There’s a short staircase on the other side of the bed. I’m curious where it leads. Perhaps an escape hatch?
I almost snort.
More like wishful thinking.
The sumptuous surroundings are almost enough to distract me from the fact that I’ve been forced into this living arrangement.
“Do you have any questions?”
Startled out of my cursory inspection, I swing around with a million perched on the tip of my tongue. Instead of giving voice to them, I shake my head.
She takes a step toward the hallway before stopping. “Forgive me, but it just occurred to me that I failed to introduce myself earlier. I’m Mrs. Fieber, house manager for the Rothchild family. If you need anything, all you have to do is ask.”
Even though the offer has been issued, Mrs. Fieber doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who would welcome questions, comments, or demands. She looks like she should be commanding an army through enemy territory. Or maybe work at a maximum-security prison. For some reason, that image sticks in my brain.
When I stare mutely, she raises her severely plucked brows and I jerk my head into a tight nod. Without another word, she strides to the door before closing it firmly behind her. Now that I’m alone, the breath rushes from my body until my lungs are completely emptied.
It’s tempting to fly across the room and shake the door handle to confirm my prisoner status. Am I trapped in this gilded cage or free to come and go as I please? Maybe that should have been my first question.
I force myself to the sleek silver bench at the end of the bed before collapsing on top of it. My gaze wanders around the room, soaking in all the elaborate details. My brain is operating on sensory overload. It’s almost too much to absorb. Anything more and I’ll splinter apart. And much like Humpty Dumpty, I’ll never be put back together again.
A mirthless chuckle slides from my lips.
Fucking Grandma Rose.
This is all her fault.
Dad is gone, and I’m being forced to live with the Rothchilds. At some point, I’ll marry Kingsley so my family can keep ownership of Hawthorne Industries. I don’t give a crap about the stupid company. I never did. I wish it were possible to walk away, but Keaton won’t allow that to happen. And neither will the specifications of Grandma Rose’s will.
Thoughts of my father are enough to leave me gasping for air. A tightness develops in my chest before slowly spreading throughout my body like a virus. It feels as if I’m being suffocated from the inside out. I open my mouth but aren’t able to draw in enough oxygen and my head grows light. Little spots dance before my eyes.
The spacious room turns oppressive as the walls press in on me.
I need to get out of here.
It’s unsteadily that I rise to my feet before staggering to the balcony door. With fingers that tremble, I grab the handle before yanking it open and stumbling onto the porch that stretches across the back of the house. Stone balusters line the perimeter with tall potted plants that are strategically spaced out across the width. Chairs are arranged in small clusters with a few loungers and cafe-style tables that allow for relaxation, all the while surveying the property and the golf course that lies beyond the trees. With the darkness that has fallen, that’s not possible.
My fingernails claw at the railing as I squeeze my eyes shut and inhale deep gulps of air. Blackness swirls around me, threatening to suck me under. When my knees weaken, my grip tightens.
Don’t pass out.
Don’t pass out.
Don’t pass out.
I chant the mantra and concentrate on regulating my airflow until the muscles in my chest loosen and my breathing isn’t so agonizing. Only then does the laughter and voices floating on the breeze push their way into my consciousness. I force my eyes open and survey the scene below. Much like our house next door, there’s a custom pool, hot tub, and cozy seating arrangement. Orange flames twist and dance from the firepit as moonlight slants across the concrete. The perimeter is illuminated by tiny lights that dot the darkness.
I blink as my eyes adjust to the inky blackness and the people below coalesce before taking shape. There’s at least a dozen reclining over chairs and the curved sectional that surrounds the firepit. I’m not able to make out all the faces, but the ones I can see, I recognize from school.
It’s the dark-haired boy sprawled on a plush armchair who snags my attention. Once my gaze locks on him, glancing away becomes impossible. Even in the shadowy darkness, I’m aware of the moment his interest is drawn to me. The energy we always generate careens through me, lighting up every cell in my body. Maybe I don’t want to feel the spark of attraction, but it’s there, humming beneath the surface. Once my gaze is captured, Kingsley doesn’t relinquish his hold as he lifts a green bottle of beer to his lips before taking a long swig. I can almost imagine the way his thickly corded throat constricts with each swallow of golden liquid.