Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 59310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
One thing hasn’t changed: I still make sure every day to be ready for him if he wants me. Not that it’s any huge hardship or anything. I like soaking in the tub, and everything I need is right there in the vanity.
That’s one thing I would like to ask him about. How did he know what to have here for me? All of the makeup I wear—my shade of foundation, the lip gloss I use—all of it is in the vanity drawers. And they were all brand-new, like they just came from the store, wrapped in plastic or sealed shut.
Either he’s a mind reader, or he had somebody break into my apartment and go through all of my things so they would know what to buy for me.
The idea makes my stomach churn. The thought of some random strangers going through my things. No, I don’t have a lot, but that’s not the point. What’s mine is mine.
I don’t know who Lucian thinks granted him access to my entire life, but I would like to revoke it if possible.
It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?
Right away, I feel guilty for even thinking along these lines. I get out of the tub and dry off on one of the thick, insanely soft towels. As I step onto the heated floor and sit down in front of the vanity chock-full of my favorite brands. I’m being ungrateful, aren’t I? After all, I could never imagine living in a place like this on my own. I should try to make the best of it and enjoy it as much as I can, right? Without all this thinking and uncertainty.
I examine my face, and I’m relieved to see the swelling has completely gone down. Greta didn’t ask any questions about that either. Thank god. No way would I have been able to get through it without breaking down. I’ve been carefully applying my brand-new makeup to the bruises, and it’s been helpful. I don’t have to flinch away in disgust whenever I catch sight of myself in a mirror.
My clothes are the right sizes, too. That’s another clue that tells me somebody went through what I left in the apartment. The day after I came here, I woke up to a closet and dresser full of clothes. Not just any clothes, either. The sort of things I couldn’t imagine ever buying for myself, with labels that made my eyes bulge when I read them.
He does realize I’m not used to this kind of thing, right? He didn’t need to spend all this money to keep me satisfied. I guess for a man like him, this is a drop in the bucket.
And for all I know, I’m not the only girl he’s ever done this for. It does seem like he had a whole little system in place, come to think of it. Like in no time at all, he got me settled into his house. No questions, no confusion. One minute the closet was empty, and the next, it was full of clothes. Whoever put my things away didn’t even wake me up. Yet another unnerving thought. Somebody creeping around while I was asleep.
I would ask Lucian about this, too, if he would talk to me. I should make a list.
I slide into a pair of ankle boots to complete my outfit—jeans and a tunic, both of them fit like they were made for me, which is amazing considering the difficulty I had finding jeans at the store—and then decide to take a walk. It’s the only thing I can do besides sitting around the house, and at least the grounds are pretty.
Today I take a walk through the garden, where roses like the ones blooming out front grow in a dazzling range of colors. I had never seen apricot roses before now, and they’re so perfect. I almost want to take one and bring it inside, but I know that would ruin it. It’s better to let it grow on its own and admire it.
It sort of seems like a waste, I muse as I walk down the carefully maintained paths. Lucian is never around to enjoy any of this, so why go to all the trouble of paying somebody to maintain the grounds so meticulously? As far as I know, he doesn’t throw parties here. No houseguests besides me. Even having staff on hand at all times seems pointless when there’s no one to serve.
I ask Greta about that when I go inside for breakfast. “It’s better not to ask questions,” she informs me with a motherly smile. “The boss has his ways, and he’s very particular about how he likes things to be done.”
“I figured that out on my own.”
“If he’s happy, that’s enough for me. I do my work, which I know he appreciates, and I’m left to my own devices. In the grand scheme of things, it’s a very comfortable situation.” She pours eggs into a pan and scrambles them for me just the way I like them, while a slice of wheat bread browns up in the toaster.