Georgia said nothing. Her face remained expressionless. I couldn’t read it.
Who did this bitch think she was? So what if she saw me leaving Corey’s man cave? What could she do? What could she say?
“Look,” I said, keeping my voice solid. “You and I both know that if this home so much as crumbles, you’ll be out of a job. Lola won’t stay if she’s pissed at Corey. She’ll leave, because this home is under Corey’s name. Corey is hardly here as it is, so I’m sure he wouldn’t need you, and I’m sure the last thing you want is to lose a job that pays you well, so how about you mind your own business and stay out of mine?”
It was harsh. Cruel.
I didn’t care. I didn’t need this woman fucking up my plans. My future.
Her expression didn’t change. Honestly, it was strange that she didn’t at least react or seem surprised by my statement.
Instead, she released the water bottle and lifted her chin, still holding my eyes. “Have a wonderful night, Miss Elliot,” Georgia murmured, walking past me.
I looked over my shoulder and watched her leave the kitchen without turning back, and as she rounded the corner and disappeared, my heartbeat settled.
It was fine. No, really. It would be.
I was going to tell Corey that Georgia saw me leaving his man cave, and that he’d need to tell Georgia to keep quiet if she wanted to keep her job. She would.
Georgia lived here. She’d be out of money, a home, and a purpose if she mentioned this to Lola. She wasn’t going to jeopardize everything she had over a measly affair that had nothing to do with her.
It would have been foolish, and I didn’t take her as a foolish woman.
PART TWO
START OF THE RUIN
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
GEORGIA
Well, hello there, Ivy. Ivy Elliot, is it?
Interesting. I always thought your name was Ivy Hill.
I’ve been looking forward to writing these words to you. Not that you’ll ever get to read them—I can’t take a risk like that—but pretending to write to you as I deal with what I’ve done does seem like it will work. I read something about it online once—how to cope with high levels of remorse and guilt—and it said to write letters to the person you feel guilty about, even if the person never receives the letters.
Well, here we are. Here I am.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I know that after everything, you probably hate me, and you most likely assume that I hate you too. In all honesty, I don’t hate you. I don’t even come close to hating you.
I know what hate is. Hate is an emotion you carry in your heart. It’s a burning, gnawing sensation that burns in your veins, one that you can’t escape or get rid of. Hate is an emotion you wish you could release because it has so much control and power over you, but that’s not how hate works, is it? Hate is loyal. It’s there to stay.
Speaking of loyalty, I’m sure you know I’ve been loyal to Lola Maxwell for quite some time now. I started working for the Maxwells when I was twenty-six years old. I’m forty-one now as I write this, but I’d dedicated about a decade and a half of my life to the Maxwells. Fourteen years. That’s a lot of time to really get to know someone, don’t you agree?
I remember the day I applied for the job like it was yesterday. My second cousin on my father’s side of the family forwarded me an email about the position. She worked with an employment agency and always had access to the elite jobs that would fill fast.
In her email she’d mentioned that the pay was great and that I’d get to live in the home if given the job, but that I had to fill out the application quickly because many people were applying and submissions would close in two days.
The job was for Lola Maxwell. The Lola Maxwell. Everyone was running to apply.
There was a lot of responsibility with the job, but I could handle it. I’d grown up being responsible for people. My grandmother was one of them. She’d become sick in her fifties, diagnosed with ALS, and I lived with her until I was twenty, so I felt it was my responsibility to look after her. I took care of her, changed her wet diapers, and fed her when she lost control of her hands.
And don’t even get me started on my mother, who always came home smelling like weed, her hair a mess and her attitude on ten. She wasn’t a very kind woman, but I loved her, and when she was down, sick, or had had a little too much to drink, I took care of her . . . that is until I no longer had to. She died when I was twenty-three.