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During the flight, I suggested I move back into my apartment when we return, and he shot that down. When I said I wasn’t sharing his bedroom, he didn’t insisted. Which was good. Even though a part of me was disappointed. But if he’d insisted, I’d have simply put my foot down or threatened to move out of the house. Not that he would have let me, but I would have tried my darnedest.
Thankfully, it didn’t come to that because when we reached his home—not the penthouse, by the way, but a townhouse on Primrose Hill—he asked one of his staff to show me to my room. I asked him why we hadn’t returned to the penthouse and he simply said, we’re married and this is where we’re living now. Then, he’d disappeared into his study.
I didn’t see him at all last night. I didn’t even heard him come up to bed. I’m on the same floor as him—or so his housekeeper told me. I had my pick of the guest rooms and chose one down the corridor, as far away from his bedroom as possible.
After a solitary dinner in the big formal dining room, I went to bed and tossed and turned until I fell asleep as the sky began lightening outside. I woke up only when Zara called me this morning.
I look at the time and gasp. It’s almost noon. No wonder, she was concerned. I must have sounded like I was still out of it, halfway through the day. I drag myself out of bed and head for the bathroom. Feeling more like myself after the shower, I dress in a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, pull on socks, then pad down to the kitchen.
There’s no sign of Liam, and his housekeeper doesn’t seem too happy to see me in the kitchen. I ask her for coffee, and she tells me she’ll serve me in the conservatory adjoining the living room. She seems to be in a hurry to get me out of her kitchen, so I leave and go to where she instructed. It’s a beautiful space, actually, with the sun shining through the glass ceiling. I step out onto the patio behind it. Beyond that is a lawn with flowers bordering it, which in turn, leads to an infinity pool. Beyond the pool is the slope of Primrose Hill with a view of London. I stare at the skyline in the distance, making out the dome of St. Paul’s and the tall sliver of white metal that is The Shard.
The housekeeper brings me my coffee and breakfast on a tray. Before I can dig in, another member of the staff, the butler by the looks of it—how many staff did Liam have anyway?—escorts Zara into the room. She’s on the list of friends and family I shared with Liam’s security team so they’d know to let her in without having to check first.
"Hey you!" She walks over, and I hug her. Finally, someone I know and someone who’s not one of Liam’s household staff.
"Do you want coffee?" I ask.
She nods.
I turn toward the door. Do I need to go to the kitchen to ask for another cup or—Zara walks to a button that’s tucked away to the side of the settee and depresses it.
"Umm, what did you do?"
She holds up five fingers, then four, then three, two— The housekeeper walks into the room.
"You called, Madam?" she asks me.
"She did." Zara tips up her chin. "Can I get a cup for the coffee, please?" She flashes a smile at the woman who half-bows.
"Very well, Madam." She turns and leaves.
I pick my jaw up off the floor and turn to her. “How did you know that’s what the button was for?”
“It seemed like the most probable reason for it to be tucked away out of sight.” She raises a shoulder.
"Where did you learn to do this Lady of the Manor impersonation?"
"When I was little, I used to practice in front of the mirror. I used to pretend that I had a lot of money and a staff I could order about to do my bidding."
"Really?" I blink.
"When you don’t have much, it’s exciting to live a different life in your head."
"Oh." I’m not sure what to say. In the time I’ve known her, she’s never mentioned her background.
"I know you wouldn’t think so to look at me now, but fact is, I come from modest beginnings." She gestures to herself. Today, she’s wearing a perfectly cut skirt-suit, probably Chanel, designer shoes which, if I’m not mistaken, are Manolo Blahnik's, and is carrying her Birkin handbag. Her makeup is flawless. She looks like a dead ringer for the woman who played the lead in the second season of Bridgerton crossed with a hipper version of the character Meryl Streep played in The Devil Wears Prada. Only Zara is a lot more vital. Energy crackles around her like she’s in a hurry to get somewhere.
"Not that we were poor. We never went hungry. And my parents worked their butts off to give me and my brother a good education."
"You have a brother?"
"He’s my twin."
"You have a twin brother?" One Zara is already a force of nature; to think there are two of them is mind-boggling.
She laughs. "He’s only a few minutes older than me, but the way he acts, you’d think he was years older. He was very protective of me when we were younger." Her gaze softens. "I used to have frizzy hair, wore braces, and spectacles. I used to get teased by all the other kids in school. He was always coming to my defense."
"That must have been so nice to have someone looking out for you."
