Power and Possession: An Enemies-to-Lovers Dark Contemporary Romance

Chapter One

Ashlynn

I wondered if this was how I was going to die. My feet hit the pavement, one foot in front of the other. I could feel my pulse increase, the cold air brushing past my face and hitting my sensitive front teeth as I panted. It was nearing dark; the shadows from the trees loomed menacingly at me with every step. Yet I knew the shadows weren’t what I should fear tonight.

I made my way up the lane, finally recognizing the coffee shop on the corner, with its faded blue door and the checker-patterned curtains covering the windows. Yes. Somewhere familiar. I slowed my pace, trying to catch my breath and convince my chest not to explode from the toll the sprint took on me.

Adrenaline coursed through my body, every inch of my nerves hyperaware. There was no one on the street, but the soft glow from the streetlights illuminated the cobblestones and made me feel less isolated.

Feeling safer in the presence of familiarity, I finally dared to glance over my shoulder.

He was gone.

I sighed. I was overreacting. I was probably just imagining that he was following me. But, over the past few weeks, I had seen a couple of strange men, dressed all in black, and I swore they were watching me. I saw one of these men when I got my morning coffee yesterday, his dark eyes focused on me over his paper in the corner of the cafe. Last week, as I walked to my au pair job, I swore a man was trailing behind me, almost up to the gates of the Harrington Estate. When I turned up the gated road, he continued down the street, keeping on with his pace, but I swore I could feel his eyes upon my back as I walked up the drive. Luckily, the entire estate was guarded by 24-hour surveillance. I usually felt safe there. But tonight, as I was leaving, I thought I saw the same man almost a quarter mile up the road. I tried to take a different route home, but I ended up getting turned around. I’d only been living in this part of England for a few months.

After I finished my studies in Cambridge, I looked for a job in London, eager to be in a city that was full of life, history, and culture. But my degree in Arts and Humanities wasn’t exactly an MBA, and I found myself working retail jobs, serving coffee, and trying to make money with my hobby as a photographer. Not exactly what I had come to the UK for, so when a professor approached me about an au pair job for a friend of a friend, I came out to Derbyshire for an interview and was hired. My professor told me how socially connected the parents were, and I hoped it might lead to something better.

When I first met the family, I found out that the only qualification the Harringtons were looking for was an American. Their twins, Henry and Martha, were obsessed with American culture—and what the Harrington children wanted, they got. My first day was spent explaining cookies versus biscuits, a lift from an elevator, and the loo from the bathroom. They were sweet kids—Henry was a bit reserved, and Martha was incredibly precocious but easy enough to manage. Plus, the pay was good. Even though the Harringtons requested that I live on their estate, I made enough money to afford a tiny flat a mile away.

Both Edward and Marisa Harrington came from a long line of aristocracy, and their never-ending calendar of events took them out of the country and away for late nights. I was embarrassed to admit that I had no idea what either parent did, but I knew it involved a lot of three-piece suits and elegant evening gowns. I knew the look of high-end couture when I saw it. And the Harringtons were incredibly high-end. With their titles, horses, and staff, they were exactly what I was looking to escape when I left New York four years ago to attend Cambridge University.

My father was an investment banker. He sent me to the best preparatory school in Manhattan. But the second my mom died, there was nothing left for me in New York but a handful of superficial friends and a cold and distant father. He didn’t even put up a fight when I told him I’d applied to Cambridge. New York or London—he didn’t care where I was as long as I was out of the way when he brought home his latest applicant for the position of trophy wife.

Even though I missed the energy of the Big Apple every once in a while, I wasn’t going to stick around and watch a woman hardly older than myself become Mrs. Topher Phillips II, and, effectively, my stepmother.

I passed the small cemetery on Grace Street–the tombstones and grave markers ancient and faded–and I rounded the corner to my little walk-up. It was tiny, even smaller than my bedroom growing up, but I loved it. For the first time, I was self-sufficient. Everything in it—from the second-hand toaster to the cheap IKEA couch—was bought and paid for by myself.

I opened the door, my hands shaking as I turned the knob, and I let myself inside. The second I made it through the door, I turned the lock and latched the metal chain securely. I was sure I was being paranoid after living in New York for so long, but that didn’t stop me from double-checking the lock as I made my way to the radiator. I blasted it on high, hoping to stop shivering. I wasn’t sure if I was cold or just full of unspent energy.

Otis, the Harrington’s driver, had offered to take me home, but I’d foolishly declined, thinking I’d go for a run before heading back to my flat. The evenings here were quiet, and I’d gotten into the habit of making a big dinner and then vegging out on the couch, reading or watching TV. I’d never been model-thin, and instead rather curvaceous, but I didn’t have the money to buy all new clothes if my waistline grew. However, after the scare I had, maybe it would be better to let Otis drive me home on the nights when I didn’t have to stay over at the Harringtons.

Living at their estate had been a deal breaker for me. While the Harringtons made it clear they wanted a live-in childcare provider, I wanted my own space, and I didn’t want to spend my life dependent on others. It certainly brought my mother nothing but heartbreak, and I wanted to forge my own path. Reluctantly, the Harringtons agreed to a six-month trial of me living off their estate, providing I’d stay over when they traveled or had a late night.

I removed my tennis shoes and threw my backpack on the floor, dropped my purse next to it, and took the three short steps to the kitchen. It could hardly be called a kitchen—it was barely more than a sink, a stove, and a refrigerator—but it was mine. I poured myself a glass of wine and grabbed some fresh vegetables from the fridge. I started cutting them up to make minestrone soup, when I saw something out of the corner of my eye—the doorknob rotated a tiny bit, just enough to make me notice the movement before it hit resistance against the lock.

Trembling, I picked up the knife I was chopping with and walked slowly to the door, my breath shaking and my chest about to burst. My cell phone was in my purse, which I’d left in front of the door with my backpack, so I had no choice but to creep towards the door. I slowly made my way across the tiled linoleum, holding my breath as I looked outside through the peephole.

There was no one there. Just the ominous shadows from the tree outside my window. I loosened my grip on the knife and sank against the door, trying to calm my ragged breathing. Was I hallucinating? Had my encounters the past few days rattled my brain? I was usually methodical and practical, not prone to fits of emotion or fantasy. But, still, I’d counted at least two different men watching me. Sure, I was attractive, but nothing special. I’d been hit on before, but I felt a hostile energy coming from these men, as if they were innately dangerous. Perhaps I should take up the Harrington’s offer to stay with them, even if I found Lord Harrington a bit terrifying. I’d never felt scared like this before. Even at Cambridge, I was surrounded by other students and never alone. Yet now…I felt completely isolated. I didn’t know anyone here. No one to check in on me besides my employer.

I shook off my panic, trying to rationalize my fears. There was no reason anyone would stalk me. I was just an average American trying to start a life away from her family; trying to get by. At least, that’s what I told myself.

I tossed the vegetables back in the fridge, my stomach now in knots and too nervous to eat. I wiped the kitchen knife off and put it back in the block, then changed my mind and carried it with me down the narrow hall to the bathroom. I laid it carefully on the cold tile of the bathroom counter and then glanced in the mirror. I looked horrible; I hadn’t bothered to put on make-up this morning. My hair was up in a high ponytail, and I pulled the elastic band out before filling up the bathtub, fiddling with the tap to try to get the water just right. It seemed to have two temperatures: freezing cold, or scalding. Shucking my clothes, I moved the knife closer to the tub so I could grab it quickly. I couldn’t believe how dramatic I was being. But, still, it made me feel better as I stepped into the tub and closed the shower curtain. The hot water finally hit the right temperature, and I let the stream cascade over me, warming me up and beginning to chase away my fears. For the first time that day, everything seemed normal. I closed my eyes, placing my hands along the wall for balance as the water dripped down my face.

Once I ran out of hot water, I turned off the tap and grabbed a towel, humming to myself and wrapping it around my body. I didn’t have a blow dryer, so I carefully cocooned my hair into a smaller towel, brushed my teeth, and then walked across the hall to my tiny bedroom. Tiny wasn’t even small enough to describe it. Minuscule was more like it. It was just big enough to fit my full-sized bed, my nightstand, and a dresser. I grabbed my favorite camisole and a pair of athletic shorts, and then I collapsed on the bed. The leftover adrenaline pumping through my veins had made me exhausted, and I closed my eyes, ready for sleep to take me.

“Henry, you’re going to ruin it!” Martha’s sweet voice was louder than normal as she scolded her brother. She covered her watercolor painting with her arm, protecting it from the paint dripping off of Henry’s brush.

“I am not!” he argued, flicking and dripping the paint along his own paper. “I’m like the artist who made messy paintings. Ashlynn, what was his name?”

“Jackson Pollock?” I laughed, enjoying his creativity.

“That’s the bloke! His paintings are famous, yeah?”

I tried not to smirk. “Yes, pretty famous. His studio was in New York, did you know that?”

“That’s where you’re from, right Ashlynn?” Martha looked at me with her pretty blue eyes, a dab of purple paint on her chin.

“That I am.”

“Have you ever met him?” Henry asked, continuing to let the paint slowly drip off his brush.

This time, I couldn”t suppress my laugh. “How old do you think I am?”

Without skipping a beat, Henry answered. “Forty?”

“Ouch!” I put my hands on my hips, mock anger playing on my face.

Martha jumped in to scold her brother again. “Henry, you should never ask a lady’s age, it isn”t polite.”

“Sixteen?” he tried again bashfully, realizing his mistake.

I laughed again. “Somewhere in between the two. Now let’s get this mess cleaned up and the two of you in bed.”

The Harringtons were at some type of benefit in London and planned to stay at their flat in the city for the evening. Which meant that I was at their estate for the night, getting their children fed, clean, and to bed. Getting them fed was the easy part. Their cook, Mrs. Davis, was amazing. Her food was part of the reason I needed to exercise more. She trained in Paris and could bake like no one’s business. The kitchen always smelled like bread and pastries, and everyone from Otis to the grounds crew huddled around the long kitchen counter for a taste.

I hurried the twins up the staircase to the third floor, where their bedrooms were. Each child had a private suite, with a bathroom and a little sitting area. A simpler bedroom separated their rooms, which belonged to me whenever I needed to stay the night. Henry quickly moved by me, his socks slipping a bit on the hardwood floor.

“Easy there, buddy,” I said, catching his arm. Martha waltzed by him elegantly, determined to show up her brother. She rolled her eyes exaggeratedly at him, before heading to her room and shutting the door.

“Show off,” Henry murmured.

“You better go get cleaned up too. Behind your ears, and please actually wash your hair with shampoo this time.”

He sighed and stepped into his room, closing the door and leaving me in silence. I walked back to the second floor, my eyes darting to the portraits hung neatly on the wall in the stairwell. Generations of Harringtons stared back at me, the ladies with demure expressions and the men looking formidable. Seeing their portraits often made me think about my own roots. My mother was raised in Minnesota, living a normal life in a suburban neighborhood. Both of my grandparents on my mother’s side passed away before I was born, but my mom spoke of them with a tender fondness and warmth. My paternal grandparents, however, lacked any degree of love or compassion. After spending time with them, it was easy to understand why my father was so cold. The only warmth I had in my life was from my mother. Still, being at the Harrington Estate made me miss my family. Just being in a household with a mom and a dad and their children made me sad, in a way. Now that my mom was gone, there were no more birthday parties, no more Thanksgiving Day feasts. My father was only interested in doing what he loved most—making money and screwing beautiful women.

I went inside the playroom, retrieved my backpack, and headed back upstairs to my guest room. By the time I’d changed into my pajamas and robe, there was a knock at the door. Martha flounced in, ready for a bedtime story. She sat on the guest bed, her lavender nightgown frilly and ruffled.

“What story do you want to read tonight?”

She handed me the book she cradled in her arms: Charlotte’s Web. “Good choice,” I said, flipping to the earmarked page.

“Will you do the voices?”

“Of course,” I said, smoothing her hair. She smiled up at me, her missing front teeth making her grin even more endearing. I had never really given much thought to children, and I wasn’t even sure if I wanted them myself one day. But the Harrington kiddos were cute.

Henry barged into the room a second later, not wanting to admit he was there to listen to the story. Instead, he stood near the window with his arms crossed.

I stopped reading. “Do you need something, Henry?”

“I’ll just wait until you’re finished.”

I raised an eyebrow but let him pretend that he was disinterested in the story his sister was engrossed with.

After I finished up the chapter, Henry said he forgot what he needed, and he stalked back to his bedroom. Martha tried to stall, asking for everything from an extra pillow to a glass of water, but I finally managed to get them both tucked in and asleep. Since it was only a little after eight o”clock, I decided I wasn’t ready for sleep yet. I’d tossed and turned the night before, nervous about the incident at my apartment, but it was still a bit too early for me to go to bed.

I made my way down to the first floor of the manor and swung by the kitchen. Since it was late in the day, Mrs. Davis had already retired to her room in the staff wing off the kitchen. Glad to not run into anyone in my pajamas, I quickly grabbed a bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator and turned to leave the enormous kitchen. My eyes caught a jar of blueberry scones left over from breakfast, and I couldn’t resist helping myself to a couple.

With the scones in hand, I made my way through the grand entryway, past the huge piano and to the opposite hall. The smell of old books hit my nose, and I sighed happily. One of the perks of working for the Harringtons was access to the library. Like most old families in Europe, they’d inherited most of their possessions. Neither Harrington read much, and they hardly spent any time in the library. My heart ached for all those unwanted and desolate books that had been handed down from generation to generation. If it wasn’t for the fact the house employed multiple housekeepers, the entire library would have been covered in inches of dust.

It was a dark room, with the only light coming from one of the fireplaces that the staff kept burning in every room. And, even then, the manor house was chilly, even in the summer. I switched on a lamp at the desk and walked over to one of the shelves. The entire room was wall-to-wall bookcases, built into the room itself and sprawling from floor to ceiling. It was incredibly grand. I had never seen anything like it in a private home. We had a library in the penthouse back in Manhattan, but it was stuffed full of National Geographic magazines, old college textbooks, encyclopedias, and the trashy romance novels my mom enjoyed reading. I smiled at the thought of her reclining in the tiny fabric lounge chair in our sitting room, reading the latest novel she could get her hands on. There was always a muscular, shirtless man on the cover, while some thin wisp of a woman simpered and hung onto his bulging biceps. Now looking back, I wondered if my mother sought escape from her own loveless marriage. The older I got, the less my parents had in common. By the time my mother died, they hardly spoke or did anything together. Yet neither one seemed interested in ending the marriage. It was as if they didn’t want to admit defeat in front of their upscale social circle, despite being miserable together. It made me want to swear off the entire institution of marriage altogether.

After a few minutes of perusing the massive collection, I found a copy of Alice in Wonderland. Perfect. It was one of the books I tried to reread every year. I held the ancient, red-bound book to my chest, and I headed through the back doors, to the garden. It wasn’t what I thought of when I pictured a garden, but that was what the Harringtons referred to it as. While part of their massive estate was ancient, and made you feel like you stepped back in time, the area directly behind the manor boasted an outside living room, a bar, and a large swimming pool. It was chilly out, since autumn was already here, so I flicked the switch that turned on their outdoor fireplace, and I curled up on the outdoor sofa. Before I cracked open the book, I glanced at the cover. This was a seriously old book. I flipped to the inside and checked the date, cross-referencing the info on my phone.

Damn. A first edition. I shook my head in wonder. The Harringtons probably had no idea what treasures remained hidden in their library. I turned the page, but before I could read the first sentence, I heard the trees off to the side of the pool rustle. Instantly, a wave of panic rolled down my body, and the blood drained from my face.

I looked across the pool towards the dark forested area where Lord Harrington sometimes went shooting. It was dense and thick, and the moonlight didn’t penetrate the heavy branches. I stared, paralyzed with fear. I swore I saw a dark figure up against the tree, the face indiscernible. As fast as my legs could carry me, I darted back to the house, throwing open the French doors and locking them behind me. My bare feet nearly slipped on the hardwood as I rushed to the staff wing, where the Harrington’s security team was located. The lights were still on, although the doors were all shut. Luckily, Otis had given me a tour when I first arrived, and I knew that the security team was at the end of the hall. I didn’t bother knocking and opened the door.

A row of security camera feeds lined one side, and a guard dressed in jeans and a blue shirt watched them lazily. I could see all the different views of the estate on them, small and in black and white. Another guard sat in the corner, his feet on a dark wooden desk as he read the paper. A plate of the scones Mrs. Davis had made was sitting on the desk, along with a half-empty cup of tea.

I thought I would instantly feel at ease when I found the security team, but now I felt worse. I didn’t know what I’d expected, but it wasn’t this. These men didn’t look like they could take out a rogue squirrel, let alone an intruder.

The guard closest to me dropped his feet off the desk and placed them back on the ground, as if he’d been caught misbehaving. He folded up the newspaper noisily and looked at me expectantly.

“I was outside by the pool, and I saw someone in the forest on the right-hand side of the garden.”

The guards exchanged a look, and I could tell right away they weren’t going to take me seriously. It was a look I got all the time whenever I tried to tell my father something he didn’t want to believe.

The guard monitoring the security cameras spoke. “Look, Miss Phillips, we’ve been watching the cameras all night and there has been nothing of concern. Don’t fret about anything, deary.”

I instantly hated him. I hated his stupid accent and the condescending way he called me deary. I hated his misogynistic undertones, from the disrespectful nickname to the way he instantly dismissed my concerns.

“I know what I saw.” I folded my arms in front of my chest, trying to give him my scariest New York stare down. To my surprise, it actually worked, and he dropped his gaze.

The other guard stood up. He wore a name tag pinned to his jacket. Edgar. Such a perfect name for a security guard on a massive estate in England. “Everything is fine. We have motion sensors that trigger the cameras. Nothing was tripped.”

“Maybe they knew how to avoid them. Maybe—”

“I’ll take a look around, just to make you feel better. But it’s a waste of time. This estate is secure.” Edgar grabbed his flashlight and brushed past me.

Relief hit me like a fresh ocean breeze. “Thank you.” I knew what I saw. I just needed someone to believe me, and then I could file a report with the police.

Edgar huffed, obviously out of shape, as I followed him down the long staff hallway and into the kitchen. He flipped on the kitchen light and unlocked the French doors. I stayed inside, my nose pressed up against the glass as I peered into the darkness.

He spent all of three minutes at the edge of the forest before he came back in. “Nothing out there. You must have seen a deer. You haven’t been here very long; deer are a common sight. Do you have deer in America?”

I wanted to slap him. Not only did he insult my sex, but my nationality. Just like all the male professors I’d had at Cambridge who underestimated my intelligence. Just like all the men who were in my father’s social circle. No wonder my mom clung to her fantastical world of book boyfriends.

“Yes, we have deer.” My annoyance must have been clear on my face, because he turned around and headed out of the kitchen.

As soon as I heard his footsteps fade, I grabbed a knife from the block next to the double sink, and tripled checked the French doors before heading back up to my borrowed room.