Debt

"You can do this," I told myself, pretending not to hear the hint of hysteria in my tone. It had been building all morning. My alarm had buzzed, as per usual, at seven. I climbed up with an immediate plummeting sensation in my stomach as I looked at my bag and box stashed next to my bedroom door. It only got more and more intense as I grabbed clothes: a pair of black slacks, a light blue silk blouse, and sensible barely-there kitten-heeled shoes, and made my way into the bathroom to shower. Then it became positively nauseating as I forced myself to drink coffee and eat a corn muffin from the coffee shop on my way over. I had no idea what my day would entail so I wanted to be caffeinated and have something in my stomach just in case.

I exhaled loudly, pulling out my keys, then climbing out of my car. I went to my trunk, popping it, pulling out my rolling bag and box, then making my way toward the door where the same guard from the day before stood there, watching me struggle and not bothering to offer any kind of help.

Apparently Byron St. James wasn't the only asshole in residence.

But that was fine.

It was okay.

I had spent my entire working life dealing with difficult people.

I could do it with a smile.

I could bite my tongue.

I trained for this.

"Am I supposed to stand here all day?" I asked, keeping my tone mild as he stood there in front of the door, seeming to make no move to let me inside.

"You're early."

"Ah, yes," I said, brows drawing together. It wasn't like I was obnoxiously early. It was ten minutes. I always left myself a ten to fifteen minute buffer in case of traffic. I'd never found someone who thought being a teensy bit early was a bad thing.

"He'll be ready for you at ten."

And that was apparently that because he looked pointedly away from me toward the gates and kept standing in front of the door.

With a nod and, what I was sure was the second of many, sighs of the day, I put down my box and sat on the top step, waiting until Mr. Byron St. James could whittle out a couple of minutes to tell me what my fate was.

Judging my the time on my phone, it was the exact second the big hand hit twelve and the hour changed to ten that the door swung open, making my heart feel like it did a similar motion as I whipped my head around to see St. James standing in the doorway in gray slacks and a tailored white button-up, another expensive watch on his wrist.

"Miss. Marlow," he said, jerking his chin at me then disappearing inside. I took that to mean I was supposed to follow so I scrambled up, grabbing my box and bag and moving inside. "This way," I heard from above me and turned to see him standing halfway up a staircase.

With a shrug, and figuring he was showing me to my room given that I was going to be living there for God-knew what reason, I pushed the handle of my bag in and grabbed it by the strap instead, struggling up the stairs behind him. He, like his man outside, was apparently born and raised with no manners as he didn't so much as ask if I needed any help.

"This is me, Miss. Marlow," he said, throwing his arm out to indicate a room on the left side of the hall. "And this is you," he added, moving toward the door directly across from it. He reached for the big copper handle and I felt my belly fold in on itself, maybe half-expecting to see some kind of shackles or something as I moved to follow him inside.

But there were no shackles.

It was just a bedroom.

Well, no. It wasn't just a bedroom. It was a really, really nice bedroom. It had the same walls as the rest of the house, exposed, warm-toned stucco. There was a brass framed queen-sized bed directly across from the door covered in a burnt yellow plush bedspread that was flanked by two nightstands with brass lamps and burnt orange shades that matched the bedspread. A dresser was to the far left with a giant brass-framed mirror above nestled beside two French doors that, I imagined, led out onto one of the many balconies I had seen from the outside. To the right of the room was what I figured was a closet and an open door which seemed to lead into my own private bath.

Hell, it was actually a nicer room than I had at home.

I almost snorted at that idea.

"You can settle in, put your things in the closet, dresser, and bathroom cabinets. You'll be here a while. All that though," he said, waving a hand at me and I wasn't sure what he was indicating, "can get burned."