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)
Dora steps aside. "Ah, there you are, Mrs. Carolyn. There's a delivery for you."
"Thank you, Dora. I'll handle this." My voice comes out more polished and imperious than I feel, but inside, I'm a mess—relief at seeing Emma, fear of slipping up. Emma's eyes meet mine for a split second, a flicker of warmth hidden behind professionalism, and I gesture for her to follow. "Act like you don't know me,” I remind in an urgent whisper.” Then in a more professional voice. “This way, please, Miss Hardy. I also need a painting for my bedroom wall."
We head upstairs, Emma's sneakers scuffing softly behind me. I lead her down the corridor to my suite and push the door open to reveal the sprawling space. Once inside, I close the door with a soft click, leaning against it for a moment, my breath escaping in a whoosh.
Emma sets the canvas down carefully against the wall and looks around the space with astonished, awed eyes. The four-poster bed draped in ivory silk, the balcony overlooking the manicured lawns.
“Wow! So… this is how the 0.01% live.”
“I know. I just can’t get used to it. Every morning, I wake up and get a small shock,” I confess.
I give her a few minutes more to gape at our surroundings before I ask her to unwrap the painting. She straightens, turning to me with a grin that's all too familiar, but I hold up a hand, whispering urgently. “We’ve got to be quick, Em. Dora's in charge of everything around here—she could pop in any second. I have a feeling she knows something is up, but doesn’t know what. For all I know she could be outside with her ear to the door.”
She nods, but her eyes sparkle with mischief. "Of course, Mrs. Bessant. Just delivering the commissioned piece, as requested." Her voice is formal, but there's a pause, a shared glance that hides out laughter.
Emma unwraps the package to reveal a whimsical watercolor of the estate's gardens—vibrant blooms growing around a towering mansion rendered in her signature soft strokes. It’s perfect.
“Yes, very good. I like it,” I say loudly. Then I lower my voice again. "The walk-in closet is soundproof, I think—let’s go in there, I’ll show you around a bit. I lead her through the door, close it and flip on the lights to reveal rows of designer gowns hanging like jewels, shelves of pristine, never-worn shoes.
Emma touches a shelf full of Louboutin heels, gleaming, red-soled and gorgeous. “Wow.”
She runs a hand along a rack of cashmere sweaters, her touch lingering on the soft fibers. She glances back at me. "And I thought the Kardashians had impressive closets."
We share a low snicker before hurling ourselves into the other’s arms. Then we chat in low tones for a few more minutes. I give her a rundown of how the whole party will happen and what I plan to wear. We know it will be suspicious if she stays too long, so we hug again and I take Emma back downstairs.
Once she is gone and the front door is shut, I exhale, pressing my palms to my flushed cheeks. The morning drags into the afternoon. I help Freya with the balloons in hushed giggles, her small hands fumbling with the helium tank we snuck in, the room filling with floating orbs that bob against the chandelier like captured stars. Frances plays her part, her voice carrying faintly down the hall. Once Dora is sequestered in her suite of rooms, I really go to work.
The caterers and chocolate fountain people are smuggled in through the back door. The DJ and his disco equipment are brought in without allowing him to ring the bell. Same with the other guests.
Then it's time. Freya darts into her grandmother’s room, her voice panicky and urgent: "Grandma! Dora! Can you help me find Mr. Rabbit? Please? I think I left him in the music room, but I can’t find him, and I’m worried he might have fallen behind the piano. He’s scared of the dark, poor thing.”
I hear their footsteps approaching, Frances's slower, Dora's brisk, and we all huddle in the darkened room. Even Franklin. The butler is stiff but smiling faintly. The maids whispering excitedly, Dora’s son, nephew, and sister crouch next to me. The door opens, light spills in, and we leap out—"Surprise!"
Dora freezes, her hand flying to her startled mouth.
It takes a while for her to recover from her shock and understand what’s happening, but as soon as she does, tears well up in her eyes. Dora wipes her eyes. She hugs Freya tightly as she takes in the scene: the over-the-top balloons, the chocolate fountain burbling with molten dark chocolate, its tiers cascading smooth and glossy, surrounded by skewers of fresh strawberries, marshmallows, and pretzels from a local artisanal baker. Trays of catered dim sum steam gently under silver domes—shrimp dumplings translucent and plump, pork bites topped with crab roe, char siu bao fluffy and sweet-savory—all arranged on elegant platters with soy sauce dips and chili oil.