Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
The chauffeur’s gaze is expressionless. "Welcome back, Ma'am."
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 if the 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.