True to his word, the documents Callum said would be waiting for me on the kitchen table are there when I arrive back at the castle.
Referring to it as a house would be insulting to the architect, whoever they were. And I still don’t believe this is actually my home, so I won’t call it that either. So for the time being, it’s “the castle.”
I should look on the internet to find out how Marie Antoinette referred to Versailles and use that.
I spend a while wandering around the place, looking into room after sumptuous room. Arlo is nowhere to be seen, so I climb the big curving staircase to the second floor and poke my head into more rooms until I find a modest guest bedroom that doesn’t look like somewhere King Louis XIV would sleep.
Exhausted, I kick off my shoes, crawl under the covers of the queen-sized bed fully clothed, and fall into a deep sleep.
When I open my eyes in the morning, Arlo is standing bedside, smiling down at me.
“Good morning, madam.”
“Good morning, Arlo. Please don’t call me madam, I don’t own a brothel. Emery is fine. Also, what the hell are you doing?”
“I wondered if you’d like to take breakfast in bed?”
I sit up and rub my eyes. Thank God I didn’t sleep naked, or Arlo would be getting an eyeful. “No, thanks. I’ll just have coffee.”
“Mr. McCord prefers that you eat something in the mornings.”
I frown up at him. “And I would prefer that Mr. McCord mind his own business.”
Ignoring that, Arlo says, “If you’d like something light, we have a selection of fresh seasonal fruit, organic yogurt, and steel-cut oats. I can also have the chef prepare eggs any way you like them—”
I cut in sarcastically, “What, the lord of the manor doesn’t already know?”
Arlo clasps his hands at his waist. “He indicated you enjoy them poached, but I didn’t want to presume.”
I close my eyes and sigh.
Arlo says, “Poached it is. How do you take your coffee?”
Opening my eyes, I send him a death glare. “Don’t pretend like it’s a mystery.”
Unmoved by my murder face, he smiles. “Two poached eggs and coffee with whole milk and brown sugar coming right up.” He turns and walks out, leaving me to stew in annoyance.
My new husband and I are going to have a serious discussion about personal boundaries when he gets back.
I get up, use the toilet, and wash my face. Then I realize I don’t have any cosmetics or toiletries here. Then I remember Arlo saying my things were being brought from my apartment, so I head out to investigate.
Sure enough, all my clothes have been hung up in the master bedroom closet. My cosmetics are in a drawer under the bathroom sink. My shampoo and conditioner are on the shelf in the cavernous white marble shower, along with my razor and the loofah thing I use to scrub my face.
I suppose other women might find this show of dominant caretaking endearing. But I don’t know any of those women. As for me, the thought of a bunch of strangers packing up my apartment and personal things at the behest of Callum doesn’t feel like a romantic gesture, it just feels like an invasion of privacy.
It’s impossible to reconcile the two sides of him.
On the one hand, he’s incredibly generous and thoughtful. On the other, he’s incredibly controlling. And his fanatical knowledge of my habits, preferences, and whereabouts is flat-out disturbing.
Irked, I change into fresh clothes and emerge from the closet just as Arlo is coming in the bedroom carrying a tray.
“Ah, there you are. Should I lay everything out on your writing desk?”
“Sure. Might as well eat the breakfast I didn’t want on the desk I didn’t buy in the bedroom I didn’t decorate in the house I don’t own. Sounds fantastic.”
Setting the tray on the desk, Arlo turns to me. His tone gentle, he says, “You’re having a hard time adjusting.”
I snort. “Who, me?”
“I think once you get to know Mr. McCord better, you’ll find him to be an excellent companion.”
“Thanks, but you have to say that. You’re on his payroll.”
I pull out the chair and sit. Arlo hands me a white linen napkin.
“Give him a chance. I know he can be…difficult. But he’s an exceptional man. And having known him as long as I have, I can tell you with total confidence that he’d do anything to make you happy. It’s all he wants.”
Startled by that, I look up at him. His expression is passive, but his silvery-gray eyes are warm.
“I’m pretty sure all he wants is his inheritance.”
He frowns and opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but must think better of it because he closes his mouth again and doesn’t respond.
I say, “What’s been done with my furniture and books?”
“The furniture has been put into storage. Your books are in the library on the first floor. There are several boxes of personal items in the garage—photo albums and whatnot. If you tell me where you’d like them, I’ll have them unpacked.”
“I can do it.”
“Mr. McCord would prefer—”
“He’s your boss, Arlo, not mine,” I interrupt, growing more irritated by the second. “I’ll unpack the rest of my things. Where’s my car?”
“In the garage.”
“Good. Thank you. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to rage eat these eggs so you won’t be in trouble with Callum, then I’m going to work. Which I’m only telling you so you don’t get into trouble when he asks where I am, which I know he will.”
“You didn’t like the Ferrari?”
“I didn’t like its GPS.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah.”
He hesitates, then says, “I’ll leave you to your breakfast,” and walks out.
The moment he’s gone, I take the eggs into the bathroom and flush them down the toilet. Then I take off my too-big diamond ring and leave it next to the faucet on the sink.
I drive my VW to the store, feeling strangely relieved to be out of the castle. It’s beautiful, but way too huge for two people and a few domestic workers. I don’t know why Callum bought it. Maybe billionaires are used to living alone in homes the size of Disneyland.
Not me.
When I unlock the shop and walk in, I’m overcome by a rush of emotion. I stand in the entryway and look around at the old-fashioned register, the displays of books, the faded, overstuffed chair near the window with the calico cat curled up on the seat, and have to fight back tears.
Lit Happens is still standing.
We don’t have to close our doors anymore.
Everything my parents sacrificed for won’t be in vain.
I gaze at the picture of them hanging on the wall behind the register. It’s from right after they were married. Taken in front of the Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica pier, the picture shows them young and happy, smiling and carefree.
I miss them with a sudden ache that leaves me breathless.
My mom’s been gone for twenty years, but I can still hear her voice in my head, always encouraging me. And my dad’s big, unselfconscious laugh that would fill a room, I hear that too.
I don’t know if they’d be proud of this decision I’ve made or not. One of my dad’s favorite sayings was “If it seems too good to be true, it probably is.”
Remembering that sends a little chill of foreboding down my spine.
Squaring my shoulders, I tell myself that what matters now is getting on with the important business at hand. With the paperwork I took from the kitchen counter, I go into my office, where I fire up the computer and have a look at the trust account.
It’s all there. Twenty million in my name.
I stare at the number, letting it sink in.
Then I make myself an espresso and take it back to my desk, where I compile a list of everything that needs to get done.
The first thing on that list is calling my employees to tell them they’re rehired.
And that they’re all getting a nice fat raise.
Days go by. I pay the rent. I catch up on the overdue bills. I leave a message for the guy at the CDTFA to try to make arrangements to pay the tax thing, but he doesn’t call me back, so I go online to check my account with them.
I can’t find a balance due anywhere.
Typical government bureaucracy bullshit. The website probably hasn’t been updated in years.
I expect some collections thug will come and try to impound my car, so I start parking blocks away from the store. Until I can clear that debt, I’ve got some hiding to do.
Then I find a local defense attorney and send him all the information about the lawsuit along with a big retainer check.
He informs me how the litigation process works and tells me to sit tight, because lawsuits can take years to settle. When I ask if we’ll go to court, he laughs. Apparently, only a tiny percent of lawsuits ever go to trial.
In the meantime, I’ll need to keep sending him cash on a monthly basis.
What a racket. The Mafia probably doesn’t even have such a good money-making scheme.
I move my things into the modest guest bedroom at the castle, carrying my clothes from the master closet down the long corridor myself. When the packages from my shopping spree with Dani arrive, I put those into the guest bedroom too.
And because I’m vindictive and want revenge on Callum for weirdly knowing how I like my eggs and coffee, I make a game of ordering breakfast from the chef, but only unhealthy sugary things that come in a box.
One day it’s Froot Loops. Another day it’s PopTarts. Another it’s Pillsbury cinnamon toaster strudel. I imagine the chef reporting back to Callum that he married a child.
Every night, I lie in bed and wonder what will happen when the lord of the manor returns.
I wonder about the rope in his drawer and the other locked cases.
I wonder if I’ll be left alone like this most of the time and if that’s a good thing or not.
I wonder if he’s out banging some hot model and hate myself for even thinking about that.
I drive by my apartment several times after work, still in disbelief I don’t live there anymore. There’s already a For Rent sign in the front yard, so whoever came and collected all my stuff must’ve also told the management company I was moving.
Purely from curiosity, I call to ask what the balance is on my lease and if there’s any penalty for breaking it. They tell me the whole thing has been paid in full, penalties included.
I don’t have to ask by whom.
All the while, Callum McCord himself simmers on the back burner of my brain.
Then, in the dead of one sultry summer night, he returns.
