Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
JULIET
Dora's birthday party.
I’m looking forward to it as I have put a lot of effort into it, and I can only hope it goes well. The mansion feels alive around me, distant sounds of birds chirping slipping in through the window that I left cracked open.
But as I sit up and push my hair out of my face, that excitement twists into a knot of nerves in my belly. Blake. He'll be there, of course. It's his house, his staff, his family. The thought of him in the same room again, those icy-gray eyes locking onto mine again, sends a shiver down my spine.
Thank God, I haven't seen much of him since that charged moment in Freya's room, when his lips brushed my forehead, and my body betrayed me with goosebumps that felt like fire. He's been out at the office or in his study, and I’ve had the party preparations to keep me busy.
Part of me was relieved—it's easier to breathe without him close, without that magnetic pull that makes my pulse race and my thoughts scatter. But another part, the one I don't want to admit to, missed the spark, and the way he looks at me as if I'm a puzzle he's dying to solve.
What if today, in the midst of the party, he corners me?
Asks questions I can't answer?
Or worse, touches me again, and I melt right there in front of everyone?
I shake my head and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My bare feet sink into the plush Aubusson rug. No, focus on the good. The party's going to be perfect. And Emma's coming with the painting—my secret lifeline in this charade.
I hurry to the bathroom, wash my face, and stare at my reflection in the mirror for a few moments. My eyes look brighter today, maybe from the anticipation of Emma being here, but I remind myself that I have to be super careful. No one can know she is my friend.
She’s arriving as the artist delivering a commissioned piece, nothing more.
I have to play it cool, discreet, like we're almost strangers.
My heart flutters at the thought of seeing her familiar face again—her wild curls and easy smile a reminder of my real life back in the East Village.
It'll ground me, make this feel less like I’m trapped in a dream.
I quickly slip into a simple white linen sundress that makes me feel like I’m not trying too hard. The humidity makes everything cling, so I tie my hair back in a loose ponytail and spritz on Carolyn's signature perfume, the floral notes mixing with my own warmth in a way that still feels foreign.
Downstairs, there is subtle activity going on, the clink of dishes from the kitchen, the faint vacuum hum from a distant hall.
I keep my steps quick and avoid the areas where Blake might appear.
I peek into the music room briefly, and my heart swells at the sight.
We've prepped it quietly over the last day with stacks of uninflated balloons hidden in one of the cabinets. The chocolate fountain people will arrive later, and I’ll have to direct them.
I don't linger.
Dora's in charge of the house, and I can't risk her spotting anything suspicious. I grab a freshly baked croissant from the breakfast buffet table and a cup of black coffee while my mind races through the tightly scheduled timeline for today. Emma should be here soon.
The doorbell chimes through the house like a soft melody, and my pulse quickens.
Stuffing the last bit of buttery croissant into my mouth, I force a composed expression and head out to the foyer, but Dora has beaten me to it.
Her salt-and-pepper hair is pulled back as neatly as ever, and her face set in that professional mask I've come to recognize—courteous but aloof.
I hang back in the doorway, watching as she opens the massive oak door, a gust of wind rushing in with the scent of cut grass and salty sea.
Emma stands on the threshold. Her wild chestnut curls are tied back under a baseball cap, and she’s wearing overalls over an open flannel shirt. She looks every bit the struggling artist. She's cradling a wrapped canvas in her hands, her green eyes wide and flicking around the grand entrance.
“Can I help you?” Dora asks politely.
"Um, painting delivery for Mrs. Carolyn Bessant," Emma says with that Brooklyn lilt I know so well.
“I can take it for her,” Dora says, reaching a hand out.
She looks at Dora expectantly. “Uh… no. I need her stamp of approval.”
“Of course. Perhaps you will be good enough to wait in the reception room while I inform her of your arrival.”
I step forward then, my heart pounding so hard I swear they can hear it, but I keep my face neutral, and a touch of snobbishness like Carolyn would.
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.
The DJ starts playing the Happy Birthday song. Everyone sings along. Dora looks on with her hands clasped tightly in amazement. Everyone claps, then the DJ begins to play his list of upbeat songs from the eighties and nineties, from the time when Dora was young. It fills the room with party energy.
The party explodes into life—laughter echoing off the walls, people dipping treats into the chocolate, the rich, velvety sweetness coating tongues and fingers, dim sum passed around on trays with chopsticks clinking.
And the alcohol flows: bottles of wine in ice buckets, vodka for mixing with fresh juices, the corks popping like celebrations themselves.
Then Frances warms the room with toasts and stories. It's a great success, the kind that makes my chest ache with happiness. I did this, brought this light to this strangely disconnected family and house.
Dora approaches me as the music shifts to something softer, her eyes still glistening. She takes my hands in hers, squeezing gently, her gaze searching my face—lingering on my eyes, my smile—as if she can't quite believe it's me standing there.
"Mrs. Carolyn," she says, her voice thick with emotion, pausing as if weighing her words.
"This... all of this. I don't know what to say.
Thank you. Truly. I never expected... No one has ever…
." She trails off, her brow furrowing in that mix of surprise and disbelief, like she's seeing me for the first time.
I smile. "You totally deserve it, Dora. You’ve been good to this family for a very long time. Happy birthday!"
Frances edges over, her regal bearing unsoftened by champagne. She hesitates, her blue eyes meeting mine with reluctance, a flicker of something almost like approval buried under layers of wariness.
“All of this was... thoughtful," she says finally, her voice clipped but sincere, pausing as she shifts her weight from one leg to the other. "Thank you, Carolyn."
The words hang there, surprised, but real. I smile at her. “It was no trouble, Frances.”
Then a worrying thought flashes into my head. What happens to these people when the real Carolyn comes back?