Chapter 3
Adaline
The moment my things scatter across the marble floor, my face burns hotter than the rain. I don’t have to look up to know he’s staring. Hunter Rexon’s attention lands on me like a verdict.
His gaze feels like a physical weight pressing between my shoulder blades. Hot, sharp, assessing. Like he’s cataloging every flaw I’ve revealed tonight, and I’ve revealed a lot. Clinging to him on his motorcycle like my life depended on it, and then falling into his arms.
And the worst one, that torn gossip clipping almost flying straight to his feet.
I shove the last pen into my tote and force myself upright, still refusing to meet his eyes. Maybe if I don’t look at him, I can pretend tonight didn’t happen.
Aunt Jane breaks the tension by asking me to join her upstairs. Mrs. Lane and I head upstairs, and Aunt Jane joins us using the elevator. As I’m climbing up the grand staircase, I make a note to myself, tomorrow I need to talk to her about limiting elevator use. She needs to use the stairs.
“Where are your other bags, dear? Surely you brought more than just that tote?” Mrs. Lane asks.
My stomach dips. “I… had a little trouble on the road. My car broke down. I had to leave everything behind.”
Mrs. Lane gasps softly. Aunt Jane’s expression softens into something maternal and warm.“Well, that simply won’t do,” she says, patting my hand.
“I have a great collection of dresses and outfits from when I was young and beautiful like you. You can borrow them until your luggage gets here.”
“Mary, let's head to my closet in the east wing?” Aunt Jane asks Mrs. Lane.
We walk down a long hallway, the lighting soft and golden, the carpet thick enough to swallow my soggy footsteps.
We stop outside a side door, which I assume is a linen closet.
Instead, Mrs. Lane swings it open to reveal a walk-in storage closet with neatly labeled boxes and rows of vintage summer dresses in pastel patterns hanging.
“Everything is still in beautiful condition,” Mrs. Lane says with pride.
Aunt Jane beams. “Pick whatever you like, dear. I always knew someone might come along who’d love these again.”
The kindness catches me off guard. Nobody has said something like that to me in… years. Maybe ever. I step inside, trailing my fingers over the fabrics. Soft yellows, faded pinks, some with intricate work. Clothes that look like they belonged to someone with a warm life, a steady home.
A life I’ve never had.
I pick two dresses, a sleep set, and a few other items, folding them carefully over my arm. “Thank you,” I whisper, genuinely overwhelmed. “This means a lot.”
Aunt Jane squeezes my elbow. “We’re glad you’re here, Adaline.”
And for the first time since leaving home, the word belong doesn’t feel like a lie.
My new bedroom is warm, softly lit, and far too big for someone who still feels like a runaway stray cat tracking rainwater across expensive floors. I shut the door behind me and exhale, letting my back rest against the polished wood.
Ever since I lost my parents, and then my grandma Ruth, I’ve never had a room that was just mine.
Silence. Finally.
No thunder. No motorcycle engines. No more intimidating gray-eyed boss, glowering at me like I personally offended the weather.
Just… quiet.
I cross to the dresser, drop my tote onto the bed, and start unpacking the only things I managed to save from my car disaster. A few toiletries, a notebook, and my phone, which I plug in immediately, praying it’s not permanently dead from the rain.
The charging icon appears, and relief blooms through my chest. At least something today still works.
I smooth out one of Aunt Jane’s borrowed dresses, draping it carefully over the armchair. The gesture feels oddly tender, like I’m taking care of something precious. Maybe because no one’s ever loaned me clothes with such trust before, I feel a bit emotional.
It's just been a rough night.
I head to the bathroom, steam filling the mirror as hot water spills from the showerhead. The moment I step under it, heat floods my skin, thawing the stiffness from my hands, my shoulders, my spine. I let the water wash away the grime, the fear, the humiliation of falling into Hunter Rexon.
Well… technically twice if I count emotionally falling apart the moment I saw his face.
Nope. Not thinking about that. Not before bed. Not ever, ideally.
By the time I change into the soft cotton sleep set and tie the robe around my waist, I feel marginally human again until my stomach growls loudly.
I groan and flop onto the bed for half a second, rubbing my eyes. Why—why, did I politely refuse Mrs. Lane’s sandwich? I could’ve avoided this mess. I could’ve been fed, warm, and happy.
Instead, hunger gnaws at me like a tiny, frustrated squirrel chewing through my last nerve.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “Kitchen mission. Quick in, quick out. No disasters.”
I slip out of the room, tightening the robe around me. The hallway is dim, lights glowing on low, humming softly under my bare feet. As I walk, they brighten with motion sensors, chasing away shadows one step at a time.
It’s strangely magical. And strangely eerie.
This mansion is more than what I was expecting.
In a hurry to leave my life behind, I took the first offer I got.
The live-in nurse option was a bonus as I didn't have to worry about a roof over my head or the expenses.
When they said a small town, the client, an elderly woman, needed privacy, I took it as a sign.
I pass closed doors and wonder which one belongs to Aunt Jane. Which one belongs to Hunter? Actually—no. No wondering about Hunter. None.
I descend the stairs quietly, the house too still, the storm now little more than a whisper brushing across the tall windows. I turn toward the kitchen and freeze.
A voice rumbles from down the hallway. Low. Hard. Unmistakably angry.
Hunter.
I shouldn’t move closer. Every nanny-movie cliché ever warns against snooping your first night on the job. But my feet betray me.
I inch toward the partially cracked office door, pulse flickering in my ears. Warm light spills across the hallway rug. His silhouette cuts a sharp line across the room, broad shoulders, rigid posture, and tightly holding his phone.
“I don’t care what your file says,” he bites out. “I’m disappointed you sent someone so…”
I freeze. The floor tilts under me.
“Incompetent. Inexperienced.” The words hit hard.
Heat floods my face, shame crackling through my limbs. He’s talking about me. My first night here.
“That’s not what I agreed to,” he continues, voice clipped with irritation. “I asked for someone capable. Someone with years of experience and knows what they’re doing.”
My chest constricts, something fragile trembling inside it. He thinks I’m a mistake, a problem he wants gone before I’ve even begun. My fingers curl into the sleeves of the robe.
Hunter’s voice is cold, dismissive, and my chest hurts. His words sharp and final. I don’t wait for the rest. Each word lands hard enough that for a second, I actually sway.
My bare feet retreat soundlessly across the polished floor, breath locked in my throat. I slip back toward the stairs, hugging the borrowed robe around my trembling body. The hunger gnawing in my stomach disappears, replaced with something heavier, emptier.
He wants to fire me. Not tomorrow. Not after a trial period.
Tonight. Now. Before I’ve had a chance to even unpack my toothbrush.
By the time I reach the landing, my vision blurs. I blink hard, refusing to let tears fall in a house where the walls themselves feel like they’re judging me.
I need this job. Not want—need.
It’s the only thing standing between me and a very empty life back in Brooklyn. Between me and the man determined to manipulate my life. Between me and the little, fragile hope that maybe—just maybe—I could start again here.
Inside my room, the silence is so complete it hurts. I shut the door, lean against it, and try to breathe past the rising panic. The word echoes in my skull.
“Incompetent.”
I rub both hands down my face, willing myself not to unravel.
“You can’t lose this job,” I whisper. “You can’t.”
I unpack the rest of my belongings in my shoulder bag, my old wallet, two pens, a broken lipstick, but nothing steadies me.
I pace the room once, then twice, trying to shake the tightness out of my chest. I tell myself to sleep, to deal with this in the morning, to be professional and resilient. All the other words people use when they mean don’t fall apart.
I fail.
My phone lights up, finally charged. I have a new message on HeartLines app, from North—my pulse stutters.
North. The one person who doesn’t judge me. The one who eases my breath instead of tightening it. Even with our identities still anonymous, I need a friend tonight—some small piece of normalcy to keep the panic from swallowing me whole.
North: You vanished. I was starting to think you discovered my true identity and ran for the hills.
A choked laugh escapes me, half-sob, half-relief. I curl onto the bed, blanket pulled over my legs, and type.
Wind: Sorry. Long day. I moved. New place. Everything feels upside down.
He replies instantly.
North: Was moving the hard part, or you don't like your neighborhood?
Despite everything, I smile.
Wind: Can I say both and pretend that’s an acceptable answer?
Three dots appear.
North: If someone gave you a hard time today, tell me who. I’m in a mood and could use someone to verbally destroy.
Warmth spreads through my chest. He doesn’t know me, and somehow, that makes it easier to breathe.
Wind: Maybe not destruction. But distraction would be nice.
North: Want to vent, or should I tell you something ridiculous?
My eyes blur, and I blink it away. For the first time all night, I don’t feel alone, and that’s far more dangerous than the silence.