Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 38306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
“There,” Mr. Rochester murmurs. “You look so bloody innocent once more.”
I follow his gaze to my reflection on the full-length mirror.
He’s right, I realize absently. My hair, my clothes – everything’s been perfectly restored. It’s like nothing happened at all, and the only proof that something did is my bare pussy still quivering faintly under my skirt.
When we step out of his washroom, I sit on the couch and watch him get ready to leave.
Two weeks. He’ll be gone for two weeks. Two weeks.
Mr. Rochester bends down to kiss my forehead. “Take care of yourself for me.”
And then he’s gone.
MY FIRST NIGHT ALONE in Mr. Rochester’s home leaves me feeling oddly lost. It confuses and angers me, so much so that when his promised call finally does come, I find myself pretending to be asleep and leaving Consuelo to make up excuses on my behalf.
Time continues to pass ever so slowly. I feel like it’s been hours, but when I check my watch it’s barely nine in the evening.
God.
I hate this. How is that mere days in Mr. Rochester’s company have usurped the routine which had dictated most of my life?
It doesn’t make sense.
Or it can’t make sense save for one thing, but the sheer possibility of it scares me—-
Not yet. Not now.
And so I deliberately shun the thought, and instead continue tossing and turning on a bed that suddenly feels too big and empty. I desperately search for something to keep my mind off things—-
I get it sooner than I want, and it’s worse than I can ever imagine.
A rustling sound reaches my ears in the dead quiet of the night, and I sit up.
Impossible, I think nervously.
Mr. Rochester’s place has all kinds of high-tech security checks in place. It’s impossible for any burglar to get in – right?
And yet I keep hearing it, someone moving around in the next room—-
The supposedly empty room next door.
Gulping, I ask out loud, “Is anyone there?”
The sound stops...and so does my heart.
I wait with bated breath, but the sound doesn’t resume.
Lying down, I slowly pull the covers over me.
I must’ve been imagining things. Right?
I try convincing myself of this even as my heartbeat continues to stutter and I can’t quite breathe properly.
It can’t be a ghost, I tell myself. And it can’t be an intruder either.
I close my eyes.
I must have been imagining it—-
But the thought has barely formed in my mind when I hear the same rustling sound.
SHIT.
The next day I give Consuelo the shock of her life when she finds me in the kitchen at five in the morning, drinking my third cup of coffee.
“Madre de Dios!” She hastily makes a Sign of the Cross.
“Morning, Consuelo.” I smile weakly. “Sorry I frightened you.”
“Te ves terrible,” she says forlornly as she peers at my face.
I don’t speak Spanish, but I definitely get what she’s saying, and I sigh. “I know.”
The housekeeper clucks her tongue sympathetically. “You didn’t get to sleep last night?”
“Uh huh,” I answer while suppressing a yawn. My eyelids are finally starting to droop, and I wonder tiredly how I’m going to get myself to work.
“So you came down for a change of surroundings.”
“Uh huh.” I cover my mouth as I yawn.
“But then you drank coffee and it kept you up instead.”
“Uh huh.”
She nods understandingly. “I see.” Turning away, she takes her apron off the hook, saying, “You miss the master, si?”
“Uh huh.” And then I realize what I’m saying, and I sit up. “I mean, no!” I make a face at the housekeeper, but Consuelo only laughs with a knowing look on her face.
“I don’t miss him! Okay?”
“You want to have breakfast now?” the housekeeper asks cheerfully.
I groan. “You’re not taking me seriously—-” My stomach interrupts me with a grumbling sound.
Consuelo shoots me an inquiring look.
“But yes, I’d like breakfast.”
The older woman smiles, promising, “I’ll have it ready in ten minutes.”
“Thank you.” I bite my lip, and unable to leave it alone, I stress, “But I mean it. I’m really not missing him.” I get up from my chair, adding, “I’m a free bird, you know. My happiness doesn’t depend on a man—-”
“—-are words that all girls say,” Consuelo finishes with a snort, “when the man they want still haven’t placed a ring on their finger.”
“You make a terrible feminist,” I tell her earnestly. “Has anyone told you that?”
But the older woman only shrugs, clearly unaffected.
On my way out to the kitchen, I pause by the doorway. “Umm, Consuelo?”
“Si?”
“I kept hearing things last night.”
A pause.
Then Consuelo coughs. “O-oh?”
The sound is suspicious, and I whirl around to look at her properly, and the housekeeper gives me a guilt-stricken expression.
Aha!
My eyes narrow. “You know something.”
“I don’t know anything.” The housekeeper turns her back on me and starts busying herself taking out pans and food from the pantry.
“You make a terrible liar, too, Consuelo.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Is this place haunted, is that it?”