Chapter 5
FIVE
The thought of being trapped in a cage had my mind spinning the entire night. That, and the man on the lawn and the footsteps outside my room. Paranoia even invaded my sleep.
As I lay flat on my back, an unseen force pushed the key out of the hole, making it fall to the floor with a soft clink. Then the door creaked open, and a large figure stood in the doorway.
In my dream, I was paralyzed, unable to do anything but gasp. He loomed there, backlit by faint moonlight, his broad chest moving up and down like church bellows. Dream man’s hips drove back and forth like he was testing how it would feel to split me open.
I blame not having sex for several days after non-stop action with Gil. Scratch that. I blame Gil. And the crime family I refuse to name because they have the murder weapon with my fingerprints.
I tried to move, but the only thing shifting was the sick pulse between my legs. And his powerful thrusts. He kept rocking, like he already owned the rhythm of my body. Therapists would call it latent sexual aggression. I call it a bad habit of wanting the things that scare me most.
He edged forward, and something loosened in my throat. A scream that had him disappearing into the dark. Before I could even process what happened, the nightmare ended, and I was plunged back into sleep.
A sharp knock has me sitting upright, my head throbbing. Sunlight slices through a gap in the heavy curtains, making me wince. I must have yanked them too hard last night. I clutch my temples and groan. How the hell do I have a hangover when the only thing I swallowed was fear?
Whoever’s outside the door knocks again.
“Who is it?” I yell.
No answer. Just more insistent rapping.
I squint, certain this time I’m awake. My gaze darts to the bedside table where I left my phone. With a yawn, I reach across the bed and pick it up. It’s 6:30 in the morning, and there’s no signal. Maybe service on this part of the island is spotty.
The knocking stops, replaced by the sound of retreating footsteps.
I climb out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor.
An ache stretches along my back like I’ve been sleeping on concrete.
Maybe it’s the stress. Or maybe the mattress is like every rich man I’ve met. Plush up front, knives in the springs.
There’s no time for a shower. Not after oversleeping from such a haunting dream.
Not when I imagine eyes at the keyhole, and some man’s breath fogging the brass.
I stumble to the wardrobe, pull out the black dress, and hold it up against my body.
In daylight, it looks even tighter. The heavy wool fabric is unforgiving.
I pull the dress over my head and catch a whiff of something that isn’t detergent. It’s sharp, almost metallic. I can’t shake off the sense that this once belonged to someone else.
The back of my neck prickles. I glance over my shoulder at the door. The key is still in the lock. It should make me feel better. It doesn’t. And I swear I hear the faintest creak in the floorboards like someone is lingering outside.
Shivering, I turn my attention back to the dress and wrestle it down my body. Its buttons strain across my chest, the sleeves dig into my arms, and the stitches threaten to pop. I catch a thread of dark brown hair caught at the collar. With trembling fingers, I pull it free.
Leaving the top three buttons undone, I tug my hair forward to distract from the gaping neckline. It’s not elegant, but as close to decent as I can manage.
Still, I can’t shake the crawling certainty that someone’s watching me fumble through this outfit. A chill shivers down my spine. I force myself to breathe. I can get over myself. I can do this job. I just need to remember I’m safe.
I step outside into a hallway draped in silence and cobwebs I didn’t notice the night before.
There’s no sign of activity, which means the other staff has already left for breakfast. Shit.
I’ll be the last one to arrive. I square my shoulders, picturing a table full of maids and butlers and busybodies, all wanting to know about the new girl.
Thank God I already wrote out my fake backstory when I replied to the advert on Facebook Marketplace.
The farther down I go, the quieter the house becomes, but it’s still crumbling, looking left to rot.
My footsteps echo down long hallways lined with oil paintings of faces blurred by time, or maybe just grime.
Most of the doors are locked, and the few left open contain furniture draped in cloth.
I pass a lounge covered in a faint layer of dust, a library that smells of old paper before giving up.
But I still don’t pass any staff. I don’t hear any voices or even the clatter of dishes or the dull rhythm of someone sweeping. Shouldn’t a house this size be crawling with people?
My stomach tightens as I search the ground floor. The kitchen must be close. I pass a window overlooking the gardens and swear I catch a glimpse of a figure moving toward the forest that borders the grounds. By the time I pause for a better look, he’s already gone.
I round a corner to find a view of the gardens where the lawns fall away into cliffs. Suppressing a shiver, I remind myself that no one hunting me would think to look somewhere so isolated.
Eventually, I follow the faint smell of cooking and reach the kitchen, which is surprisingly well kept. It’s enormous with an industrial stove, copper pots hanging from hooks, every surface wiped clean. It’s like they’ve concentrated all the maintenance budget in this single room.
I scan for signs of life: an apron slung over a chair, a clipboard on the counter, a dish left out to dry, but there’s nothing. Just pristine surfaces and closed drawers, like the room is staged, instead of used.
And still no sign of any staff.
At the far end of the kitchen sits a single place setting of a white plate, silverware, and a napkin folded to a perfect triangle.
What the hell?
Movement at the edge of my vision makes me startle. Mrs. Fairfax emerges from a side door, still masked and in a starched black dress identical to mine. She’s even more imposing in the harsh light of day, with her shoulders squared and her black eyes fixing on my chest.
“In Rochester Manor, we have a dress code.” The words are flat, but her gaze is sharp enough to slice skin.
I glance down at the gaping buttons. “Then maybe the dress should fit.”
Her stare drags over my body, slow, cold, and judgmental. My cheeks heat, and I force myself not to cross my arms over my chest. When her eyes finally return to mine, I resist the urge to step back.
Silence stretches between us like a wire about to snap.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just looms there studying me like I’m a specimen to dissect or discard.
My skin crawls under the intensity of her stare.
I force myself not to fidget, but the seconds drag on until I’m on the verge of screaming.
Finally, she gestures at the place setting and says, “I’ll see what I can do. Now, eat.”
She lifts the lid off a platter on the side containing fried eggs, bacon, sausages and tomatoes, and returns with a pot of coffee that smells like heaven.
My stomach chooses this moment to rumble, making me flush.
The huge woman tilts her head, studying me like she’s never experienced a day of hunger.
Avoiding her gaze, I scurry over to the counter and load my plate.
“Is everyone else at work?” I ask, spearing a sausage.
“Mr. Rochester has only two employees,” she replies.
What? I turn to meet her beady glare. “In a house as big as this?”
Mrs. Fairfax continues staring at me like I’m an exhibit.
When she doesn’t reply, I shift my weight from one foot to the other, trying to hide my unease.
This woman is beyond unnerving. She could strangle someone with her silence.
Her gaze follows me as I take the plate to the single place setting on the table and pick up my fork.
“When do I meet the children?” I ask.
Mrs. Fairfax blinks. “There’s only one.”
I pause, my brow pinching. “I thought the ad said a boy and a girl.”
“No. A daughter.”
“What’s her name?”
“Adele.”
“Will I meet her today?”
“No,” she replies.
I stare at the huge woman, waiting for her to elaborate. She stares back, waiting for me to crack. I grind my teeth. Does this bitch want me to grovel for answers? After several beats of silence, I purse my lips. Apparently, she does.
“Why can’t I meet Adele?” I ask with a sigh.
“She’s under quarantine.”
The fork drops from my fingers, clattering against my plate. “Quarantine?”
“Typhus fever.”
My throat tightens. I stare at the mask covering the lower half of her face. “Wait, how serious is that? I mean, is she okay?”
Instead of replying, Mrs. Fairfax disappears through the door again and pulls it shut.
I glare at the closed door. Seriously?
“Is she contagious? Should I be worried?” I ask with bite, even though I know she’s pretending to be busy at work.
No answer. My nostrils flare. What’s up with this freak? If this is some kind of power game, then she’s winning.
“What’s wrong with Adele?” I ask, trying to mask my exasperation. “Has she had a diagnosis? And what’s the point of bringing me here if she’s contagious?”
“Mr. Rochester handles such matters,” she says from the other room, her voice muffled.
If I had muscles the size of this she-gorilla’s, I would rip open that door, slam her to the wall and order her to stop messing with me.
But a woman on the run from law enforcement is in no position to make demands.
That doesn’t mean I’ll put my health at risk.
Mrs. Fairfax isn’t just wearing that mask to hide a square jaw.
“What the hell does that mean?” My voice rises several octaves.
More silence.
I count to ten. Repeat my question. Count to ten again.
Shoulders sagging, I continue with my breakfast. What the hell is she doing there?
Waiting for me to leave? By the time I finish my plate along with a second croissant, I decide that backing down now would only give her the upper hand. So I ask her again.
A door creaks. My jaw drops. Did she fucking leave? I shoot out of my seat and throw down my fork.
“Mrs. Fairfax, are you still there?” I snap, ready to throw open that door.
“Typhus fever is highly contagious,” a deep, velvety voice says from behind me. “But there’s no need for concern.”
I turn around, my pulse quickening. A man stands in the doorway in a charcoal suit tailored to his athletic frame.
He’s tall, elegant, with fathomless black eyes that make me forget every lie I rehearsed.
Pressure builds up behind my ribs, a tightening that’s equal parts fear and desire.
The last thing I expected to find in a place like this was someone so lethally handsome.
He crosses the room, extending a hand. “Edward Rochester. A pleasure.”
My boss?
He’s in his early forties, with jet-black hair starting to gray in the temples, which only accentuate his strong brow, regal nose, and high cheekbones. His features are sharp and defined, perfectly aristocratic, and I’m already picturing what that mouth could do to me in bed.
I accept his hand. His grip is warm, firm and confident in a way that makes my nipples tighten. It’s the kind of handshake that says he’s used to taking control. I hold his gaze for as long as I can stand before my cheeks turn hot.
“Pleased to meet you,” I manage. “I’m Annalisa. Annalisa Burlington.”
He raises a brow, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. As if he knows the name I’ve given him is bullshit. I try not to squirm in my seat.
Still maintaining his unwavering eye contact, he says, “I trust Mrs. Fairfax has helped you settle in.”
“She has,” I lie, swallowing hard. I had a question about his daughter, but I’ve already forgotten under that penetrating stare.
“The house can be disorienting at first. If you need anything, just ask,” he adds with another disarming smile.
I nod, unable to relax. Just being in the presence of Edward Rochester steals my breath.
I can’t remember the last time I found a man so attractive.
Or so familiar. Maybe I’ve seen his picture in the business pages?
He looks like the type of high roller I would seek out in a club or a casino.
Like the kind of man I’ve always wanted to approach but never dared.
His type never comes alone to seek arrangements with girls like me.
They’re never short of sycophants and dates.
As he turns to leave, something panicked flutters in my chest. “Last night,” I blurt. “The man who drove me here. Was that you?”
He pauses, his slight smile returning. The pulse in my throat throbs.
“No. Fairfax handles all our transportation.”
My gaze darts to the door where Mrs. Fairfax disappeared, but it’s still shut.
I want to ask if the chauffeur is her husband, brother, or son.
But it doesn’t matter because there’s still the question about why the hell I was brought into a house to look after a little girl with a contagious disease.
I want to ask, but I can’t afford to give him a chance to change his mind. Still, I find myself saying, “If Adele is quarantined, then what exactly am I here to do?”
His smile widens, and for a moment, his eyes flicker with something predatory. “Why, make yourself at home.”
Then he’s gone, leaving only the faint scent of expensive cologne and the echo of his footsteps in the hallway.
I stare at the door he left through, my heart beating faster than it should. The silence feels weighted, expectant. Like I’ve just passed some kind of test. I’m not sure if I succeeded as myself, or as whoever Annalisa Burlington is supposed to be.