Chapter 19
NINETEEN
My fiancée.
The word slices sharper than a knife to the gut. My face freezes into a blank mask, but on the inside, I’m bleeding.
Blanche saunters over to Rochester and leans into him like she’s staking a claim.
He slips an arm around her waist and pulls her into his side.
The pair of them stare back at me—her smirking, him unreadable.
I can’t tell if they want me to curtsey, grab her Louis Vuitton luggage, or drop dead. Instead, I gape, my breath shallow.
The silence stretches between us until Rochester finally clears his throat. “Breakfast for two, Miss Burlington.”
“Of course,” I say, my voice distant.
Before either of them can order me to take her bags, I turn toward the hallway.
My legs wobble, like they’re on the verge of collapse, and the marble floor feels like a chessboard with me as the sacrificial pawn.
Dead aristocrats on the walls follow my retreat, their smug faces saying I don’t belong.
Fiancée. He has a fucking bride-to-be.
How could I have been so stupid?
The pieces slam into place with sickening clarity. The mask, the darkness—all those strange kinks were plausible deniability, so I could never be sure it was him.
Rich men don’t have relationships with the help. They just take what they want, leaving women like me with the bitter taste of feeling used.
Gil did the same thing, didn’t he? Made me feel special, wanted. But when he had to choose between his bosses and our relationship, he handed me over like a tithe. I should have seen this coming. Should have known a man like Rochester wouldn’t waste precious time on someone like me.
By the time I reach the kitchen doorway, my chest is so tight that I’m barely getting air into my lungs. I stumble inside and cling to the counter’s edge, holding tight as the room tilts sideways.
“Get a grip,” I say to myself through clenched teeth, but it’s futile.
The way he touched me last night, his masterful commands, his declaration of ownership all felt real.
The praise when I submitted to him, the gentle way he caught me when my legs collapsed.
All of it just another performance. Another wealthy bastard amusing himself while his real life waited in the wings.
Shit.
How the hell am I spiraling? This isn’t even new.
I stalk toward the refrigerator and fling open the door, reminding myself I have more to worry about than being used by another rich asshole. Even if he disgusts me now, I can’t gather my dignity and leave. He’s the only thing keeping the cops off my back.
Hands shaking, I take some eggs and crack them into a bowl. The yolks break and bleed into the whites like wounds seeping into snow. I whisk them harder than necessary, working out my rage on the breakfast ingredients.
Muscle memory is the only thing keeping me functioning. I make the same French omelette I prepared for this morning’s romantic breakfast, then add the same fresh herbs and sides.
When I carry the plates into the dining room, Rochester sits buried in his newspaper, and Blanche leans back in her seat, examining her manicure with bored elegance.
She glances up as I approach, her dark eyes raking over my tight uniform with obvious amusement. “Mrs. Fairfax, isn’t it?”
Clenching my teeth, I set down her plate. “It’s Annalisa Burlington.”
Her brows rise as if we weren’t just introduced half an hour ago. “Edward mentioned hiring a nanny, but I assumed you were Fairfax.”
Heat floods my face. I walk around the table and set down Rochester’s plate. He doesn’t even look up from his newspaper. He just sits there like I’m invisible, like his fingers weren’t in my pussy hours ago, like he wasn’t calling me his good girl while I came apart on his hands.
“You know, based on your bulk,” Blanche adds, her gaze following me across the dining room.
This bitch is testing my limits. Daring me to say something, to strike back. I grind my teeth, not letting this woman goad me into getting fired.
“Mrs. Fairfax is away,” I say, the words clipped. “I’m filling in.”
“How versatile of you,” she says, her gaze flicking down to my chest.
My throat tightens. I should walk out while I still have my self-respect, let her fester with her two-timing fiancé. But as I turn to leave, Rochester clears his throat.
“Miss Burlington.” His tone is cool, distant. “Air out a guest room for Miss Ingram.”
I stiffen, my stomach tightening. Then I turn around to find Blanche glaring across the table at Rochester.
“Edward, darling, surely we were going to share.”
Rochester finally looks up from his paper, disinterested. “Not before marriage, my dear.”
Triumph flares in my chest. Without meaning to, my lips quirk into a smile. I don’t know why because he’s still a cheating bastard. Blanche leans forward and pouts, trying to capture his attention. When that fails, she reaches across the table to touch his hand.
My eyes narrow. Why is Rochester keeping his distance? Most men would be all over a woman like her, especially if they’re engaged.
She catches me looking and hisses, “What are you still doing here?”
I pinch my lips shut and continue to watch her crash and burn.
“Tea,” Rochester says without looking up from his paper.
I walk around the table to pour, hyperaware of how close I have to stand to Rochester’s chair.
His cologne fills my nostrils, different from the scent that was all over me last night.
I can’t help thinking about how those same hands delicately stirring his drink circled my clit.
And those cold lips touching the rim of his cup were telling me how much he loved my tits.
Blanche watches me serve with predatory interest. “How long have you been helping my fiancé?”
“About a month.”
“And what exactly are you doing for him?” Her eyes drag over my cleavage like she’s checking for bite marks.
My breath hitches. I resist the urge to raise a hand to my throat. She knows. Knows something happened between Rochester and me. Knows there’s a reason he doesn’t want her in his room. I shake off that thought and focus on her question.
“Cleaning, cooking,” I reply. “Picking up the slack for Mrs. Fairfax.”
“Are you sure that’s not all?” she snips.
I glance at Rochester again, who continues reading like he can’t hear the bitch’s insinuations. Last night, he was so attentive. Now he won’t pay me an ounce of attention.
“Will there be anything else?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“Actually, yes,” Rochester says without looking up. “See that the silver is properly polished. We’ll be entertaining guests.”
I retreat from the dining room, my veins throbbing.
Through the doorway, I can hear them talking in low voices, her occasional laughter scraping against my nerves like nails on glass.
Guests mean more snobs like Blanche Ingram and more chances of being recognized.
And more thankless work. I need to get the hell out of here before anything else goes wrong.
That chauffeur I saw earlier has to be somewhere on the property. Maybe I can convince him to take me into town, or at least find out when he’s leaving. I continue down the hallway, round the corner, and slip out the back door.
Fresh air hits my fevered skin, and I take a few deep breaths to calm my thoughts. Leaving the estate is for the best. I circle the mansion, finding the courtyards empty. With a sigh, I continue down the driveway toward a series of outbuildings, but there’s no sign of a car.
Days of wandering around already tell me that searching any further will be futile.
The grounds stretch endlessly in all directions, with manicured gardens dissolving into wild forest, and rolling lawns that end at the cliffs.
I walk toward the gates, but after nearly an hour, I find them already locked.
This estate isn’t my sanctuary. It’s turning into a trap.
Defeat weighs down my shoulders as I trudge back toward the house with a new plan.
If guests are arriving soon, then I can leave in one of their cars.
Yesterday’s list of tasks sits in my pocket like a blade, reminding me why I’m really here: not as a nanny, not even as a mistress. Just cheap labor.
The rest of the day crawls by like torture. I serve lunch trying not to overhear them plan their wedding. Grit my teeth while she prattles on about guest lists, flower arrangements, honeymoon destinations. Rochester’s responses are muted, noncommittal, but he doesn’t tell her to shut the hell up.
In the afternoon, I’m spying on them taking a walk through the gardens. She loops her arm through his, yapping about the upgrades she’ll make to the mansion and its grounds. When she mentions bringing in her own staff to replace Mrs. Fairfax, I know she’s really talking about me.
By evening, they move to the drawing room. I bring them tea and find wedding magazines spread across every surface. Blanche drapes fabric samples over the furniture, holding swatches up to the light while Rochester sits in his chair looking indifferent.
“Which shades of white do you prefer?” she asks him. “I’m leaning toward ivory. It’s more classic, don’t you think?”
“Pure white,” he mutters.
She rears back. “But I’m hardly a virgin.”
I set down the tea service as he says some bullshit waiting to consummate their love. Bastard wasn’t so patient with me last night. Or the night before when he molested my feet.
By the time I trudge up the stairs to my room, every muscle aches from a day of being treated like a beast of burden. I lock the door behind me and lean against it, finally allowing my mask to slip.
It’s time to plan my next move. Vague plots to leave via the guests’ vehicles won’t cut it.
I need something more concrete. But the moment I try to strategize, my mind goes blank.
If my photos have circulated as far as the island, they’ll have people checking all the ports.
There’s truly nowhere for me to go. I change into my nightgown and collapse onto the bed, too drained to think about tomorrow.
Sleep takes over before I can figure out what the hell I’m going to do.
Tonight, I dream about an early encounter with the cop, Callahan, when he cornered me outside my apartment, gripping my arm hard enough to leave bruises.
He said my roommate had a warrant out for her arrest, and accused me of concealing her location.
I really wasn’t, but he shoved his card in my face and ordered me to locate her or he’d investigate why a twenty-five-year-old with no visible means of employment could afford to live in such a fancy building.
Lots of girls have sugar daddies pay their rent. But I didn’t want the scrutiny. The last thing I needed was for him to dig up dirt on how I freed myself from being a teen bride.
Hours later, the mattress dips, pulling me out of sleep.
Strong arms wrap around my waist from behind, and a familiar chest presses against my back.
My heart stops. Shock paralyzes my bones.
By the time my brain registers what’s happening, I lurch forward, part my lips to scream, but he claps a hand over my mouth.
“Don’t move,” he whispers, the mask brushing against my neck. “I just needed to see you.”
He pauses. Waits for me to relax. Then he releases his hand.
“What do you want from me?” I hiss into the dark. “Why come here when you’re engaged to someone else?”
His arms tighten around my waist. “The Rochester estate is bankrupt.”
My breath hitches. I go rigid in his arms, my mind scrambling to process his confession. The mansion, the grounds, the limousine. I thought he was old money.
“What do you mean?”
He doesn’t elaborate. Just holds me tighter, his breath warm against my neck through the mask.
“Blanche Ingram’s money will save us,” he mutters. “Her presence here won’t change a single thing between you and me.”
“What if I don’t want to be the other woman?” I ask.
“You won’t be.”
I swallow hard. “Bullshit.”
He nuzzles my neck. Presses his thick cock into my ass crease. “Do you want me to leave?”
I should say yes. Tell him to go fuck himself with Blanche’s diamond heels. But the hard length grinding into me from behind is skewering my thoughts.
And despite everything, the lies, the humiliation, the casual indifference, I’m addicted to the way he cocoons me in his arms.
“Stay and explain yourself,” I whisper.
“Good girl,” he murmurs against my neck, his cock slipping between my thighs. “I’ll find a way for us to be together.”