Page 7

After what felt like hours but was probably only fifteen minutes, I found myself in a corridor I hadn't seen before.
The paintings here were different—more modern, though still obviously expensive. The doors looked slightly different too, more personal somehow.
I tried the nearest door, hoping to find something familiar. A bathroom, maybe, or a sitting room where I could rest for a minute and figure out where the hell I was.
The door opened easily, revealing a room that was distinctly different from the rest of the manor. While everything else had been grandly impressive in an impersonal way, this space felt... lived in. Masculine. Personal.
Dark wood furniture dominated the space, but it was the kind of dark wood that came from use rather than just age. A massive desk sat by tall windows, papers arranged in neat stacks. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with volumes that looked like they'd actually been read rather than displayed. The air smelled different here too—cedar and bergamot andsomething that might've been expensive cologne, but worn rather than fresh.
This definitely wasn't a guest room. Or the kitchen. Or anywhere I was supposed to be.
But God, I was tired. My legs felt like jelly, and my eyes were burning from the studio lights and the strain of driving on the wrong side of the road. The bed in the center of the room looked like a magazine spread—perfectly made with crisp white linens and pillows that promised the kind of sleep I hadn't had since arriving in England.
I should leave. I knew I should leave. But my feet were rooted to the spot, and that bed looked like heaven on earth. Maybe I could just sit on the edge for a second. Just to rest my eyes and figure out where I'd gone wrong in my navigation.
The mattress welcomed me like a cloud, and the pillows smelled like that same intoxicating scent—bergamot and cedar and something uniquely, mysteriously masculine. Before I knew it, I was curling up on top of the covers, my head sinking into softness.
Just for a minute, I told myself. Just to rest my eyes.
The grandFather clock in the corner chimed midnight, but I was already drifting, wrapped in warmth and the comfort of Egyptian cotton that felt like it was hugging me back. Somewhere in my fading consciousness, I registered that this room felt different from the rest of the manor—less like a museum and more like a home.
My last conscious thought was that whoever owned this room probably wouldn't appreciate finding a strange American girl in their bed. But by then, sleep was pulling me under like a warm tide, and I didn't have the strength to fight it.
I dreamed of Texas wildflowers and my Mama's garden, but somehow they were growing in perfectly manicured British soil,tended by hands that smelled like bergamot and felt like coming home.
CHAPTER 3
Edward
The November rain had followed me from London, drumming against the Bentley's roof like an ominous percussion throughout the two-hour drive to Gloucestershire. My hands gripped the steering wheel with unnecessary force as I navigated the winding country roads, the Gardens & Home Television folder haunting my thoughts from where it sat on the passenger seat.
I needed the sanctuary of my private chambers like a drowning man needed air.
The acquisition details had churned in my mind during the entire journey—financial projections, market analyses, and the uncomfortable truth that Daphne’s friend’s fate rested in documents I'd helped draft. The rain intensified as I approached the estate, as if the very weather conspired to match my turbulent mood.
The manor's windows glowed warmly against the storm, welcoming beacons that should have provided comfort. Instead, tension coiled tighter in my chest with each step toward the entrance. I'd specifically instructed Hartwell to keep my arrival discreet—no fanfare, no family gatherings, just the blessedsolitude of my private quarters where I could think clearly about the impossible situation Daphne had unwittingly created.
My footsteps echoed through the silent halls as I climbed the staircase, each step offering welcome familiarity.
The house slept peacefully around me, portraits of ancestors watching with painted eyes that seemed to judge my uncharacteristic agitation.
Here, finally, I could shed the practiced façade of courtroom performance and simply exist.
I reached my door and paused, allowing myself one moment to savor the anticipation of perfect order. Everything would be precisely as I'd left it—books aligned, papers organized, the Egyptian cotton duvet smoothed to military precision.
The door opened silently on well-maintained hinges.
Moonlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the familiar landscape of my domain—the Chippendale desk where I'd penned countless legal briefs, the leather reading chair where I contemplated complex cases.
But tonight, that same moonlight revealed the impossible: a woman curled in my bed like a sleeping golden cat.
Time fractured.
My breath caught somewhere between my throat and lungs as rational thought deserted me entirely.
She lay on her side, facing away, blonde hair spilling across my pillow like liquid sunlight against dark silk. One delicate hand clutched the duvet while her legs curled beneath her in unconscious elegance.
The rational part of my brain—the part that had never lost a case in fifteen years—screamed violation, intrusion, absolute breach of the sacred order I'd cultivated. Someone would pay dearly for this inexcusable lapse in security.