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“Yes,” I murmur. “I was watching you, looking at you from behind like you look at me.”
The words are nonsense because he has fucked me senseless.
But they are not harmless nonsense. I feel a change come over him immediately. I try to roll over, but he stops me.
“When?” he asks.
“Just now,” I whisper.
I sound like a child lying, but the fog of what he has done still covers me like a heavy blanket.
“While I was in the bathroom?”
His voice has become terse. I try to claw through the fog, try to explain.
“While you were everywhere,” I answer then lamely repeat, “everywhere.”
He lets me roll over at last. I expect a scowl and there is a trace of the expression, but it quickly smooths out as he gently captures my chin. Leaning forward, he kisses my mouth.
“Please,” I manage to whisper between kisses.
I want to talk, but I know, deep down, he won’t let me. He has figured out that I am high on endorphins, that I have lost my filters. I think he knows exactly what I want to say and he knows that my words will ruin our agreement for him, will force him to send me away.
He doesn’t want to hear that I love him because, for some reason, Griffin Montgomery can’t play with the pets who love him, just the ones he pays.
Blinking back tears, I let him bring the covers up to my chin. He tucks me in and exits the room, all the warmth and kindness leaving his face before he even reaches the bedroom door.
Griffin
A late afternoonsun shines through the bare windows of the old nursery. The room sits in the master wing of the estate, the big double doors to the main gallery locked except for days like this one, days when I am not sure who I am or what I want.
Nothing on the walls or in the furnishings hint at the space’s former purpose. There are deep chairs and a sofa to sit on. Books and models overflow the shelves and tables. Nearly four centuries of family history are winnowed down to these eight hundred square feet. From the shipbuilders to the train and real estate barons to the bankers and venture capitalists—some piece of my great grandfathers’ legacy can be found.
It is not a bad space, and it is inherently my space, belonging to me in a way reflected in no other room in all the properties I own. Yet I seldom visit, seldom take comfort within the confines of its four walls.
My stomach rumbles. I check the time on the phone. Late afternoon is sliding into evening. I haven’t eaten, haven’t done anything but sit numbly on the plush sofa and stare at the room’s only blank section of wall. The spot once held a large painting of my parents to remind me when I was young of what they looked like.
As is true with my parents, the portrait no longer exists.
And the wall is better for its absence.
Another rumble of protest from my gut gets me on my feet. Parts of me wouldn’t mind eating, but I don’t want to go to the kitchen. I left the iPad in the bedroom, so I have no way of remotely checking where Katelyn. I don’t expect her to stay in bed. Not Iron Kate.
Pulling my phone out, I send Harriet a text.
Sandwich? Atelier. Thank you.
Not the kind of message someone with my wealth usually sends an employee, but Harriet and Philip are not really employees. Neither are they family or friends. A new word needs invented—something that connotes a person essential to the emotional well-being of someone who is alone in the world by choice.
If we were friends or family, we would have deep discussions. They would ask me how I feel and I wouldn’t say such mundane things as “busy, hungry, think I pulled a muscle on that last run.” And I would ask them how they feel—how they really feel—because I wouldn’t worry about them turning the same probing question in my direction.
Instead, I make sure they have a solid income, all expenses paid and with very few hours worked, just enough “service” to put an impenetrable line between us.
It wasn’t like this when I was a child. I haunted Harriet’s kitchen and Philip’s garage whenever I could. My parents were gone more often than not. My nannies came through on a conveyor belt.
Then I went to boarding school. New boundaries had to be drawn.
The phone buzzes with a reply.
