain with Greek goddess statues in the courtyard.
“Good morning, Alice.” He eyes my legs and strapped pumps, returning a slight grin of approval as he inspects the rest of me. “This feels like a dream.”
I innocently shrug. “It’s just a Thursday.”
While he sips his coffee from the gold-rimmed teacup and scrolls through his phone, I finish pan searing his rare-cooked, grass-fed steak, top it with pickled feta, and serve it with a side of blackberries and strawberries from the garden.
“Tell me, Alice, are you up on politics?” he asks, unfolding his napkin onto one leg when I set the plate in front of him. He tips up his chin with a confidence that matches his ten-thousand-dollar Italian cashmere suit.