The scent of chlorine and expensive cologne clung to my clothes, a phantom reminder of the pool. For two days after the secret meeting, I felt an almost unbearable emotional whiplash: the lingering, intoxicating heat of Ethan's kiss battling the chilling knowledge that he was using me to destabilize his own family.
The tension in the house was a taut wire. The Mayor was subdued, locked away in his office for hours.
Mrs. Grant, however, was vibrant with hostile energy. She was everywhere, her presence a cold, piercing light that searched for any flaw, any evidence of my treachery. She had increased my duties to absurd levels — tasks designed to keep me near the family's possessions and under her direct scrutiny.
The next command came not at midnight, but mid-morning.
[10:15 AM] Ethan: Grandmother keeps the personal ledger keys hidden near her dressing table. Small silver lockbox. Get me a photo of the keys. Today.
The request was a punch to the gut. The keys to the personal ledger — the book of true secrets. This was a critical step in Ethan's coup, and it had to happen in the one room I knew I couldn't breach without getting caught.
[10:19 AM] Ethan: That's why it has to be today.
Figure it out. This is the price of the truth I gave you.
I had to face the dragon. I found a small, impossible twelve-minute window when Mrs. Grant would be downstairs, and I took the risk. I used the spare staff key, a violation that made my blood run cold, and slipped into the north wing.
Inside, the room was a blinding expanse of white and gold. I went straight for the dressing table, a massive, mirrored piece. I found the small, intricately carved silver lockbox and frantically searched the surrounding jewelry bowls for the key.
My focus was absolute. I found the tiny, silver key with a delicate filigree handle nested at the bottom of a heavy crystal bowl filled with loose pearl necklaces.
My hands trembled violently as I lifted it, positioning it against the mirrored glass of the dressing table to get a clear, incriminating photo. The flash was silent, but blindingly bright in the room's soft light.
I took three photos, slid the key back into the pearl bowl, and started to back away, the adrenaline making my chest feel tight and painful. In and out. Now.
"What, precisely, are you doing?"
The voice was cold, dcalm, and utterly final.
I froze, the key still clutched in my hand, my heart slamming against my ribs hard enough to bruise.
Mrs. Grant stood framed in the doorway. She hadn't gone to the chef. She had laid a trap.
"Ma'am, I—" I stammered, scrambling to hide the key, but it was too late.
Her eyes didn't even drop to my hand. They looked straight at my face, contempt and hatred radiating off her like a physical heat.
"You are not scheduled for this room, Sasha. And you are certainly not scheduled to be rifling through my jewelry."
She closed the door behind her with a quiet click, sealing us into the beautiful, lethal room.
"You're a thief, aren't you?" she stated, stepping closer. "Just a common thief. I knew you were too ambitious. Too close to my grandson. But you're worse than I thought. You're trying to steal our secrets."
I retreated, my back hitting the mirrored wardrobe.
Mmm "I was dusting, ma'am. I must have taken a wrong turn."
She didn't believe me. She reached out, her hand moving with lightning speed, and snatched the key right out of my hand. Her fingers brushed mine, and the coldness of her skin was shocking.
lol pop
She held up the tiny silver key. "This is the key to my accounts. And you were caught, red-handed, in my personal space, violating my trust." She pocketed the key with a triumphant smile. "I should call the police right now and have you deported."
I waited for the blow, the accusation that would end my life here. But it didn't come. She simply regarded me, her eyes shining with malicious intelligence.
"No," she said, her voice dropping to a low, chilling purr. "Deportation is too quick. You are clearly working for him. And that makes you a liability I intend to use."
She stepped closer, invading my space entirely. "From now on, you will work for me. You will tell me everything he asks you to do. You will tell me everything he tells you. And if you refuse, or if you tell him I spoke to you, I will make sure you lose more than just this job. I will make sure the details of your flight from Africa become very public."
The threat was a physical assault. The air left my lungs. My entire body went rigid with shock.
"My name... I changed my name," I stuttered, unable to form a coherent thought. I had used a false name, a different birth date, a story crafted with agonizing detail to start a new life. Every official paper, every piece of ID—it was all a lie designed to bury the real me, the one who was wanted. "How do you know that?"
Her smile was predatory. "We own the police department, child. We own the customs chief. We owned the shipping company that brought you here. We know everything about you, Chimamanda. We know the circumstances of your family's death. We know you ran away, and we know if you are deported, you will be arrested the minute you touch the tarmac."
The revelation of my true name — Chimamanda —was the deepest violation. They hadn't just looked at my file; they had bought my past. The casual, brutal mention of the arrest waiting for me confirmed the nightmare: my life here was a temporary illusion, and the Grants held the ultimate kill switch.
I sank against the dressing table, my hands pressed over my mouth, fighting the nausea. I hadn't just been caught; I was now a double agent, my life tethered to a family that held all the evidence I was running from.
"Do you understand, Sasha?" she finished, using my false name like a knife. "You will serve me now. And you will not tell him I spoke to you."
"Yes, ma'am," I choked out, my voice thick with defeat.
"Good girl," she murmured, a final, cruel flourish. "Now, clean this room. And remember who really runs this house."
I stayed frozen until the click of the lock confirmed she was gone. I had been owned twice: once by Ethan's toxic attraction, and now by Mrs. Grant's absolute, terrifying power. I still had the photos of the keys, but my life was no longer my own.