Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22700 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22700 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
A loud knock at my door nearly jolts me off the chaise. The door opens, and Clarisse pokes her head in. “Mr. Fredrickson is here.”
I freeze instantly. “What?”
“He just arrived…just now.”
My mind goes blank. This doesn’t make any sense. Arthur and I haven’t seen each other in weeks. His room is in the opposite wing of the house from mine. He goes to work and comes home, and I don’t even notice. The only reason I’m even living here now is because my father and he decided it would be good for me to get used to the house, the grounds, the whole estate, and prepare for being a wife.
Arthur calls me “darling girl” in public, like some kind of old-fashioned British aristocrat. Which makes sense considering how obscenely wealthy he is. Oh, and did I mention he’s also fifty-five? Yeah, my dad didn’t see an issue there.
I rush to my mirror as Clarisse shuts the door. My cheeks are flushed, my lips are chapped from biting them anxiously all day, and my hair is an absolute mess. I rush to the bathroom and quickly do my best to put myself together.
Arthur is waiting, as he always is, in the drawing room. Surrounded by walls of books, he’s sitting by the fire, wearing an old-fashioned white suit with a whiskey in one hand and a lit cigar in the other.
He turns and glances at me like he owns me–like we’ve already been married for decades. “Cassandra.”
I don’t know why, but I curtsy. Maybe it’s in response to the suit he’s wearing. I instantly regret it. “Arthur.”
He motions for me to come over to him, which I know I must do. He gestures with his cigar, and I lean down. He then brushes his cold lips against my forehead, and it’s all I can do not to vomit.
“Thought I’d surprise you,” he whispers. “You look delicious this evening.”
Yeah, I actually might puke.
“Thank you,” I reply automatically. He frowns, takes a sip of his whiskey, and scans my body with his eyes, pausing–oddly enough–on my throat. “You’ve been working out.”
“Playing tennis,” I stammer.
“Ah, yes.” He smirks, taking a puff from his cigar. “The tennis coach. There’s nothing going on between you two, is there?”
His question nearly knocks me down. “Ex–excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he says, his smile broadening. “I don’t have to worry about what you’re up to when I’m away. Do I, darling?”
I shake my head so hard it nearly comes off. “Of course not! Rhett is very professional!”
Don’t overdo it.
Arthur sets his cigar aside, reaches out, and takes my hand. It’s just as cold as his lips. “You’ll be a good wife, Cassandra. I’ve been very patient. I’ve let you live here without any contact while you…mature. But patience has its limits.”
He lowers his eyes to my hand, my ring finger, the large engagement ring he placed there when I first moved in. It’s enormous. A symbol of his equally enormous wealth. I’ve always hated the thing. It weighs my hand down like an anchor.
I hide my hand behind my back and look at the floor. “I–I’m tired, Mr. Frederickson. I think I’ll go to bed–”
“Must we still play this game?” he asks before I can turn. I bring my eyes to his, nearly trembling from anxiety. “Call me Arthur. I’m going to be your husband.”
My throat spasms. I’m not ready for this.
“I think I’ll go to bed…Arthur.”
He smiles and nods, taking a puff from his cigar. “Good night, darling.”
I turn and quickly leave the room, gulping down deep breaths to calm myself. This house feels like a prison. It’s like the walls are closing in on me, doing their best to squish me into jelly. I take the route that leads to my room but duck out a side door and walk across the grass to the back garden. It’s lush and ornate, with fountains and ivy and roses everywhere, and I’m sure Arthur has never once been here. He just pays someone to keep it up so when guests come over, the estate looks impressive.
I’m glad he does, though, as I like to come here from time to time when I need to decompress. It’s where I go when I need to breathe. The cobblestones are cold on my feet as I take the long route. I pass through the stone arch and hear the sound of running water from one of the fountains and am just about to find my normal bench when I stop breathing altogether.
Rhett is here.
He’s shirtless, wearing only jeans. Sweat is gleaming off his muscled back and shoulders as he curls a dumbbell in one arm. I knew he was built when I first saw him, but seeing him uncovered like this just takes things to a whole new level.
I grip the stone of the arch beside me, using its chill to lower my body temperature. He doesn’t know I’m watching him as he lowers the weight slowly, his bicep bulging, thick and veiny. When he finally sets it down, he runs a hand through his hair and turns slightly, stretching, giving me a view of his abs. Abs a Hollywood star would kill for.