Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
JULIET
Emma's advice—to indulge, to let my powerful attraction to Blake run its course without fighting it. It’ll be easy. Just go with the flow, she said.
But look at what I’ve done.
I pace my bedroom with my phone clutched in my hand.
The plush rug muffles my footsteps. Where do I even start with Freya's sleepover? It was supposed to be a simple meal for two. A sort of date. A way to test the waters without any strings attached. Instead, I’m drowning in my own deceit.
Any move I make now will only pull me deeper into the web of lies Carolyn and I spun.
I don't know who Freya’s friends are, let alone which of them she could possibly spend the night with.
Carolyn never mentioned playdates or sleepovers in the briefings.
She, rightly, was more concerned that I learned to execute her routine and mannerisms flawlessly.
She didn’t know I’d be trying to set up dinner dates with her husband.
Panic flutters in my chest. What if I screw this up, pick the wrong child, and blow my cover?
I stop pacing. I’ll just have to ask Freya directly.
Ask her the right questions and glean the information from her innocent chatter.
I push open Freya’s door softly, and the hand-painted sign swings gently.
Freya is curled up on her canopy bed, taking a nap.
Her small chest rising and falling evenly, curls splayed across the pillow like a halo.
No help there—she's out cold, her face peaceful in sleep.
I can't bring myself to wake her, not when she looks so sweet and untroubled.
I back out quietly, and close the door with a soft click.
What do I do now?
I have no choice but to call Carolyn. She’s going to want to know why I’m arranging a sleepover for her stepdaughter.
Oh dear. I’ll have to lie again. With dread knotting my stomach, I pull out the burner phone from its hiding spot under a stack of silk scarves in my drawer.
My fingers are trembling as I dial her secret number.
It rings and rings, the sound hollow in my ear, but she's not reachable—no answer, just voicemail. Maybe that’s for the best. I leave a message, my voice hushed and urgent.
"Carolyn, it's me. Freya wants a sleepover—any friends she usually goes to? Call me back soon."
I hang up and slip the phone away. A wave of isolation crashes over me.
I'm on my own in this, no safety net. I clasp my hands together and think hard.
And I realize that rather than get myself in trouble by stumbling over names I don't know, and risking suspicion from Blake or the staff, I'll just pretend that I spent all the time cooking and forgot about the sleepover.
It's a flimsy excuse, but better than digging myself deeper into a lie I can't sustain.
Relief trickles in, easing the knot a fraction.
Yes, that'll work. I’ll play the distracted wife, buried in dinner prep.
I go to the kitchen and tell Vincent, the Chef, that he has the night off.
He looks at me as if I have grown a second head. “Are you sure, Madam?”
“Absolutely. I’m just going to cook some steaks for Mr. Bessant and me,” I smile and say confidently.
He looks apprehensive. “Perhaps I could just show you how all the appliances work,” he ventures cautiously.
“That is a brilliant idea,” I agree, glancing at all the professional-grade appliances.
It is a Viking range with blue knobs that is the most intimidating.
Other than that, everything else is pretty easy.
He leaves after repeating that he will be at the staff quarters should I need him.
I get started with dinner. First, I pull out ingredients I need from the massive double fridge. Two pieces of fillet steak.
Great, I will make grilled filet mignon with rosemary roasted potatoes and a side of asparagus sautéed in garlic butter, and a red wine reduction sauce to tie it all together.
Once all the ingredients are on the marble counter, I start peeling and chopping the potatoes.
The blade slices through with satisfying thuds.
I drop them into a pan of boiling salted water.
At that moment, Dora bustles in holding her notebook. She stops in surprise at the sight of me in front of the stove.
“Since Frances sf dining out, I’m cooking dinner for Blake and me.”
Her eyebrows fly upwards. “Oh, that’s nice.”
Leaning against the counter, I phrase my words casually. “Freya’s been wanting to have a sleepover at one of her friend’s houses, and her father figured tonight would be nice. Who do you think she would be most happy to spend the night with? I want to surprise her.”
Dora pauses, her face softening with a newfound warmth for me since the surprise party.
"Oh, Mrs. Bessant, that's very sweet of you.
Freya has a few playmates, but for short notice sleepovers, the best option is Lily, her Vietnamese friend from school.
They live really close by in Glen Cove, so it would be easy for Franklin to drop her off.
I can make a call and set it up if you'd like. "
Relieved, God, so relieved. The tension uncoils like a snake in my chest. “Thanks,” I say, my voice bright. "That would be perfect, Dora. Please put me on to Lily's mother."
She nods and starts to pull her phone from her apron pocket.
“Er. Can you remind me again what her mom does?”
“She’s a teacher. Good woman,” Dora says, scrolling through the contacts on her phone.
“Yes, I remember now.”
Dora dials quickly, the ring echoing tinny in the kitchen. Then she hands her phone over to me.
“Thanks, Dora,” I whisper appreciatively.
Lily’s mother and I chat a little bit on the phone. Her voice is warm and prettily accented. Of course, Lily would love to have Freya over, she confirms enthusiastically. The date is scheduled for six o’clock. Easy as that. I hang up and hand the phone back to Dora with a grateful smile.
Dora offers to help me, but I refuse. There is not much to do, but trim the woody ends of the asparagus spears, season the steaks with cracked pepper and salt, and make the reduction once the steaks are nearly done.
Dora wishes me luck and goes upstairs to finish off her day and help Freya get ready.
I am so relieved to have solved my problem.
Now I can really focus on getting the meal right for the both of us.
Once the potatoes are boiled, I strain them in a colander, shake them up to break up the edges, and dump them onto a heavy baking tray.
I drizzle some olive oil over the golden chunks and toss in some fresh rosemary sprigs.
Their piney scent fills my nostrils as I slide the tray into the oven.
They should be done in half-an-hour.
Soon enough, it gets dark outside, twilight deepening through the windows to inky night.
The kitchen lights cast a cozy glow over the counters.
I time the grill pan on the range to sear the filets, the sizzle filling the kitchen with savory smoke.
The potatoes are turning golden in the oven, their edges crisping just right.
It's therapeutic, this cooking, my hands busy as my mind quiets.
The simple act is grounding me in the moment.
I hear his arrival—the crunch of gravel under tires, the front door opening with its familiar creak.
My heart races just thinking about being alone with him.
That heat from last night is still smoldering under my skin, making me ache in ways I shouldn't.
If anything, acknowledging the desire has made it sharper, more insistent.
He comes in just as Freya comes down, bounding into the kitchen in her pajamas and overnight bag. He picks her up and swings her into his arms. She hugs him tightly. "Daddy, I'm going for a sleepover at Lily’s!"
“You be good.”
Dora follows, nodding to Blake. "Everything's set, Mr. Bessant. I'll be retiring for the night as well, good evening."
I feel the heat creeping up my neck because it's obvious now that everyone's clearing the way for us. The house empties like a stage being set, whispers of orchestration in the air. It was supposed to be just a simple dinner. I’ve been here a while now and we haven't had any alone time like this.
But now the occasion feels charged and inevitable. My pulse quickens at the thought.
Suddenly, all the noises die down. The car carrying Freya pulls away, Dora's footsteps retreat out of the house. Blake goes down into the cellar and comes back with a bottle of wine, the label dark and elegant. He pops the cork with a soft thunk.
I watch him from the back, stirring the sauce, my breath catching at the sight.
His shirt stretched taut over his shoulders as he reaches for a couple of wine glasses, his black jeans hugging his hips.
When he turns abruptly, his eyes land on me, and I feel exposed, heated under that gaze, my skin prickling as if he's already touching me.
He’s staring, and I can feel his eyes tracing every inch of me, the intensity making my cheeks burn. I try to smile at him, but his gaze is so intense, dark and hungry that I drop my spoon. The wooden handle slips from my suddenly clammy fingers, and clatters against the pot's edge.