Chapter 2
Every day, I question my sanity to continue playing my part in my stepmother’s deal. But we’re already a month in, and being this detached from her has honestly been a blessing after the last six years I spent at her side.
“Hey, are you ready?” Jules bursts into my room without warning. I would say it’s out of character, but I can’t.
My eyes fly to the clock on my nightstand, and I audibly gasp.
Shoot.
Panic bolts through me—both because I almost inhaled the pins between my lips and because it’s much later in the morning than I realized.
“Ciri, we do not have time for this right now. We’re going to be late for the morning roll.” She rushes over to me, softly giggling. “Step away from the mannequin … or else!”
Shoving the pins from my mouth into the dress form, I drop the scissors onto my workshop table, fumbling to put my hair up into a ponytail as fast as I possibly can.
“Crap. Sorry! I lost track of time,” I shout, rushing through the motions of getting dressed as quickly as possible, changing from my pajamas into my work uniform.
Jules checks her watch. “We still have three minutes.”
“Okay, okay, good.” I exhale, shimmying my pants up my legs.
Scrub joggers—check.
Scrub top—check.
Waist apron—check.
Tennis shoes—check.
Watch—check.
Deep breath—check.
Jules’s toe tapping keeps my anxiety at an all-time high as I slide my phone and headphones into my apron and rush out of the door behind her, locking it with the push of a button.
It doesn’t matter how many mornings I wake in this house … mansion … ridiculously large, opulent estate. I’m never used to the sparkly marble floor, sky-high vaulted ceilings, elegant chandeliers the size of cars, and ornate furnishings that belong in a museum.
We race up to the main level, rushing toward Ms. Ravi’s office, slipping inside just as her old clock chimes through the room.
Her stare is already on us, intense and pointed. “Close call this morning, ladies.”
We both nod, tucking our chin to our chest in embarrassment, more me than Jules as Ms. Ravi is her mom. She starts making her way through roll call, and all twenty-four servants answer in response when it’s their turn.
After a speedy rundown of the day, questions, and concerns, we are all dismissed to begin our duties.
Jules and I, along with the others in our group, make our way to the main house, through the corridor that connects to the staff wing of the house, following the same steps we do every morning.
Well, at least on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays when Jules and I work.
We’re only part-time since we’re enrolled at Happily Ever After University. Part of our job with the Kensington household is that we serve their family during the duration of our schooling and they cover tuition, room, and board.
It’s a very generous program. Receiving a golden-ticket diploma from HEAU can land practically any desired job in any career field across the board. Which is exactly what I need to finally and officially get away from my stepmother.
Retrieving our carts, Jules and I head to Mr. Asher and Mr. Dean’s wing while the rest of the group breaks off to tackle other parts of the house.
This has been my cleaning area since I joined the crew. Jules’s old partner graduated last spring, and thankfully, she and I were paired together because she’s the best friend I’ve ever had.
We might not have known each other long, and she still might not know that I’m technically a secret soon-to-be Kensington when my stepmother marries Mr. Everett, but in all the ways that matter, Jules is the only person here that I care about.
“You’re quieter today,” Jules whispers, pulling me from my thoughts.
I quickly put on a smile, not because I have to in front of her, but out of habit.
“Sorry, I think I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well last night,” I tell her truthfully.
“You mean, you were up way too late, working on that dress again?” She eyes me knowingly with a playful smirk on her lips.
My lips purse, and I fight the grin trying to form. “How dare you?”
“What?” she scoffs. “Call you out for the truth?”
“Yes, exactly.” I chuckle, reaching forward and grabbing the doorknob of Mr. Asher’s room, but it doesn’t open when I twist it, which means he’s still sleeping and we won’t be able to clean before our morning shift ends.
“Oh no, one less room to clean. What a shame.” Jules sighs happily. “Thank you, Mr. Asher.” She salutes.
A laugh—or more of a snort—escapes me. “You’re ridiculous. I doubt Mr. Dean is still sleeping in.”
She guides our cart deeper into the wing, rolling silently on the long, carpeted hallway. I trail my finger aimlessly along the wallpaper, studying the photos of the two boys as we pass by.
Images of them playing hockey or dressed to the nines for family functions and events decorate the wall like a time capsule of their exciting youth.
There are even so many moments you wouldn’t think of capturing—random candids and pictures shot mid-motion. Joy and love radiate from them.
A twinge of anger throbs guiltily inside of me. It must be nice to want for nothing, to have anything you desire at your beck and call. To have a family who genuinely loves you. And a life with an unimaginable future.
I know it’s not their fault that they won the lottery on family, but that doesn’t quell the raging jealousy low in my stomach.
The sound of Mr. Dean’s doorknob turning and unlocking draws my attention back to Jules, who leads the way into the room.
Like I said, I doubt he would be sleeping in. He never has. Always punctual and perfect. Even his room is clean before we get to it, tidy and put together.
I’ve never spoken to him or even seen him in person, but I imagine everything he says is as calculated as his room.
You can tell a lot about a person from their room, and while the staff may handle nearly all of the housework and laundry, the signs are still there.
In his closet—a twenty-by-twenty-foot room attached to his main bedroom area—his clothes are in color order, sorted by type: short or long sleeve, tank top, button-up, sweatshirt, hoodie, athletic wear, the list goes on.
His pants are also sorted, folded, and stored to an almost-unhealthy precision.
He’s neat, tidy, and planned. I doubt there’s much that goes on in his life that he isn’t in control of—or at least trying to be. I bet he’s a grade-A control freak.
Jules and I make our way through the room, dusting the ledges of the trim, cleaning every surface, and ensuring it’s in perfect order before shutting the door behind us on our way out.
We still need to finish the hallway, theater, guest bedrooms, and guest bathrooms before we can head back to the staff wing before classes start.
I step into the hallway, and the spray bottle in my hand goes flying, knocked away by something rushing by.
Someone.
“Sorry!” he calls out thoughtlessly as he races down the hall.
It takes me less than a second to register that the blur of a man is Mr. Asher, and he’s … shirtless, wearing only sweatpants, before pulling a shirt over his head.
Jesus Christ.
First impression of seeing him in person? I didn’t even know someone could have that many muscles on their back, rippling with every move they make.
He disappears out the double-door exit of the wing, but I stay frozen, the image of his back and arms still burned into my mind.
“Cirella?” Jules calls out with annoyance, like it’s not the first time she’s tried to get my attention.
I snap out of my stupor and hastily grab the bottle from the floor. “Oh, sorry.”
“Trust me when I tell you this: stay as far away from the Kensington boys as possible, especially if you want to keep your job. The family has a strict no-fraternization policy.”
A humorless chuckle escapes me, one that morphs into a continuous laughter that causes Jules to look at me like I’m insane.
“Are you okay?” She grins nervously with her question, her eyes still wide.
Nodding frantically, I assure her, “Trust me, I have no interest in dating a Kensington—or anyone for that matter. All I’m focused on is myself.”
“Good.” Jules straightens up proudly. “Now, can we hurry up so you can show me the progress on your dress?” She pauses. “And finally tell me who you’re making it for.”
I perk up at her question, excitement flooding my veins. “Y-yeah, of course.”
“It looked beautiful from what I saw this morning,” she praises me before striding into a guest bedroom.
The corners of my lips twitch, and the sensation is almost foreign.
The semblance of a smile feels foreign on my face.
How sad of a thought. How sadder of a reality.
I begin cleaning the sconces on the wall as my mind spirals, searching for a memory where I was genuinely happy, beaming from ear to ear.
I have to go back, all the way back to before my dad passed, before I was left with Adrianna—who is far more of a con woman than a mother—to even find a memory with a real smile.
Adrianna convinced my dad that she loved the both of us, that she would care for me and raise me as her beloved daughter. She weaseled her way into our lives, and once he was gone, so were all her promises.
But it was too late.
My dad left her everything to help her care for me, trusting her more than he should’ve. Which was surprising, given that he had been the most cautious and paranoid man I’d ever known when it came to handing his trust to another.
It wasn’t until I was nearly eight years old that I realized my dad was secretly a multimillionaire. He never intentionally kept it from me, but we didn’t live the lives millionaires did.
We lived in a three-bedroom home in the middle-class part of Evermore, Washington, only a few miles from the Kensington estate.
But we didn’t have golden gates, rivers, maids, or chefs. He made my breakfast every morning, growing up. The only difference between my life and my neighbors’ was that I was homeschooled.