Chapter 5
Five
Blair
By nightfall on Friday, barely twenty-four hours after I arrived at Thornhurst, everyone was gone, and an unnatural hush had settled over the great house.
It’s my first time here alone, and at first, I could ignore the quiet. I occupied myself with perfecting a few new makeup looks, binging reality TV in the seldom-used media room, and exploring the house. It was lonely, sure, but lonely was better than my every move being scrutinized by my family.
Days passed, more days passed, and now, nearly a full week into my father’s version of house arrest with only myself for company, I may actually be going mad.
It’s been a long time since I was truly alone.
In Paris, I lived with a pair of fashion influencers, Celine and Rachel, who kept our little townhouse full of their glamorous, interesting friends.
In Amsterdam, there was Gabriel, and a coffee table full of drugs as a popular draw for glassy-eyed guests, here one day, then gone the next.
Wherever I went, I kept myself busy and surrounded by people. There was music and laughter and life. My days were always different, and I did whatever pleased me, sampling every pleasure life had to offer. It was a hedonistic, bohemian existence, and I found it all very romantic.
Being shut off from that, plunged into the quiet, unearthly stillness of this place, is more than jarring. Within days, Thornhurst has begun to feel less like a house and more like a tomb.
Only seven months and three weeks to go.
Fan-tastic.
Despite spending every holiday here, for the life of me, I can’t remember how I occupied myself as a child.
I can only assume a highly paid nanny or two was available at all times to keep me entertained and prevent me from getting into too much mischief.
A benefit which, unfortunately, isn’t extended to adults.
The only visitor I’ve had is the housekeeper—who was sent by the agency my parents use for staffing, and speaks only Polish—and Old Freddy, who stops by the main house once or twice a day to check in on me, though I’m positive it’s only on my father’s orders.
Even he won’t be around for long, though, as the lord in question has allegedly secured his replacement, and Freddy will finally be allowed to retire in peace.
I’m not particularly looking forward to the arrival of this new entity, who is unlikely to be so benevolent.
Whomever he is, and when he’s going to arrive, however, hasn’t been disclosed to me, and I’m not thinking about it when I wander downstairs on the sixth day of my entombment, dressed in nothing but one of Cedric’s old football jerseys, panties, and fuzzy socks.
Though I know no one is here, I still find myself glancing through every doorway I pass, half expecting to find my father smoking a cigar in his study, or my brother pacing back and forth before the window in the dining room, barking orders into his phone.
Of course, I find nothing but dark rooms and more stillness.
When the phone in my hand vibrates for the first time in days, I stop dead in the middle of the downstairs hall, and my heart lifts when I see who it is.
“Antoinette!” I gasp, delighted, when my friend’s face appears on the screen.
“Hello, darling!” coos Antoinette, and her voice, which is colored by a thick French accent, sounds unnaturally loud in the quiet of the house. “How are you holding up?”
I make a face as I start moving again, ducking into the formal dining room, which is only ever used to entertain important guests. “Oh, you know,” I say vaguely, hurrying to open the heavy burgundy drapes which are drawn over the high, paned windows.
The view of the grounds, which is currently being lashed by freezing rain, is hardly more cheerful than darkness.
“We miss you! When are you coming back?” she asks brightly, holding the phone aloft so she can see me as she darts around her beautiful, sunlit apartment.
I was there only last week, drinking a bellini at the end of her chic white couch, dressed in nothing but a bikini and a sarong.
“There was talk of a trip to my parents’ house in Saint-Tropez, and it wouldn’t be the same without you. ”
I drag the chair out from the head of the long, formal table—my father’s usual place— and drop down into it, propping my phone against a brass candelabra.
Leaning forward to adjust the volume, I make a noncommittal noise.
It seems pretty grim to say “never,” but at this rate, it will be a miracle if my parents let me leave the estate without their permission again.
Rapunzel doesn’t need to be locked in the tower when she has no employment history, a shitty academic record, and her biggest accomplishment to date is a first-place trophy from a wet T-shirt contest in Miami.
God, my boobs get me into some situations, don’t they?
“Next week?” Antoinette suggests, eyebrows raised.
“I’m not sure,” I hedge, pulling my knees up to the troublesome boobs in question. “They’re pissed about those pictures that landed in the tabloids. I’m probably going to have to hang out here for a while and make nice.”
Admitting the truth to Antoinette—that I have basically been blackmailed into submission by my own parents—isn’t going to happen.
We might be friends, but it’s decidedly of the good time variety.
She isn’t who I’d call if I were having a crisis, or relationship drama, or… well, anything other than fun.
My friend scoffs, waving her hand in a very dismissive, French way. “They’re busy, non? Who cares? Alexei has been asking about you. We can invite him on our little getaway, too, if you’d like.”
This information prompts a flicker of excitement that’s extinguished almost immediately.
“I’ll let you know when I’ve booked my ticket,” I assure her with a weak smile, watching as she moves around her apartment, gathering up things and shoving them in her purse.
Her makeup is flawless, and her hair looks freshly blown out, ready for a day of fun.
I swallow my question of where she’s going. It will only depress me.
“Alright, darling. We’ll speak soon. Bisous,” she tells me distractedly, and blows me a kiss before ending the call, leaving me staring at the lock screen of my phone with a hollow ache expanding inside me.
Despite myself, I’m already beginning to wonder…
Would it even be the biggest deal if I snuck out for a few days?
Maybe when Freddy is gone, the new guy won’t even notice.
Strong words with little thought to the actual, practical follow-through is exactly my parents’ style.
Which means, as long as I appear to follow their rules and seem to be a more responsible human being, all will be forgiven in no time.
Hopefully.
Letting my head drop back, I let out a theatrical groan, as if being dramatic will do anything at all when there is no one here to hear it.
Out of sheer boredom and filled with pent-up defiance which screams to be vented, I stand up on my chair.
Taking a cautious step up onto the glossy wood tabletop, I pause, half expecting my mother to appear out of the woodwork and howl at me for befouling the priceless family heirloom with my fuzzy polka dot-clad feet.
She doesn’t, of course, and I smirk as I shuffle forward, picking up enough speed to go sliding a few feet over the varnished tabletop.
I saw this in a movie once. It’s pointless, but so is my entire existence, so I lean into the fun of it.
Back and forth I go, skating on the table that is so long, I can manage two or three decent kick-offs before having to turn around.
I’m just concluding my fourth lap, and feeling cheerful for the first time in days, when a craggy male voice from the doorway makes my heart shoot into my throat.
“Miss Blair?”
With a squeak of surprise, I whip around—momentarily forgetting I’m standing on top of a slippery table—and my stomach swoops as my feet come out from under me. My butt hits the table, and I let out an unattractive oof noise before my gaze finds the two men standing just inside the room.
One of them is Old Freddy.
The other… isn’t.
“Are you alright, Miss Blair?” asks Freddy in alarm, hurrying forward, his wiry brows furrowed in concern.
“Of course!” I attempt to play off my ridiculous behavior with an airy laugh as I scoot to the edge of the table. Sliding off and onto my feet, I offer him a reassuring smile, brushing off Ced’s old jersey.
And, all the while, the stranger stands in the entrance to the room, watching us with a stern frown tugging at the corners of his mouth—his hot mouth.
Despite my fairly obvious daddy (and mommy) issues, older men have never really been on my radar.
Maybe it was just a proximity thing, because the over-forty crowd doesn’t typically attend all-Tuesday-night raves in abandoned warehouses.
Or, more likely, Freddy’s new friend is just ridiculously attractive.
He has to be about forty, but his medium brown hair is thick and a bit wavy. His square jaw is adorned with a low dusting of stubble, and if I’m not very much mistaken, he has dimples. It’s hard to tell, considering he is currently doing whatever the opposite of smiling is.
He couldn’t be Freddy’s replacement… could he?
“Hi,” I greet him breathlessly, not quite able to check my embarrassment at being caught in such a ridiculous predicament by the hottest man I’ve ever seen.
Apparently satisfied I haven’t sustained some kind of injury on his watch, Freddy steps back, lifting his hand toward the silent stranger. “Miss Blair, I’d like to introduce you to Damien Mallory. He’ll be taking over security here at Thornhurst until the election in May.”
Oh my god. Never in my life have I been this excited about one of my parents’ staffing changes.
Stomach swarming with butterflies, I smile at him—really smile at him, not the careful, seductive one I typically employ for men whose abs I fantasize about licking—and draw forward, holding out a hand for him to shake.
“It’s nice to meet you. Thank you so much for taking the job.
I know poor Freddy’s been begging my father for some peace for ages now. ”
Out of my direct line of sight, Freddy chuckles in agreement. Damien Mallory, however, doesn’t so much as smile. His eyes drop to my offered hand, then up to my face, then over my shoulder toward the man whose job he’s taking.
My hand falls, and my heart follows suit.
“You said something about a secondary basement access, Freddy?” he prompts, and I feel a dull stab of shame at the way his deep, melodic voice still makes my belly twist.
Freddy moves past me, saying words that don’t really register.
I stand right where Damien Mallory left me, watching the two men turn toward the door.
He’s an employee. I wasn’t expecting him to flirt with me or anything, but basic professional courtesy would have been nice.
Maybe he was just… nervous? I would be nervous if I were taking a job like he was, working for a man like my father.
At the thought of Lord Porter, my heart sinks—if possible—even further.
Without a doubt, Dad would have interviewed him personally before awarding him a position with basically unlimited access to our family home.
Of course, he would have told the new security guy all about the house’s one and only resident and probably filled him in on the finer points of why I’m here.
Worse yet, he’s probably been put in charge of supervising me.
Even after all the past week has brought, none of it has made me feel lower than this.
Impatiently, I swipe away the tear that’s escaped down the side of my cheek and let out a shallow breath.
If this guy, Mallory, is going to be my only company for months, I’ll have to make nice with him and show him I’m not half as bad as my parents might have led him to believe.
It would be shortsighted to write him off already.
He probably felt the need to be firm with me in front of Freddy, to show he wasn’t going to let me get away with anything.
Maybe when the old man is gone—my lips twitch—well, I wouldn’t mind if he still wanted to be firm with me. Very firm.
He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and I can’t imagine he has a girlfriend, either, if he’s taken a job which means he has to live in a cottage in the middle of nowhere…
Realistically, I’m not getting out of this. I’ve been imprisoned here—in the most depressing, boring, inhospitable corner of Stelland my ancestors could have possibly chosen to build a house upon––whether I like it or not.
I can think of worse ways to kill eight months than in bed with my parents’ new head of security.