The Grant estate woke before the sun. Servants whispered through the corridors, light footsteps echoing against marble floors polished to perfection. By the time Emily left her room, the scent of roasted coffee had already settled in the air.
Life here followed an order efficient, quiet, almost mechanical and Emily slipped into it with practiced ease. She had lived in palaces and camps; silence and structure were nothing new. Still, something about this house felt different.
When she entered the dining hall, Timothy was already there, reading through a file instead of eating. His attention flickered up briefly, landing on her just long enough to acknowledge her presence before dropping back to the page.
"Good morning," she said evenly, taking her seat across from him.
"Morning," he replied without looking up. His voice was deep, calm.
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was simply… there. Two people coexisting.
Emily buttered her toast, her movements precise, unhurried. "Do you always start your mornings buried in paperwork?"
He glanced at her then, briefly, a corner of his mouth twitching as if she'd said something amusing. "Habit," he said. "I find people… unpredictable. Paper doesn't lie."
"Depends on who's writing," she replied lightly, taking a sip of her tea.
That earned her the faintest smirk the kind of expression that disappeared almost as soon as it appeared.
When breakfast ended, Timothy left for the office.
The rest of the morning unfolded at her own pace. She explored parts of the house she hadn't yet memorized the sunroom filled with rare plants, the wide staircase that split like a river halfway up, the west corridor lined with old portraits. Most of the faces on the walls looked stern, but one caught her attention a woman with the same sharp eyes as Timothy. His mother, she guessed. A strong face, regal even in paint.
"Madam Grant," came a soft voice behind her. The housekeeper bowed slightly. "Would you like me to prepare the study for you?"
Emily turned. "No, thank you. I prefer the light here."
The woman smiled faintly and retreated, leaving her alone again with the portraits. Emily stared at the painted woman a moment longer. "So you raised him," she murmured under her breath. "Explains a lot."
By noon, Timothy had reappeared in the main hall, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looked more approachable like that, though Emily doubted he realized it.
"Do you always inspect the house this thoroughly?" he asked when their paths crossed.
She tilted her head slightly. "Do you always notice?"
He met her gaze for a second, surprised by her tone dry, unbothered, quietly sharp. Then came that same hint of amusement in his eyes. "It's hard not to."
Emily allowed herself a small, measured smile. "Then I'll have to be more discreet."
"You're not exactly blending in," he said, brushing past her with an almost imperceptible grin.
The day passed in that strange rhythm quiet, deliberate exchanges woven into an otherwise peaceful domestic routine. Neither of them tried to bridge the distance between them, but neither ignored it. It was something that lived quietly between them, something they both acknowledged without naming.
That evening, Emily lingered in the drawing room, a book open in her lap but unread. Timothy came in late, loosening his tie. He paused when he saw her, as if surprised she was still awake.
"You don't sleep early," he said.
"I don't sleep easily," she replied, turning a page she hadn't actually read.
He studied her for a moment, then crossed to the small bar at the corner of the room. "Would you like something to drink?"
"I'll pass."
He poured himself a glass of whiskey and leaned against the counter. "You don't talk much."
She looked up then, meeting his gaze. "Neither do you."
He gave a quiet laugh at that genuine, low, the first real sound of amusement she'd heard from him. It softened his face in a way she hadn't expected.
After a while, Emily closed her book and stood up from her chair. "Goodnight, Mr. Grant."
"Timothy," he corrected her gently.
She paused by the door, turning her head slightly. "Goodnight, Timothy."
The sound of his name in her voice lingered long after she left the room.
Later, as she lay in bed, Emily stared at the ceiling and thought about how strange this new life felt. The body she inhabited, the house she now called home, the man who watched her with quiet curiosity it was all part of a world that didn't belong to her, yet she was determined to master it.
Revenge was still her purpose. But for now, she had to play the role she'd been given. To live as Emily Grant. To adapt. To learn.
And somewhere in the quiet hum of the night, she admitted just to herself that living in the same house as Timothy Grant might not be as unbearable as she'd first imagined.