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 know I won't be able to respond without blushing, without lighting a fire inside. I don’t want to do that, not over the phone where she might hear the heat in my voice—so I put on an offhand tone. "Polite, cold... I see why their marriage went stale."
"But he’s handsome, right?" Emma insists, I can hear the grin in her words. "I can tell from his picture. Does he really look that good in real life?"
I pause, my cheeks burning now, filled with relief that she can't see me. "So-so," I say, lying through my teeth, and Emma laughs, clearly not buying it but letting it slide.
I think I hear a noise in the corridor, so we hang up.
She signs off with "Call anytime, babe—stay safe.”
I ignore the green smoothie and finish my meal by washing it down with some iced tea from the tray. It’s unsweetened and brewed strong with a slice of lemon. It slides down my throat, cool and tart. I’ll have to sneak some packets of sugar into my room. I don’t know how Carolyn manages to live without sugar.
My stomach is full, and I'm exhausted, the day's whirlwind is finally crashing over me like waves on the sound outside. After taking off my dress and kicking off my flats, I steal underneath the covers. Just a little nap will revive me. The duvet is soft and heavy like a cocoon, and I drift off to sleep.
Chapter Eleven
BLAKE
Hours later, her presence lingers like a ghost in the room, that new lipstick quip hanging in the air, stupid and offensive, stirring something restless in me I can't shake. I dived back into the spreadsheets after she left, and now the late-afternoon sun has become burnished orange and dipped lower through the windows. It casts long shadows across my mahogany desk, and the estate feels quieter in these hours, the distant hum of the gardener’s tools fading as evening creeps in.
During the last month, I’ve found myself looking forward to dinner with the family—nothing too fancy, just us in the dining room. Maybe Frances's favorite grilled sea bream, crispy with breadcrumbs and herbs from the garden, or Freya’s favorite, roast chicken slathered in tomato ketchup. And Freya chattering about her day. That lovely simple peace we've had this past month, no tensions simmering. But now Carolyn's back, and her cold shadow is already stretching over the warmth of our evening. I’m already anticipating the inevitable exchange of barbed insults between my mother and her.
It sours my gut.
I realize now how much lighter the house felt without her; Freya's laughter more constant, Frances less on edge. It makes me consider now, that perhaps it's not best or most convenient to keep our arrangement going anymore. The thought's been lurking for months, but today it has taken center stage. I will watch her this evening and start making plans to cut our ties for good.
It’s quite shocking how different she was when we started dating—those early days in the Hamptons, her eyes would light up like two blue lamps when she spotted me at Polo matches in Meadowbrook, her laugh flowed like music. But more importantly, she loved Freya, or seemed to—baking cookies together in the kitchen, reading bedtime stories to her in her soft voice, making me think she'd be the perfect mother for my girl.
But a few months into our marriage she had become a stranger, cold and distant. Freya shrank away like a flower in a frost. Her cattiness, especially towards my mother, repulsed me. I left our marriage bed so often to sleep in the guest room that separate rooms, was the natural evolution. I rub my jaw, feeling the faint stubble, the weight of our situation pressing down like the humid air outside, thick and unrelenting.
I push the chair back and head to my mother's suite on the ground floor. The hallways towards her quarters are already lit by sconces that cast a warm glow. The staff move like shadows, and I can hear the distant clink of silverware from the kitchen preparing dinner. I knock on her door.
"Come in," she calls out.
I enter her room, and I am immediately enveloped in that familiar scent that associates with her— talcum powder from Chanel and the smell of fresh linens. She has used these rooms ever since my father passed away. Made it her own feminine haven of soft pastels. Even the four-poster bed is draped in lace, her vanity is an antique piece from Christie's. On it are silver-backed brushes and crystal perfume bottles catching the fading light from the garden-facing windows. She is sitting by the wide doors that face the windows, reading a book.
"Am I late for dinner?" she asks.
I smile, stepping closer, the carpet muffling my steps. "Have you ever been late in your life?"