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So overjoyed, I don’t even glare at the kitchen staff while I shovel food into my mouth. As expected, it tastes delicious, and I’m equally happy I didn’t have to cook them myself. A girl can only handle so many burnt meals.
“Chop, chop! We need to get on with the house chores,” Sarah quips, walking into the kitchen.
I shovel the remainder of eggs on my plate into my mouth and wash it down with the last of my orange juice.
“Okay…” I move from my seat and take my dish to the sink.
Sarah gives me a look as if she can’t believe I would touch a dirty dish or fold a single towel. I’m sure some hate doing house chores, which is why they hire maids and such. Plus, it’s not like I have anything else to occupy my time here. At least it gives me a better glimpse of the house and any possible exits.
Sarah shows me into the laundry room. It looks like something that belongs in a hotel instead of a private residence. How many people live here? So far, I’d only seen the kitchen staff and his cast of guards.
Sarah loads me up with stacks of fresh linens and draws me a very rudimentary map to the rooms I need to change.
I can’t remember the last time I changed a set of sheets, but I’m not telling her that. I trudge back up the stairs, a little shocked that there isn’t a guard tailing me. The first room I enter looks very similar to my room. The only difference being the color palette. The bed is already made, but I throw back the covers and quickly change out the sheets. Now armed with a stack of clean sheets and a bundle of dirty sheets, I’m not sure what to do. I decide to take them with me to the next room because leaving them behind seems redundant.
In the next room, I enter slowly, so I can study the layout. It’s obvious someone lives in this room, and by the clean lines and dark tones, I have a feeling I know who it belongs to. His presence isn’t advertised. There aren’t any framed photos on the dresser, but the entire room holds his intense energy like a box sealed tight. As if it leaks from his body to soak into the walls.
Would he notice if I stole a couple more shirts? I eye the closet but decide against entering it. No doubt, he would consider it a debt between us if I took any. And I don’t need to dig myself a deeper hole with this man. I need to find a way to escape.
His bedding is tucked tight, as if a soldier or a doctor made it. I fear messing with it, but I still have several more rooms to finish before Sarah hunts me down with more chores. The deep navy blue covers match perfectly to the subtly patterned sheets beneath. I peel back the layers and replace the sheet with fresh white ones.
I told myself I wouldn’t snoop if I found Nicolo’s room, but faced with the possibility of gaining any type of information about him, I can’t resist. His furnishings are devoid of clutter. A small box containing a couple of watches and an array of cufflinks sits on top of his dresser. Inside, his clothing is perfectly folded and organized in immaculate rows. Did he do this or the staff? It takes control to an entirely new level.
I skirt the edge of the bed and fuss with arranging the already perfect covers. His bedside table has a gold locket sitting so far back on its surface, I didn’t even notice it until the overhead light glinted off it. A delicate chain wound in a perfect loop cups a little gold heart locket. On the top of it, the initials DAC are engraved. Gently, I trace my finger over the letters that are engraved into the worn metal. It’s as if it has been rubbed and buffed multiple times over the years.
A family heirloom, maybe?
It’s delicate, and my fingers tremble as I flip it open, only to find nothing inside the little heart frame. Disappointed, I click it closed and suddenly feel as if I’ve violated his privacy. I shove the guilt away as quickly as it comes. The man is holding me prisoner, for fuck’s sake.
The chain slides between my fingers and gets tangled. I gently pry it loose, careful not to pull the delicate links, when a voice behind me says, “What are you doing in here?”
I jolt so hard I drop the necklace onto the side table and stumble into the edge of the bed.
Turning, I press my hands to my chest to stop my heart from leaping out of my chest. The mean one, Lucas, is standing in the doorframe, leaning against it casually. How long has he been watching me? I don’t bother to ask because I truly don’t care. I don’t want to have a conversation with him.
