Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
The DJ starts playing the Happy Birthday song. Everyone sings along. Dora looks on with her hands clasped tightly in amazement. Everyone claps, then the DJ begins to play his list of upbeat songs from the eighties and nineties, from the time when Dora was young. It fills the room with party energy.
The party explodes into life—laughter echoing off the walls, people dipping treats into the chocolate, the rich, velvety sweetness coating tongues and fingers, dim sum passed around on trays with chopsticks clinking. And the alcohol flows: bottles of wine in ice buckets, vodka for mixing with fresh juices, the corks popping like celebrations themselves.
Then Frances warms the room with toasts and stories. It's a great success, the kind that makes my chest ache with happiness. I did this, brought this light to this strangely disconnected family and house.
Dora approaches me as the music shifts to something softer, her eyes still glistening. She takes my hands in hers, squeezing gently, her gaze searching my face—lingering on my eyes, my smile—as if she can't quite believe it's me standing there.
"Mrs. Carolyn," she says, her voice thick with emotion, pausing as if weighing her words. "This... all of this. I don't know what to say. Thank you. Truly. I never expected... No one has ever…." She trails off, her brow furrowing in that mix of surprise and disbelief, like she's seeing me for the first time.
I smile. "You totally deserve it, Dora. You’ve been good to this family for a very long time. Happy birthday!"
Frances edges over, her regal bearing unsoftened by champagne. She hesitates, her blue eyes meeting mine with reluctance, a flicker of something almost like approval buried under layers of wariness.
“All of this was... thoughtful," she says finally, her voice clipped but sincere, pausing as she shifts her weight from one leg to the other. "Thank you, Carolyn."
The words hang there, surprised, but real. I smile at her. “It was no trouble, Frances.”
Then a worrying thought flashes into my head. What happens to these people when the real Carolyn comes back?
Chapter Twenty-Two
BLAKE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mqFLXayD6e8
-that don’t impress me much
The clock on my office wall ticks past seven. It is the only sound in the quiet expanse of the high-rise suite overlooking midtown Manhattan, where the city lights are just starting to flicker on against the deepening twilight. I lean back in my chair.
Normally, I'd be buried here until ten, midnight even, poring over spreadsheets and market analyses, the scent of fresh-brewed coffee lingering in the air. But tonight, my mind's elsewhere. A restless itch I can’t ignore crawls under my skin. It's that damn party at home—Dora's birthday celebration, the one orchestrated by Carolyn.
My foot taps an erratic rhythm against the polished hardwood floor. Why the hell am I so eager to bolt out of here? I know the answer, deep down, but admitting it to myself would crack open a door I know I should fucking keep shut.
It's her.
Carolyn—or whatever version of her this is.
I tell myself the party's the perfect excuse to watch her without being obvious. Since the event will stretch on for hours, it will give me time to study the inexplicable changes in her. Without this opportunity, it'll be just glimpses—her slipping down a hallway, her laugh faintly slipping out of Freya's room. No more than teasing fragments that leave me hungry for more. My body tightens with a strange frustration.
I pick up the half-empty tumbler of Macallan 18. The amber liquid swirls as I lift it. The smoky peat burns a slow path down my throat as my thoughts drift back to her, the way her skin flushed in Freya’s room yesterday. What the hell was that?
My assistant buzzes me, her voice emotionless over the intercom. "Mr. Bessant, the Tokyo team is ready for the conference call. They have made the adjustments to the supply chain clauses. Should I patch them through?"
I hesitate, my finger hovering over the button, the weight of the deal pressing down like the air outside. This call could drag on. The itch to leave intensifies, like a physical pull tugging at me. "Patch them in," I instruct, and the video feed flickers to life on my monitor—faces in suits nodding from a sleek boardroom halfway around the world, the time difference making it morning there. The words bubble up naturally. "Gentlemen, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’ll have to reschedule this call to tomorrow. I have a pressing matter at home that needs my attention."
There's a pause on their end, then the Japanese way: polite murmurs of agreement masking their surprise. I cut the connection with a click, and the screen goes dark. My heart thuds with a mix of relief and that nagging unease—since when do I bail on work for my housekeeper's party? But it's not about Dora. It's all about Carolyn. I grab my suit jacket from the back of the chair, slide the wool over my shoulders, and head out. The elevator ride down feels endless, my mind racing.