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)
I decide to take my time, linger in the foyer a moment longer, letting the lavishness sink in. The space is a symphony of excess: a Persian rug underfoot, threads of wool in reds and golds, soft as a caress. The walls are lined with oil paintings in ornate frames—landscapes of the Sound, perhaps by local artists, their brushstrokes vivid and alive. An intricately carved grandfather clock ticks solemnly away in the corner, its pendulum swinging with hypnotic grace. The air is cool from hidden vents, scented with lemon polish and the faint floral murmur. It's sensual, this opulence—every surface begging to be touched, every detail whispering of money that flows endlessly.
Wonderingly, I head up the spiraling staircase, my hand trailing the banister, the wood cool and smooth under my palm. Just as I'm halfway to the top, the curve opens to a wide landing with more doors than I can count, I glimpse the little girl’s face between the banisters. Freya, peeking out like a curious sprite, her golden curls framing her adorable face. My heart swells; she's even sweeter in person than the photos, a bundle of innocence in a pink sundress printed with butterflies. I smile and start to walk toward her.
"Hi, Freya," I call, my voice warm and friendly.
But the reception I get is cold—her big eyes are reproachful, accusatory, like I've already betrayed her.
I draw closer, her little brows furrow. "You promised not to tell," she accuses, her voice small but sharp, laced with hurt that slices right through me. "You said it was our secret, but you told Daddy I broke the vase. I hate you."
She spins then, her sundress flaring, and runs off down the hall, her footsteps pattering away. The air suddenly feels heavier.
Oh dear. I have absolutely no idea what she's talking about—that vase, the secret, the telling. It's a blank in Carolyn's briefing, a detail she overlooked or deemed unimportant. But the guilt hits me anyway, hot and unwelcome, twisting in my gut like a knot; Freya's pain feels real, even if I'm not the cause. I hope I'll find out soon, piece it together without blowing my cover.
On my way to my room, I wander the hallway like a ghost, going from door to door—peeking into sunlit guest suites. All the while fighting the guilt of intrusion, as if I'm trespassing in someone else's dream. Each knob turns with a soft click, the doors heavy and oiled, revealing glimpses of lives I don't belong to—until eventually I find Carolyn’s suite at the end of the hall. Wow! Her bedroom is unbelievable in its scale. A sanctuary of cream and gold, walls paneled in soft silk wallpaper. A king-sized bed dominates the center with a tufted velvet headboard. It is piled high with pillows, and the duvet looks like a huge cloud of pure softness. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the gardens, and sheer curtains billow in the breeze from an open pane, letting in the distant crash of waves on the Sound.
There is a sitting area with a chaise lounge in pale blue facing a fireplace mantled in marble. I walk through to the huge closet—a walk-in the size of my old apartment, full of color coordinated racks of designer clothes. The shoe shelves display hundreds of gorgeous pieces of footwear. I open a drawer with neatly folded lingerie in silk and lace. The air smells of lavender sachets and faint perfume, sensual and inviting. My skin tingles as I trail my fingers over a luxurious cream cashmere coat.
I return into the room and sit down for a moment on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking luxuriously under me, to rest, to take a breath. This is real. This is actually real. I still can't believe this is my life now, even temporarily. I look around me, and the opulence cloaks me. A heady mix of thrill and terror makes my pulse race.
I’m so lost in awe, I jump when a soft ringing sounds out of nowhere. My hand flies to my chest as I scan the room. I spot the phone on the nightstand—a sleek white device beside a vase of fresh roses. Cautiously, I pick it up and bring it to my ear. It's the housekeeper.
"Your sandwich is ready, Madam. Shall I serve it in the conservatory as usual?" she asks. There is a coldness in her voice. It is obvious she does not approve of her mistress. "Or I could bring it up to you if you’re not feeling well enough."
I hesitate, the cord twisting in my fingers. It would be so much easier to have it here, away from prying eyes, but that would just be cowardly. I need to start earning my keep.
"I'll come down, thank you," I murmur.
Hanging up, I rise and, smoothing my dress, steel myself for whatever comes next.