Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
To my right? The dining room. Black table with upholstered chairs. Crystal chandelier. Oversized potted ficus trees framing the wall of windows.
Beyond that is a butler’s pantry with floor-to-ceiling cabinetry on one side and a sink, hidden dishwasher, and shelves full of pristine drinkware on the other. Passing through, I end up in the kitchen with its restaurant-grade appliances, double islands, plethora of marble and stainless steel and modern black everything else. Towards the seating area is a wall of windows that I distinctly recall from the last time—they fold into the wall, somehow vanishing and making the space open up to the courtyard, where Slade can enjoy his meals next to a bubbling marble fountain and neatly trimmed topiaries imported from Sardinia.
Making my way around his U-shaped main floor, I pass the spiral staircase and end up in his study. I know from the last time I visited, he splits his work time between here and the office, and he’s religious about maintaining his strict schedule …
If I recall from last time, Slade wakes up at 5:30 or 6 AM, goes for an outdoor run for at least an hour—rain or shine—returns home, showers, drinks his coffee at 7:30, then takes a handful of supplements before putting in a few hours of work. At noon, his chef prepares him a macro-specified meal subsisting of zero processed food. After lunch, he heads to the office for the rest of the afternoon.
All things aside, I admire Slade’s dedication to his health and his commitment to his routine. No one could ever accuse the man of being lazy or unmotivated. My father has always said the most successful people in this world have mastered the challenging art of self-discipline.
I’ve always been more of a go-with-the-flow type, though, much to my parents’ dismay.
I think it stems from having every millisecond of my life scheduled for me.
Whenever I have true free time, I tend to go where the wind blows me and do whatever I feel like doing in that moment.
It’s all about balance.
Trekking up the spiral stairs, I pass Slade’s home gym at the top—warmed by sunshine and filled with natural light and expensive-looking equipment I couldn’t begin to know how to use. Next is the guest room I stayed in last time. I peek my head in, only to find it filled with boxes, and not in any kind of useful state. Quietly, I shut the door. Maybe he’s putting me in a different room this time?
The next room is a hall bath. Then a linen closet. After that is another guest room, only this one is missing a bed. The double doors at the end of the hall lead to Slade’s suite. I remember that from before as well, only I’ve never set foot in there. Last time, he never invited me in and I never asked.
The doors swing open, sending a start to my heart.
But it’s only Fiona.
“Hi.” She smiles. “I was just putting your luggage in here. I unpacked your things as well. Mr. Delacorte designated half of his dresser and a portion of his closet for your use. He’ll clear out more space for you once you’re here full-time.”
So … I’m sleeping in his room this time?
That’s news to me.
Guess I’ll have to get used to it sooner or later—I just hope he leaves his expectations at the double doors before he climbs under the covers beside me tonight.
“Thank you,” I tell her. I wait for her to pass by before heading in to check out the mystery room where my beloved lays his heavy head at night.
One step in and my foot sinks into the plushest, lushest carpet I’ve ever felt in my life. Soft as cashmere, fine as rabbit fur. I’m not sure what this is, but holy shit. I resist the urge to lie down and do a series of snow angels right then and there.
In the center of the main wall is a modern-looking four poster king-sized bed. Or perhaps it’s a California king? The perspectives of this space with its sweeping ceiling and oversized doors and furnishings are throwing me off. It’s truly a space built for royalty.
A remote rests beside the lamp on one of the nightstands. The thing must have a hundred buttons if not more. I press one and the curtains float down, turning the room pitch black and drowning out the ocean noise from outside.
“Shit,” I whisper. It’s too dark to see which button makes them go up, so I flip on the lamp so I can see what I’m doing. Only none of the buttons are labeled. They’re all color-coded. Carefully I put the remote back where I found it and make my way to the en suite … which does not disappoint.
In the center of the space is a glass-encased steam shower, complete with nine body jets and an overhead rain shower fixture. Nestled along the neighboring wall is a sunken tub, big enough for two if not three people. Overhead is a crystal chandelier with modern, clean lines that complement the black and white aesthetic and provide a bit of character in a space that might otherwise feel sterile and futuristic.