Page 11 of Beauty and the Billionaire

“A wardrobe,” said Orwell, showing me what lay beyond the door. It was a proper room, with shelves and hangers and sliding doors installed to keep the dust out of the clothes. The hardwood floor was covered with a round cream carpet, and there were two matching ottomans and a marble bust of Augustus for reasons I could not discern. Beyond the so-called wardrobe that was larger than the room my three siblings and I shared back home was a modern, elegant bathroom complete with a walk-in shower, bathtub, massive mirror above the sink, plenty of free surfaces, and a very natural, well-lit feel to it.

“Wow,” I mouthed, exhaling with a mixture of surprise and sheer horror that someone lived like this all alone in the countryside. This room could fit a small family. “Do all employees get rooms like this?” I asked.

Orwell’s impressive eyebrows rose on his face. “No, sir.” He blinked and smiled. “Zain.” After a pause, he elaborated. “Most employees come from the surrounding area and live in their own homes.”

“But some live here,” I concluded.

“They do,” Orwell said. “But not in such lavish apartments. Much too hard to maintain.” He wore a genuine smile that creased his long, hard face. He struck me as a man with standards so high that nobody was excellent at anything but also as kind enough to let people’s best be enough.

As he made a move toward the door, I licked my lips. “What should I do, then?”

“Mr. Blackthorne hasn’t given me any specific instructions,” Orwell replied. “I would say it’s best to wait for a word from him before doing anything.”

He’d said it warmly enough as he left, but it sent a chill down my spine. Before doing anything? Did that mean I shouldn’t just pick up a pair of gardening scissors and trim the rosebushes? Or did it mean I should stay in my room—apartment, as Orwell had called it—until the great Mr. Blackthorne decided what to do with me?

I walked around the room, opened my backpack, and scattered my books around the bed. The many pillows on the bed invited me to take a break, but I hadn’t taken a noon break in years, and I wouldn’t become lazy now.

So I scanned through my books and set them on the desk in three piles. One was the particularly salacious pile I definitely didn’t want anyone to find. It involved a great deal of thoroughly described unspeakable things men did to other men. I stashed that pile under the reading chair and draped the blanket over the armrest further down to conceal the books. The second pile was made up of my comfort reads: a wild story of a prince and the president’s son, the tragedy of Patroclus, who loved Achilles, and a World War II drama by Mary Renault. These were the books I could pick up whenever I needed to lose myself in a story, happy or sad. I left them on the small round table by the reading chair. And the third pile was made of books I hadn’t read yet, hoping I would have time to go through them here. It was an eclectic bunch, ranging from mystery to historicals, science fiction and fantasy, a pinch of romance, and a fine serving of horror. Nine novels weren’t nearly enough to keep me entertained for months, but I expected I’d be allowed to go back home for visits and book hauls.

Right now, I felt like getting stabbed in my heart by Patroclus’ love for Achilles, so I sat down in the reading chair, feeling guilty that my “work” here was so much more pleasurable than what my family had back home. I sent my mother amessage that everything was going well, then lost myself in the beautiful prose.

When I stirred, it was dusky dark.

I had fallen asleep in the cozy chair and lost half a day.

The knock on my door startled me, and I realized I had been dreaming of door-knocking, possibly because someone’s patience was running short on the other side.

“Come in,” I called.

The door opened, and Orwell appeared with a pool of light pouring in from behind him. “Mr. Blackthorne would like to invite you to dine with him.”

I choked and hurriedly cleared my throat. “What? Now?”

“Oh, no, not right away,” Orwell said. “The dinner is Harringford is served at eight.”

“Um, okay,” I said.

Orwell nodded with pleasure and walked out again, shutting the door behind him. That was when I remembered I should have askedwhere. This house probably had twenty grand dining rooms. Besides, why would he want my company while eating? That was an oddly intimate time to have me around. I hadn’t exactly hidden my dislike and wasn’t about to start.

Even so, I stretched, sauntered into the bathroom, and had the greatest shower of my life by sheer accident. Standing in the spacious walk-in shower with a rain showerhead pouring water over me at a perfect temperature—I didn’t know how to describe it, but I sure recognized it when it splashed my bare skin—was a liberating feeling. In fact, I caught myself singing by the time I was done.

I put on a pair of jeans and a plain black T-shirt. It wasn’t fine-dining attire, but nobody had told me he lived like a noble.

At ten minutes to eight, there was another knock on my door. They didn’t want me nosing through the many dining rooms until I stumbled into the right one. Orwell glanced at me only once and concealed his surprise. He led the way down the stairs, through the grand entrance hall, to the back of the house, and into a snug dining room. Lights were subdued around the dining room, except for the chandelier above the dining table.

On the far side, looking out the window at the night-covered land, Dominic Blackthorne stood still. He turned around at the sound of our footsteps. “Well,” he said, his gaze sliding over my poor choice of clothes. He wore a white shirt, dark blue pants, and a silver wristwatch. His beard and mustache were trimmed and oiled, giving him a sharp, elegant look. “Should we sit?”

The table was clad in white cloth, piled with covered dishes, offering only two plates. Dominic’s plate was at the head of the table, mine to his immediate right, so I walked over and sat down.

“Wine?” Dominic asked, pointing to the decanter.

Orwell moved to lift it.

“We can manage,” Dominic said in a tone I couldn’t read. It was not rude, yet it held no warmth or emotion I could identify.

Orwell acknowledged that and disappeared from the dining room.

“So?” Dominic asked.

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