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Chelsea mirrors my gesture and attempts to balance her chin on her index finger. “I’m listening.”
“How do you feel about becoming the next Mrs Calloway?”
Chelsea snorts. “I’m nowhere near drunk enough to agree to marrying you.”
I snap my fingers. “Ronald, another bottle of red.”
Chelsea laughs. “Nice try.”
“Nice try indeed. But I’m serious. Come to a few public outings with me and pose as my fiancée. Do that and in return I will give you the money you need to reopen your salon.”
A faint line appears between her brows as she studies me. I think the realisation of what I’ve asked her has sunk in. “One hundred thousand pounds to attend a few events with you? Sure, why not? I’ve been blacklisted from every bank in Heller St Claire.”
Ronald’s timing couldn’t be better. He appears to my right and refills my glass, which I lift. “I believe a toast is in order. After which we will discuss the full terms and conditions of my very generous offer.”
Chelsea
Sunlight filters through the curtains, and I wake up with a start in a bed I don’t know, in a room I don’t recognise. Then, fuzzy-headed, I remember that Lucian has revamped my bedroom and I figure it’s just going to take me a while to get used to.
I swivel around on the soft mattress. The digital clock on the bedside table tells me it’s one o’clock.
In the afternoon! I never sleep in this late.
Flashes of last night fill my mind. I remember the meal with Lucian and snippets of conversation. We talked and we drank, but my throbbing head tells me that we mostly drank. The taste of stale wine lingers in my mouth, causing nausea to creep its way up my throat. I hold my breath and try to swallow it down. The action causes not only my mouth to water profusely but nausea to creep its way back up with a vengeance.
Oh, God, I’m going to be sick.
I leap from the bed and stumble my way to my en suite. Except where the hell is the door?
I turn three hundred and sixty degrees and notice that my en suite door is nowhere to be seen. I know I’m hungover, but not that far gone that a door would disappear, surely? With my hands cupped over my mouth, I glance around frantically for something, anything to throw up into. A bronze slimline bin beside a mahogany chest of drawers catches my attention. I hurry across the room in a last-minute ditch attempt not to spill my guts out on the carpet. The room spins, but I shut it off. When the bin is within reaching distance I fall to the floor, crawl on my hands and knees and hug it to my chest.
I don’t throw up, but the feeling comes and goes in waves before my stomach settles.
I sit for five minutes, maybe a little longer, to ensure I’m not going to be sick. I place the bin back where I found it and slowly stand. I pad my way around the room and stop in front of an antique-looking freestanding mirror.
“You look terrible,” I say to my reflection, and it isn’t a lie. Hair that is usually vibrant and full of life lies flat and dull. My eyes are bloodshot and my skin a sickly white, with a subtle shade of green. My gaze lowers. I’m dressed in a large shirt; the buttons are only partially fastened. I don’t remember putting this on. Hell, I don’t remember taking my dress off. My heartbeat picks up and I pull the fabric out so I can see what lies beneath. I’m still wearing my bra, and releasing the shirt I feel for my underwear, which is still intact. It is irrelevant. Anything could have happened last night, and I’d never know.
Stupid, stupid Chelsea. How could I have been so careless as to put myself in this situation? The irony is that I drank to gain confidence and gain control, but by drinking far more than my limit I couldn’t be more out of control.
Through the mirror my gaze meets the reflection of a dark wooden door. The doors at the flat are eggshell-white. I glance around and take a proper inventory of the room. The carpet under my feet is red, the walls that surround me are cream except for the wall directly behind the bed, which is covered with an intricate tapestry. The room is considerably larger than my bedroom at the flat, in fact my entire flat could probably fit inside these four walls and still have room to spare.Where the hell am I?
What if someone broke in whilst I was sleeping and kidnapped me? My gaze dances around the lavish room, and I quickly surmise how unlikely that scenario is. I’ve got to be at Lucian’s place, it is the only feasible explanation. Was this his plan all along, to get me drunk and bring me here?
I’ve been kidnapped.
But then I vaguely recall Lucian telling me to slow down and stop drinking. Of course I wasn’t going to listen, because he’s Lucian Calloway.
With unanswered questions flooding my mind I hurry toward the bedroom door, fastening every button on the shirt along the way. I stop for a beat, because regardless of anything else, I can’t leave this room dressed only in a shirt. I look around and notice a pink robe laid out on a small armchair. Without a thought as to who the robe belongs to, I quickly pull it on. If Lucian has kidnapped me, I want answers. Hell, I’m going to call the police and get rescued by a helicopter and…
I take a breath and try hard to let the rational Chelsea take charge, but rational Chelsea is seriously hungover. I march from the bedroom, walk down long corridors and pass door after door. I wonder how many rooms are in this house, this mansion. I begin counting and only stop when I happen upon a grand staircase. It is like something out of a fairytale, with a golden banister. I hold onto the handrail as I make my way down. The handrail finishes on the bottom stair, where it transforms into a life-sized carving of a lion. It’s hauntingly beautiful and disturbingly lifelike. I stand still for long seconds, my gaze transfixed on the works of art that surround me. An array of artwork hangs from the walls in large gilt-edged frames, and Greek sculptures line the grand hallway on tall hand-crafted stands.
Everything looks so clean, so polished, and so expensive. It would be so easy to get lost in this place’s charm, but no, I have to stay focused. I exit the grand hallway and once again find myself in a long corridor. I can hear the faint sound of voices echoing around me, which tells me I am heading in the right direction. Light filters in from every room. I pass a library, a study, a room that is home to a snooker table, and finally I reach the dining room.
A crystal chandelier hangs over a large rectangular table. I eye the long row of seats. All are empty and are pushed beneath the table, all except two.
Bingo.
Dressed in a pristine navy suit, Lucian is sitting at the table. A dark-haired man is reclined back in the seat opposite, his back toward me. They make idle conversation whilst sipping tea. I stand in the doorway and clear my throat, yet neither acknowledges me. Lucian’s attention seems to be taken up with an article in the newspaper he’s reading.
