Chapter 22
W hen I wake up the next morning, a wave of unease washes over me. The bed feels too soft, the pillow is uncomfortably thick, and the comforter carries a scent I don’t recognize. It’s not unpleasant—fresh linen, crisp and clean—but it’s not the familiar lavender detergent I use.
Groggily, I open my eyes and blink. Almost as quickly as the confusion and panic sets in, it melts away as I take in my surroundings. There’s a soft glow illuminating from the cracked bathroom door in the otherwise dark green bedroom, and a sliver of morning light peeking through the edges of the thick, drawn curtains.
The day before comes rushing back and lingers on the final memory of the night; Silas walking me to the guest room, pausing just outside the door. His hand found my nape, warm and firm, as he pulled me close and pressed a kiss to the uninjured side of my temple. Against the side of my face, he’d whispered for me to come to him if I needed anything before stepping into the room directly across from mine—the one that was so obviously his bedroom.
My head aches all over, the skin on my forehead feels tight, and my body is heavy with the remnants of exhaustion. All things considered, though, I slept like a rock. My body clearly needed the rest, but as I drifted off last night, I had a fleeting thought that probably helped me relax: Peter can’t reach me here. Even with my portable door jammer and travel lock at the apartment, I’ve always known he could get to me if he really wanted to. But here, in this house, I feel a kind of safety I haven’t felt in years. Knowing that I’m beyond his reach, even if only temporarily, brings an unfamiliar sense of relief and makes me cry all over again.
Unsure of what time it is, I peel myself out of the luxurious sheets and pad over to the bathroom. There’s a double window with sheer curtains barely containing the bright morning sun. After using the toilet and washing my hands without looking up, I brace myself against the counter. I never ended up looking at myself yesterday. It was all too overwhelming, and I couldn’t bear to confront the reality of my injuries and the scars that might linger long after this is over. But today is a new day, and the only way forward is to face it head-on. Reluctantly, I lift my amber eyes to the mirror and wince.
The diagonal cut on my forehead is about halfway between my left eyebrow and hairline. Thanks to it being shallow and the skin splitting evenly, Dr. Carrow’s steri-strips seem to be doing their job well, even if they’re stained a faint red.
What’s more jarring is the giant lump beneath the cut and the dark purple bruising that’s pooled mostly under my left eye and in my right tear duct. The discoloration, mixed with my pale skin and the road-rash-like scratch across my cheek, leaves little to be desired. Luckily, the other injuries are less noticeable, especially the welt hidden beneath my long, brown waves.
There’s nothing to be done about it anyway. The cut will heal, the bruises will fade, and the lump will shrink in a few days. I made it out of that alley alive, and that’s what matters right now.
I cast the thoughts from my mind and distract myself by getting ready. The bathroom is fully stocked with new toiletries and the over-the-counter medications Dr. Carrow instructed me to take, so I take my time brushing my teeth and washing my face, careful not to disturb the steri-strips since they need to stay on for at least a week. The brush Silas had taken out from a drawer under the sink last night is still on the counter, so I run it through my tangles before tying them back in a ponytail with the hair elastic around my wrist, and then pop two acetaminophen into my mouth.
When I re-enter the bedroom and open the curtains, something stacked on the black dresser near the door catches my eye. After moving closer, I realize it’s a neatly folded stack of clothes: several pairs of jeans, a sweatshirt, pajamas, sweaters, and t-shirts, all with the tags still on. To the side of the clothes is a paper bag containing underwear, socks, wired bras, and sports bras. On top of the stack is a folded piece of paper with my name written on the front in a bold, masculine font.
As I reach for the note, my foot accidentally kicks something at the base of the dresser. I glance down and spot two pairs of shoes tucked neatly under the edge: white sneakers and black boots. Shaking my head with an incredulous huff, I pick up the letter, my curiosity piqued.
I considered picking something out myself, but I like my balls right where they are. Natalie handled it instead. Left these here for when you wake up. Come downstairs and have breakfast with me when you’re ready. – SW
I snort out a laugh, folding the letter neatly and setting it aside. A wave of gratitude washes over me for Natalie’s thoughtfulness. I wish I had a phone to text her a thank-you. That’s just another thing I’ll need to get sorted today.
Glancing at the clothes again, I decide on a pair of jeans and a sweater. Stripping off the pajamas that had mysteriously been placed on the bathroom vanity last night, I toss them into the hamper next to the dresser and carefully slipping the sweater over my head, I wince at the slight pull against my forehead. When the jeans bunch at my knees, pressing against the bruises there, I let out a small whimper but push through. Once I’m dressed, I grab a pair of socks from the paper bag, pull them on, and slip into the sneakers that fit like a glove.
Taking a deep breath, I step out of the bedroom and head toward the kitchen, unsure of where Silas might be. The faint aroma of something savory and warm guides me. I stop short in the entryway, taken aback by the sight of an older woman in a crisp white chef’s coat standing at the island. She’s strong, with broad shoulders and short blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ears. Her hands move with precision as she dices vegetables, the sound of her knife against the cutting board rhythmic and efficient. As if sensing my stare, she glances up and meets my eyes. Her sharp nose and soft blue eyes give her a kind yet no-nonsense appearance, but she offers me a welcoming smile, not the slightest bit deterred by the wounds on my face.
“Ms. Page?” she asks, her voice professional, though not unkind. She doesn’t stop her dicing, which stresses me out a little. How do chefs manage not to chop off a finger while talking?
“Hi,” I respond awkwardly, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks as I step further into the kitchen. My eyes dart toward the stove, where a sauce simmers gently, releasing a rich, savory aroma. A colander of fresh fruit sits by the sink, still dripping with water, and several bowls filled with colorful ingredients surround her workspace. The oven clock reads 8:23.
“Mr. Wells is on the enclosed terrace,” she says, nodding toward the other doorway. “I planned on making a vegetable and turkey sausage omelet with fruit and toast. Does that sound okay?”
“That sounds delicious,” I admit, clasping my hands in front of me.
“Wonderful. Can I get you a cup of coffee to take out there with you? How do you take it?” She finally sets down the knife, wiping her hands on the towel draped over her shoulder, and moves toward the impressive coffee station in the corner.
As much as I want to tell her I can do it myself, something about her presence tells me this isn’t a battle I’ll win. “Sugar and almond milk, usually, but I’m okay with any type of milk.”
“Got it.” She nods briskly and gets to work. In less than a minute, she stirs the sugar into the steaming cup and places it in front of me.
“Try it and let me know if you need anything added,” she instructs, tossing the spoon into the sink behind her.
I lift the mug to my lips, testing the temperature before taking a sip. It’s smooth and balanced, exactly how I like it.
“It’s perfect,” I say, lowering the mug back to the counter without letting go of it. A sudden wave of self-awareness hits me. “I’m sorry, I’m being rude. Can I ask your name?”
Her brows furrow slightly as she looks up from transferring the diced peppers into a stainless-steel bowl, as if she wasn’t expecting the question.
“My name is Kendall. I’m Mr. Wells’s residential chef.”
“Hi, Kendall. It’s nice to meet you,” I reply with a smile. “I’m sure Silas asked you to call me Ms. Page, but please just call me Scarlett.” I pause, holding the mug closer. “Thank you for the coffee and for making us breakfast.”
Kendall’s expression softens further, her small smile widening. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Scarlett.”
“I won’t distract you any longer, but thanks again.”
“It’s my pleasure,” she replies, dipping her head in acknowledgment before turning back to her work.
Cradling the coffee, I leave the kitchen through the entrance on the opposite side, assuming the enclosed terrace is the outdoor space I saw at the center of the rooms I was in during the silent auction. I navigate the house, taking in the quiet elegance of the space. After one wrong turn and a brief moment of disorientation, I finally spot the main staircase and use it as a point of reference.
The French doors connecting the terrace to the formal dining room are propped open, allowing the cool morning air to drift into the house. Silas sits at a round metal table, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he reads from a tablet resting in his lap. He’s dressed in a black sweater, brown tapered pants, and white sneakers. A steaming cup of coffee sits in front of him, wisps of vapor spiraling upward before disappearing into the crisp morning air.
Seeing Silas in pajamas last night hadn’t prepared me for what casually dressed Silas would look like. Heat simmers beneath my skin and threatens to spill over when he glances up. I’m prepared for him to grimace at my injuries now that they’ve had time to settle, but there’s no hint of disgust in his expression. Instead, his eyes sweep over me, pausing at every visible mark before returning to my face with a soft, disarming smile.
“Good morning,” he greets, his voice gruff with the remnants of sleep. A sound I wish I could bottle that sound and save it for later.
“Morning,” I reply, stepping further into the dining room and out onto the terrace. The late April air is brisk, but the warmth radiating from the house provides just enough reprieve to make it tolerable.
There’s only one other chair, positioned to Silas’s left against a stone wall draped with climbing vines just beginning to turn green. I take the seat, scooting closer to the table before setting my coffee down.
Once I’m settled, I glance over at him. Without hesitation, he leans forward, fingers brushing lightly over the side of my temple and tracing down toward the dark bruise under my left eye. The contact is nearly weightless, but it still makes my heart thunder against my ribs.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, his espresso-colored eyes scanning my face with a mix of concern and something else I can’t quite place.
I shrug, trying to appear unaffected by his proximity. “Honestly, not terrible. Everything hurts, but I expected that. My head’s the worst today—just sore.”
“Resting definitely helps,” he agrees, his lips curving into a small, lopsided smile. “You were sleeping like the dead when I brought in those clothes.”
“Is sneaking into your guest’s bedroom a hobby of yours, or am I just special?” I tease, arching a brow to mask the heat rising to my cheeks at the thought of him watching me sleep.
His fingers slide down the curve of my jaw to rest on the tip of my chin, holding me in place with the faintest pressure of his thumb. My breath catches, eyes widening as he leans in just slightly as he murmurs, “That fucking mouth.”
The words send a shockwave through me, my stomach flipping as he holds my gaze, his expression a mix of heat and playful challenge. My mind scrambles for a response, but his thumb lingers just long enough to leave me speechless before he pulls away.
Instead of taunting him further, I lift my coffee and take a sip, desperate for something to occupy my hands and focus. That’s when I notice the two smartphones sitting side by side on the table.
“The one on the left is for you,” Silas says, seeing where my attention has shifted. “It’s not attached to a provider yet. I figured you’d want to handle that yourself.”
I gape at him, sitting back in my chair. “That’s too much.”
“It’s too much to replace your stolen phone?”
“Absolutely.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying me like I’ve just said something absurd. Picking up his coffee, he takes a slow drink before setting it down alongside his tablet. “Would it make you feel better if I said you could pay me back?”
I set my coffee down. “It would,” I answer firmly, crossing my arms.
His response is a low chuckle, one that sends warmth curling through me. A stray curl falls across his forehead as he leans forward, elbows resting on the table and fingers threading together. His expression is so calm, so sure, it’s almost maddening. “Okay.”
My eyes narrow suspiciously. Something about his tone tells me that even if I went out of my way to pay him back by slipping cash into every crevice of this house, he’d find a way to return it all.
“You’re irritating.”
Silas smirks just as Kendall walks through the formal dining room toward us. She carries a tray with the precision of someone who’s done this a thousand times. Without so much as a clink of the dishes, she sets the tray down on the opposite side of the table and begins serving.
First, she places two perfectly portioned omelets in front of us, each loaded with colorful vegetables and turkey sausage. Next comes a small basket of whole wheat toast accompanied by a butter dish, two bowls of vibrant fruit salad, neatly arranged utensils, and four glasses.
Kendall disappears briefly, returning moments later with another tray that holds pitchers of orange juice and ice water, an insulated coffee pot, a sugar bowl, and a creamer filled with milk. Her timing is impeccable, almost as if rehearsed.
How in the world did she make this so fast?
“Thank you, Kendall,” I murmur, my eyes wide as I take in the spread. Silas, mid-reach for a piece of toast, freezes for a second, his eyebrows shooting up. Did he really think I wouldn’t ask for this woman’s name after she made me coffee and prepared a feast?
“Yes. This looks incredible, as always. Thank you,” he echoes, offering her a kind smile. Kendall nods, her small grin softening her otherwise sharp features, and excuses herself back into the house.
“How often is Kendall here?” I ask, aiming for casual curiosity, though it feels like such a ridiculous question. But this is the world Silas inhabits.
“Every day except Mondays and Tuesdays,” he answers, slicing into his omelet. “She usually preps meals for me to take to the office or reheat when I get home.”
I pluck a piece of toast from the basket between us, spreading a small amount of butter over the warm slice. “So, I can safely assume you weren’t the one who roasted that chicken last night?”
Silas laughs mid-bite. He swallows quickly, his dark eyes glinting with humor. “I could’ve done it, but why ruin the fun of keeping you guessing?”
We fall into easy conversation, sharing stories of our favorite meals to cook and how Silas’s mother raised all three of her children to have those basic life skills. Despite the enclosed terrace blocking the direct sun, the morning gradually warms, the breeze carrying a hint of spring. The atmosphere is calm, almost domestic, and for a moment, I allow myself to enjoy it.
But just as we’re finishing our meal, Silas’s phone vibrates on the table, its screen lighting up with an incoming call. His easy demeanor sharpens instantly, hand stilling as his eyes flick to the screen before picking it up. Even without saying it, I know it’s about me.
“Go ahead,” Silas answers, sharp and professional. My stomach tightens as I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I glance down at the remnants of my breakfast, suddenly losing any remaining appetite.
Silas notices. Of course, he does. Without missing a beat, his hand finds my thigh. The warmth and steadiness of his touch quell some of the rising panic in my chest.
“And nothing was caught on camera?” His voice dips lower, jaw tightening as he listens. His thumb begins to move in slow, deliberate circles against my leg, the motion a silent reassurance. It’s absurd how much comfort such a simple gesture brings me.
I take a shaky breath, the sound barely audible but enough to catch his attention. His gaze lifts to meet mine, his expression softening slightly despite the tension radiating off him, silently asking me if I’m okay.
I give him a faint nod, unable to trust my voice.
On the other end of the line, light chatter buzzes faintly, too muffled for me to make out. Silas listens intently, his eyes narrowing as he stares at the stone wall over my shoulder.
“Okay,” he finally says, his voice clipped but calm. “We’ll head that way in a few minutes. If you haven’t already, have Paul do a sweep of the building before we get there.”
The nausea churns harder in my stomach as he ends the call. His fingers tighten briefly on my thigh before retreating, leaving me feeling unmoored.
He sets the phone down and exhales quietly, his tone softening just slightly as he speaks. “Some of my team met the locksmith and your apartment manager to ensure the lock change went smoothly.” His voice carries that same calculated calm, but his eyes flick to mine with careful intent. “When they got there, the police were pulling up because they received a call from one of your neighbors. The lock cover was busted and someone broke in.”
My chest tightens. I sit up straighter, my pulse thundering in my ears. Silas’s eyes stay locked on mine, watching every micro-expression as I try to process the weight of his words.
“They think whoever it was might have been looking for something,” he continues, his voice steady, yet heavy with implication.
He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to. We both know what—or who—they were looking for.
Me.