Page 15 of Cruel Pleasures

Timothee.

He steadies me, both hands clamping down on my shoulders. “Ah, Ms. Newton. There you are. It is recommended that you do not run in the halls. I was just coming up to fetch you. Everyone else is seated. Dinner is about to begin.”

“I… wha… oh… okay…”

“Are you alright? You look like you’ve been scared half to death.”

The tone in which he speaks remains as dry as ever, like if I were about to drop dead it’d be little consequence to him. I gulp down another breath and then slowly nod.

“Yes… I’m fine. Just… there was someone.”

“There is no one,” he snaps. “Everyone is downstairs. Follow me.”

He leaves no room, no time, for questions. He’s spinning around and marching off before I can offer any protests. Not that I’m sure I want to… the guy back there was drenched in somebody else’s blood. Do I really want to poke my nose in his business?

Fuck no.

I’m here for one reason and one reason only.

The reminder helps compose me seconds before I enter the formal dining room. Timothee has led me down the grand oak staircase. We’ve crossed the wide, echoing halls covered in black-and-white checkered tiles and breezed past the gold-gilded pieces of art arranged on the wall.

Everything about the Hurst Manor makes me feel like I’ve been transported more than a century into the past, from the dark-papered walls to the countless antiques perched everywhere I look. We pass grand pianos and a large Fresco depicting cherubic angels with their naughty devilish counterparts stealing away their harps. The strokes of the brush are soft and almost romantic, the colors pastels except for the little black wings painted on the baby-faced demons.

I tear my eyes away from the unsettling mural and quicken my pace to keep up with Timothee.

I burst into the formal dining room without realizing I have. A couple footsteps into the room, all conversation dies out. Almost two dozen sets of eyes flick to me.

So silent, my breath becomes the loudest sound in the room.

I fall still and blink back at them.

Each person gives off too-fucking-rich-for-my-comfort type of vibes.

Thankfully, Timothee takes the reins. He bustles past several of the seated guests and announces that dinner is about to begin. I catch on that he’s leading me to the only chair that remains empty. Avoiding the curious, borderline rude stares, I dart over and take my seat.

A bell chimes. The manor’s staff flood the room from the double doors that lead into the kitchen. They each clutch platters of food they proceed to serve.

I’ve barely oriented myself when my glass is filled and a plate of tomato and mozzarella capers salad with balsamic glaze is placed in front of me. The appetizer to begin the formal dinner. My hand moves to pick up my fork but then I realize I’m not sure which one to use—there are three of them, each slightly different in appearance.

Shit.

I play it off with a smooth smile, reaching for my glass of wine instead. The others around the table have gradually begun to break off into conversation again. Only the woman seated across from me seems to still be studying me.

She’s beautiful in an artificial sort of way, her face one that’s been pinched and prodded too many times.

“You’re very pretty,” she says suddenly, her voice airy. “What did you do?”

“Um, do what?”

“You know. You didn’t look like this before.”

…shit!

“I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She squints, leaning slightly forward. “I see it now. Your nose. It’s good work.”

It dawns on me what she’s talking about in the same second the man seated next to her chuckles. He’s unremarkable in every way, saved only by the name brands he flaunts. The Rolex that gleams from his wrist and the popped collar of the Armani shirt he’s wearing. Yet, by the pompous chuckle he gives, I can tell he’s got an ego the size of Texas.