Thoroughly Whipped

As everyone left the room, I stayed in my seat. “You okay?” Novah asked.

“Christ, Nove. His dad had a heart attack. He didn’t say anything to me.”

“Maybe he didn’t know if he could. From what you said, you had quite the argument.” That only made me feel worse. I wasn’t there for him when he needed me most. Even after all we had done to one another, I would never have turned my back on him during this.

“I can’t go next week,” I said. Novah just held my hand. She was such a good friend. “I can’t go to his home. Not after all of this. It wouldn’t be right.”

“That’s your choice, sweets. Remember, your heart was hurt here too. You’re allowed to take care of yourself too. If that means not going, it means not going.”

“Thank you.”

“I have a meeting with Hannah,” Novah said regretfully, referring to the fashion editor. “I have to go. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” I whispered. Novah kissed my head and left me alone in the boardroom. As I stared at the doorway, in my mind I saw Harry walking through it, months ago, announcing his takeover as CEO. I’d been so mad he had moved here permanently. Now I’d give anything for him to walk in, to hold him and tell him everything would be okay with his dad.

Opening my cell, I let my hand hover over the text button. With a deep breath, I found the contact for “Pompous Prick” and sent him a simple message:

FP: I’m so sorry about your dad. We’ve just been told. I’m happy to hear he is going to make a full recovery.

I paused, rereading the words, then added:

I’m thinking of you.

I pressed send. When nothing came back through, I tucked my cell away and went back to work. Five o’clock came and I took the subway home. Sage and Amelia joined me on the couch to watch TV.

I climbed into bed, watching the rain splatter on the window. As I closed my eyes, I finally heard my cell beep. I reached over, and my heart stopped when I saw a text from Harry. It was one sentence. One sentence that meant so much:

PP: Please come.

I understood what he was asking. Next week. Please go to his home in Surrey, England. I pressed my cheek to the pillow and hugged my cell to my chest. He wanted me to come to his home. After everything we had said to each other, he still wanted me there.

My Harry.

My Maître.

The man who owned my heart.

Chapter Eighteen

Surrey, England

“Holy. Mother. Of. Shit,” I said as the car drove down the main road on the Sinclair Estate. We had already passed through a stone archway not too dissimilar to the Arc de Triomphe. Then came the tree-lined road, framing miles and miles of perfectly manicured lawns. Lawns that housed deer. Real actual deer.

Then this. Harry’s House wasn’t a house. It was a goddamn palace. Made of stone and sprawling wider than the eye could see from a car window.

“First a first-class plane ticket, then this. Am I dreaming? I think I’m dreaming,” Sarah, from the copyright department, said.

Michael from features whistled low. “I read it has one thousand acres. One thousand. I live in a six-hundred-square-foot apartment in Queens.”

“It has twenty-three bedrooms,” I found myself saying, which was a struggle considering I had yet to lift my jaw off the floor.

“I don’t even know twenty-three people,” Sarah said.

The car came to a stop at a grand set of stone stairs leading to elaborate wooden doors. Staff dressed in gray suits and tails were waiting. A man who appeared to be in his forties opened the door.

“Welcome to The Sinclair Estate.” I was the last to get out. Before my feet had even touched the sandy gravel, a staff member was there to take my hand. Numbly, I followed Sarah and Michael from the car.

“Thank you,” I said, just as another member of the house approached me with my luggage.

“Miss Faith Parisi?”

“Yep, that’s me.”

“This way, please. I will show you to your room.” I followed the staff member up the stone stairs, looking behind me only to be met by the most picturesque view I’d ever seen. Green. Lots and lots of shades of green.

The sun was shining in the sky, birds were singing a sweet symphony, and the entire place smelled like freshly cut grass and blooming summer flowers. It was a world away from the familiar scents of car exhaust fumes and the falafel stand a block away from where I lived.

“Miss? Everything okay?” the staff member asked.

“What’s your name?” I asked, not able to stand referring to someone as “staff member” for a second longer.

“Timothy.”

“Then Timothy, I’m great. Just…this…” I indicated the many acres before us.

Timothy smiled. “This is nothing,” he said, leaning close. “Wait until you see the gardens at the back and the view the main terrace offers. You’ll be speechless.”