Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
The next morning, I walk down the hallway, my heels clicking against the hardwood floor like gunshots. For the first time since arriving at this accursed estate, I feel clear headed. No more confusion. No more romantic delusions. Last night’s bankruptcy confession changed everything.
Everything makes sense now: Rochester needs Blanche’s money to keep his fancy manor from getting repoed. I need to stay hidden from Gil’s people and the feds. And we both want to be together.
He can keep me as his dirty little secret for now, but the next time Blanche Ingram opens that mouth, I’ll bite back with teeth.
I reach the study door, finding him sitting behind his mahogany desk. His dark eyes track my movement as I step inside, making my nipples tighten. Shit. My body’s still programmed to respond to this bastard.
“Close the door,” he says.
I shut it with a click.
“Come here.” His voice is commanding, low.
I walk toward the desk but don’t sit on that degrading little stool. Instead, I lean against its edge, letting my skirt ride up my thighs.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” I ask, my voice breathy.
His gaze drops to my legs, then snaps back to my face, his expression cool and professional. Like he didn’t outline his marriage-for-money scheme last night while fucking between my thighs.
“About the household arrangements—”
The door handle rattles.
“Edward?” Blanche’s voice cuts through the wood like a blade dipped in acid. “Are you in there?”
Rochester’s jaw tightens. He jerks his head toward the chair in the corner, and I scramble off the desk like a guilty teenager. My ass hits the seat just as the door swings open.
Blanche glides in wearing a cream silk blouse that probably costs more than most people make in a month. Her eyes sweep the room like a security camera, landing on me with naked suspicion.
“There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere,” she says to Rochester, but she’s still staring at me like I’m a cockroach that crawled out of the walls.
“Just reviewing household matters with Miss Burlington.” The lie rolls off his tongue smoother than expensive whiskey.
Blanche’s lips curve in a smile that freezes halfway to her eyes. “How thorough of you. I do hope you’re not overworking our little servant.”
My fingers curl into fists in my lap, but I keep my expression blank. Let her think I’m the help. She’s the one getting scammed.
“Miss Burlington handles her duties admirably,” Rochester says.
Blanche moves closer to his desk, trailing her manicured fingers along its edge like she’s marking territory. “Edward, darling, I simply must show you the sketches the architect emailed for the east wing renovations. They’re in my room.”
Rochester glances at me, his expression flickering with something unreadable. He rises off his seat and walks around the desk. “Of course, my dear.”
Blanche beams at me like she just won the lottery. “Tidy up here while we’re gone. This place is positively disheveled.”
She loops her arm through Rochester’s and guides him across the study like he’s a prize stud she’s leading to market. He doesn’t resist. Doesn’t look back. Just lets her haul him away while I sit there, abandoned.
It’s stupid. I know the plan, yet I can’t help thinking all I am to him is something to fill his empty nights. Body parts to help him get off. I shiver. So much for shedding my romantic delusions. That woman has a way of making me feel cheap.
The door clicks shut, leaving me alone with the scent of his cologne and the bitter taste of being dismissed.
I wait thirty seconds, listening to the footsteps disappear down the hallway.
When I’m sure they’re gone, I move to Rochester’s desk, scanning the papers scattered across its surface.
It’s not like I’ll find evidence of his bankruptcy among the letters, bills, and legal documents, but something else catches my eye.
It’s a manila folder sitting at the corner of the desk with PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT printed in bold letters.
My heart hammers against my ribs. I glance over my shoulder toward the door. This is dangerous as hell. But I can’t stop myself from taking a peek.
I flip through pages of legal bullshit until one clause jumps out:
‘In the event of adultery committed by Edward Rochester, Blanche Ingram shall retain all financial assets brought to the marriage, and Edward Rochester shall forfeit any claim to said assets or future inheritances.’
My blood turns to sludge.
No settlement if Rochester cheats. No money. No bailout. No nothing.
But wait. How on earth will he ‘find a way for us to be together’ if fucking me means he loses everything? The math doesn’t add up.
Hands shaking, I place the agreement back into its folder. The papers look exactly as I found them, but my mind spins like a roulette wheel.
Rochester isn’t the type to gamble his future on a wet pussy. So what’s the angle?
I spend the rest of the morning scrubbing floors and polishing silver, but my thoughts won’t stop shuffling. The prenup changes everything. If Rochester cheats, he loses all of Blanche’s wealth.
The motherfucker must have a plan. Has to. But what?
My mind won’t accept the most obvious explanation. That he’s saying whatever is needed for me to continue letting him into my bed.
The next few days crawl by without answers.
Rochester becomes a ghost, appearing only for meals with Blanche glued to his side.
She clings to his arm during their morning walks.
Drags him to the drawing room to plan wedding details.
Monopolizes every second of his time like she’s afraid he might stray.
I get no midnight visits. No stolen glances. No opportunities to ask the questions burning holes in my brain.
On Tuesday morning, I dust the same bookshelf three times, hoping he’ll come to the study. Nothing. Wednesday, I linger in the hallway outside his bedroom, pretending to polish brass fixtures. He emerges with Blanche chattering about flower arrangements.
Thursday morning finds me mopping the same stretch of floor twice, waiting for a chance to corner him alone. But Blanche’s laughter echoes from the drawing room where they’re reviewing guest lists for their engagement party.
Suspicions pile up in my head like a stack of unpaid bills. Does he plan to divorce Blanche after the wedding? Get her money some other way? Or is he planning on keeping me as a side piece while he lives happily ever after with his rich wife?
My gut says he’s too smart to risk everything for me. But my gut’s been wrong before.
By Thursday afternoon, I’m ready to scream. But the rumble of car engines saves my sanity. I drop the egg basket and rush through the grounds, only to find the same black limousine that brought me here, followed by a red sports car and a silver SUV.
Blanche’s voice carries across the courtyard as she greets her friends.
“Even more rich assholes,” I mutter.
My stomach clenches as the strangers pile out of their cars. New faces. People who might recognize me from news reports or wanted posters. But I force myself to breathe. Gil’s boss wouldn’t report me to the police. That would be incriminating himself.
Still, my eyes linger on that red sports car.
A few days ago, when Blanche showed up, I was planning to steal one of these vehicles if things got too bad.
Now I’m conflicted as hell. This estate is still the perfect hiding place, but what’s Rochester’s plan to get around that prenup?
How can we be together if fucking me costs him everything?
Indecision has me rooted to the spot.
“Blanche,” cries a woman with pink hair. She’s accompanied by a man in a leather coat who’s carrying a camera with interchangeable lenses. “Your new mansion is amazing.”
I retreat around the corner, not wanting to get captured by the equipment. Four others pile out of the SUV, each holding up their phones, capturing every angle of the house’s gothic facade. I can’t blame them. Rochester Manor is stunning.
The pink-haired woman is a cooking influencer with a following of three hundred thousand, but she acts like it’s three million. She brings a dozen containers of frozen appetizers and barks orders about presentation.
I spend the rest of the day shuttling between kitchen and drawing room, heating pigs in blankets, arranging spinach puffs on silver platters, garnishing sliders while she snaps photos for her social media.
Every time I think I’m done, she demands more: different plates, better angles, hotter food.
I’m sweating through my uniform, racing back and forth with trays, losing hope of any chance to catch Rochester alone.
By evening, they’re on the second crate of wine and have filled the air with the potent stench of weed.
Candles dominate the table, burning bright. My chest tightens as I count the mess I’ll be cleaning tomorrow: wine rings on the mahogany, melted wax I’ll have to scrape off with my fingernails. Not to mention the pastries ground into the rugs.
The man in the leather coat beckons me forward with an impatient wave. I swallow back a surge of fury, keep my head down, and carry in yet another tray of drinks.
“Poor thing’s been running around like a pig in a blanket all day,” one of the women says with mock sympathy.
“Still think Edward is fucking her on the side?” another man adds with a chuckle.
Laughter slashes through the room like a whip. My face burns. I keep my eyes down so they don’t see me crack. After a deep breath, I glance at Rochester, searching his face for any reaction, but he sips his drink like I’m invisible.
“Burlington, you’re dripping sweat all over the crystal,” Blanche snaps. “Clean yourself up before you serve another drink.”
Their chuckles grate on my nerves. I watch Rochester’s expression, waiting for him to twitch, react, show some sign he gives a damn. Is this part of his plan? Does he need them to see me as harmless help?
His face remains blank. Unreadable.