Marry? He was going to marry Charlotte? And Abigail was getting married? There was only one wedding I knew of, Gemma’s. She’d been engaged for as long as I’d been at Crowne Hall.
Beryl continued. “You know how they get about the mistresses. Delicate matters to be worked out with the prenup.”
He talked about mistresses like it was a fucking car or a house.
Beryl Crowne looked my way, and I ducked down. It was one thing for Beryl Crowne to see me when I was asleep, another to make eye contact. To the outside world, Beryl Crowne was famous for trying to cure diseases.
In here, we knew better. Beryl was the boogieman that went bump in the night, the reason people disappeared.
I slowly tiptoed down the spiral staircase, staying crouched.
“Right, yeah,” Grayson said.
I could see only one of his shoulders, but I still knew his face by his tone. He was famous for it. A deadly disinterest in his blue eyes and chiseled lips that made millions of girls do insane things in hopes of sparking some kind of attention.
“But I have to say, if you want to fuck a maid, fuck a maid, Grayson. A mistress is not an excuse to lower the bar; even your father knew that.”
“I won’t have a fucking mistress,” Grayson snapped.
I tripped, making a clang on the metal staircase, and grasped the railing.
Had they been talking about me?
I waited, sweat beading my neck, hoping they hadn’t heard.
They started talking again, lowly, and I only caught end of summer. I quickly ran down the rest of the way, hiding under the table Grayson had sat atop the night before.
If you want to fuck a maid…
I framed my face in my hands, staring at the floor, trying to work out how so many things could’ve gone so horribly wrong in less than twenty-four hours.
I’ve only ever wanted one thing: live my life unnoticed. I was content to live here as a servant like my uncle, maybe even eventually become the headmistress. I wasn’t brazen enough to dream. I had them…everyone has dreams. I just wasn’t naïve enough to expect mine to come true.
I used to want to be a poet. I would share myself with the world like the women before me who were forced to hide under pseudonyms because their gender or race precluded them from being seen.
Now I don’t believe in fairy tales or happily ever afters.
Not anymore.
I hadn’t realized Beryl said goodbye until the door closed. I lifted my head out of my hands, finding the room empty. No sign of Grayson.
“You’re overhearing all kinds of secrets.”
I jumped, hitting my head on the underside of the table. Rubbing my head, I came out, and my mouth went dry; my brain short-circuited. Grayson wore no shirt, black sweatpants hung indecently low on his sharp hip bones, and his sneakers were untied, like he’d thrown everything on in a hurry. Morning light illumined everything that shadows had subdued the night before. Hell, everyone with access to the internet had seen Grayson Crowne shirtless, but this was the difference between seeing a marble sculpture in picture and in person.
Grayson Crowne was divine.
&nbs
p; And he was looking at me like I was a bug stuck on his windshield.
“Come here, Snitch,” he said.
I fiddled with the material of my dress, what I’d overheard weighing on me. He was supposed to marry Charlotte, and I’d messed it up.
I’d messed everything up.
“I had no idea,” I said. “Does anyone else know about you and Miss Charlotte? You’re marrying her…”