Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“This wouldn’t cost you a thing. I’d take care of any expenses.”
“Really?” I sit up. “You would do that for her?”
He gathers my hand in his and brings it to his lips. “I’d do anything for you, Soph.”
I want to know why, but for some reason I can’t bring myself to ask. This whole thing is too good to be true to begin with, and I’m afraid if I start questioning things, it’ll all go away.
I love this bubble we’re in—whatever it is. It’s like I’ve stepped into an alternate reality where all the things that once kept me up at night disappear when we’re together.
If Nolan Ames is a drug, I’m one-hundred percent addicted.
Sixteen
Sophie
Present
I can’t say that I’ve ever imagined what it would be like to live in a palace. And now that I’m here, in Westcott’s castle-sized estate just outside the city, I can’t say that I’d likely enjoy it. I inventory my surroundings. This is probably the first—and last—time I’ll set foot inside the world-renowned Westcott mansion.
Dark mahogany walls envelop me.
Glossy black floors swallow me whole.
Chandeliers the size of a car drip from the ceilings of every room.
Ice-cold marble covers the sprawling kitchen, accented with industrial stainless steel appliances that give me frostbite just looking at them.
On the way in, boxwoods manicured into pointed shapes lined the perimeter of the property along with an endless wrought-iron fence. The exterior was coated in limestone and brick—virtually impenetrable. This place is a medieval fortress. It practically screams, “Stay the hell away.”
I can’t wrap my head around anyone calling this a home …
… I also can’t wrap my head around Trey raising a family in this dark monstrosity.
“This is what you wanted to show me?” I ask as he leads me down a new hallway.
“Almost.”
We stroll side by side, our footsteps echoing in sync. There’s no life here besides a handful of full-time staff I spotted in the kitchen on our way in. I counted two gardeners outside. A woman dusting velvet drapes the color of ripe plums in the study. Another polishing silver in the dining room, humming a haunting tune. I’m sure there are more probably hidden away in one of his hundreds of rooms.
A dusty draft sends a chill down my neck.
That day in the break room, one of the girls said his home was outdated.
There’s nothing outdated about this place. Unfamiliar maybe, to the average person. Slightly depressing color scheme. But with its antiques and timeless finishes, it borders a fine line between past and present. It’s like a living museum—only I don’t know that a lot of actual living happens here.
Trey notoriously spends the majority of his waking hours in the office.
We round a corner, entering another unending hallway, this one with oil paintings lined along the walls, one after another, and dimmed crystal pendants hanging in three-foot intervals from the barrel ceiling.
I could fit my entire apartment in one of his halls.
We turn yet another corner, this time met with a set of switchback stairs … the left side going up, the other side going down.
“This way,” he says, pointing to the right.
Eight steps later, we reach a wide wooden door with a keycode lock. He punches in eight digits and waits for a chime before the door swings open.
“Welcome,” he says before turning to me, “to my sanctuary.”
To be completely honest, I thought he was taking me to his estate in an attempt to impress me—but now I’m confused.
“No one else has ever stepped foot in here besides me,” he says. “You’re the first.”
He closes the door behind us, and the lights automatically dim to a warm, rosy hue. A wall of pure Himalayan salt fills the opposite side of the room, and soft, tranquil music begins to pipe from hidden speakers. On the floor rests an arrangement of silk and satin pillows in deep variations of natural blues and earthen grays.
“Not what you were expecting,” he says, perceptive. “Which is exactly why I wanted to bring you here.”
A narrow man-made stream runs parallel to three of the four walls, the gentle water trickling over smooth river rocks. A soft breeze kisses my face, though I have no idea where it’s coming from.
It’s almost as if we’re on a tranquil island, away from the rest of the world.
“I mean … it’s certainly unique … not everyone has a meditation room in their house,” I say, glancing around to spot what other minor details I might have overlooked. I find a Buddha statue in the corner. A collection of unlit white candles. A cocktail of scented oils fill my lungs.
He has all the elements—earth, wind, fire, water.
“Most people expect to walk into my home and find lingerie dangling from light fixtures, tipped-over bottles of vodka …” he says.
“I didn’t expect that,” I say. “But I didn’t expect this either.”