Annabelle
Not even a closing salutation? Just her name. I squint at the computer and reread the email. Her “I didn’t think it would be this kind of home” kind of implies she hates it. I should have allowed her to decorate it herself. I make a notation.
I look at the pretty plate of scones sitting on my desk. I’m not much of a pastry man. Give me a steak and a chocolate cake andI’m happy. I’m not sure if I even know what a scone is. It looks good, though. There’s a little container of butter and what looks like jam. It’s some type of bread then. The scone is a little hard, but when I break it in half, the interior is soft. My mouth starts watering. I slather on some of the butter and then the jam and stuff it into my mouth.
I sit back and blink in surprise. It’s not like a pastry but more like a biscuit with a slightly hard crust and a soft middle. I swallow and then shove the rest in my mouth. The plate is empty before I realize it. My stomach growls. How am I still hungry after I’ve eaten a plate of scones?
I try to ignore it and do some work, but it’s impossible. I toss my pen aside and shove away from the desk. In the kitchen, I rummage around for some food. There’s some leftover Chinese from last night’s delivery, a case of beer, and two steaks. I don’t feel like cooking, so I heat up the Chinese. Once it’s done reheating, I start eating, but it doesn’t taste good. The flavor of the scones that Annabelle made is buried under the ginger and soy.
I toss the Chinese leftovers and gulp down some water, cursing myself for not eating those scones more slowly. I’ll ask for more. Maybe give her some money for them. That sounds like a good plan. I hurry back to my desk. The cooking supplies were well received.
I try to reapply myself to the business deal I’m reviewing, but my attention keeps straying to my computer and the security program. I told myself that I can’t be watching her all the time.
But I can’t keep my hands from reaching toward the keyboard, from opening the security program, from pressing the play button. Yesterday’s footage shows her going to a coffee shop nearby. She returns home empty-handed. Her expression seems sad. The cookware is set on the counter in the kitchen. Rise entered while she was gone, which means she hasn’t changedthe code yet. I lift my pen to make a note, but before I do, she snaps her fingers and rushes to door. Looking at the instructions I sent, she resets the digital password. Unfortunately, her body is blocking the keypad, so I can’t see what her new code is. That’s inconvenient, but at least Rise can’t enter.
Back in the kitchen, she unpacks everything. Her shoulders look higher and her expression less dejected. She must have had a bad experience at the coffee shop. I’ll have to find out who bothered her and ruin their lives.
After she unpacks everything, she stands in the kitchen with her hands on her hips surveying the space. Then she gets to work. The making of scones is a fascinating process. I get nothing done as I watch a one-person baking show. She eats only two of them before setting five on a plate and covering it with plastic wrap. Uncooked ones are laid on a baking sheet and placed in the freezer. Four more are put under a glass-lidded stand. I lick my lips. It would be weird to go over there and demand that she bake me more of them.
Once she’s done cleaning, she heads to her bedroom and closes the door. I stare at that six-panel wooden door for far too long before forcing my attention back to the business report. But the words and numbers swim in front of my face. I need to see her face-to-face. The cameras are not enough. I thought they would be, but I was wrong.
A year of seeing her only through surveillance footage will drive me crazy. The next time she goes to the coffee shop, I’ll be there. We can meet, get to know each other.Then what?I don’t know. She’s not to know who I am, that I’m her husband. That was the deal. She would never have to meet me, touch me, sleep with me. It was an impersonal deal where she would play a role and be rewarded for it.
I told her it was because I needed to close a business deal. In truth, it was because I saw her once from a distance, heard herspeak, and…then became obsessed with her. Is this love? I don’t know. The only thing that makes sense to me is that I have to have her, and so I made up this scenario, saying I needed her for one year. After that year, she would be free. That was the lie I told her. I don’t plan to let her go.
Chapter Five
ANNABELLE
I’m going stir-crazy in this house. It’s so quiet it’s almost eerie. Plus, the email I’d gotten from a woman by the name of Caroline Winthrop has given me anxiety. I’d wondered if I should forward it to Wick. It was an invite for a ladies' luncheon. It was addressed to me, but as Annabelle Wickham. It was pretty jarring to have someone address me that way.
I guess the word in the elite world of the wealthy is spreading. Is there a newsletter that goes out, or is it all word of mouth? I doubt that's a question I'll ever get the answer to. I'm not in that wealthy chain and never will be.
In my personal life, most people call me Belle. Not that I have much of a personal life at the moment. I don't want to bother Wick with this. He's clearly a very busy and important man, and these are things his wife needs to be doing. I decide against reaching out to him and simply respond that I'd love to attend. Maybe getting out will be good for me. I hope I can find a dress in my closet that will work.
Needing fresh air and human contact, even if at a distance, I shut my laptop and grab my things to go for a walk and maybe go back to the coffee shop. I grab my Kindle, tossing it into my purse.
I'm about to push the button for the elevator but pause, glancing down at myself. Do I need to dress up to simply leave to go for a walk? That may sound silly, but the stares and remarks are quite daunting around here. Everyone else is dressed to the nines while I roam around in normal comfy clothes.
I risk it and hit the button. Thankfully when I step on, it's empty. I find myself holding my breath as we pass each floor. This is ridiculous, but the worry is real because when the elevator stops, my stomach sinks. The doors slide open, and a man in a fancy suit steps on. His eyes scan me from head to toe, and then he gives me a smirk, and I smile back, praying he doesn't make small talk. My prayer crashes and burns before it can take flight.
“You're new?”
“I am.”
He holds his hand out. “I'm Nick.”
“Belle.” I shake his hand, and his hold lingers, making me feel awkward. The man, while handsome, could be my father.
“We should do coffee sometime.”
“Oh.” I didn’t expect him to say that. I thought he might ask how much I charge for cleaning, thinking I was new, as in a new staff member.
“It’s the neighborly thing to do.” His smile grows, and I am unsure whether this is the moment to mention that I’m married or if he genuinely wants to get to know me as a neighbor. His expression is kind, but I have never been great at reading people.
I really don’t want to say I’m married and have him look at me like I’ve lost my mind for thinking it was a date. It could also be one of those polite comments made when there are no real plans to meet up at all.
“Rain check?” I ask. If he is only being friendly, it might not be the worst thing to know another person in the building. To make friends.
