Page 41 of Fated Love with You
“Your daughter wants to make brownies before her violin session, and I’ve decided to help.”
“Thank you.”
“Get rid of Miss Jane once she’s done with the money,” he says. “You’ve used her, and she should be cut off once and for all. Let me know where you leave her.”
“I could’ve sworn I was in charge.”
“You are, but I’m in charge of making sure you’re alive,” he says. “You can’t afford to let decades of work fall away over someone you’ve known for weeks.”
“Months,” I counter. “Technically, years…”
“Except she doesn’t—and will never—know that, so spare me the semantics.” He pulls a bullet from his pocket and slides it across my desk. “Treat her like everyone else who’s ever gotten in the way.”
“There have been exceptions.”
“I’ll stand here until you tell me one.” He glances at his watch, waiting, but I don’t say a word.
He leaves my office, and I take the bullet and roll it between my fingers.
There was definitely an exception before, but we don’t talk about it. We just accept it and move on, and half of me wants to do the same for Autumn.
I slide the bullet into my gun to account for the other half.
End of Episode 13
Behind the Mask
EPISODE 14
Autumn
The Real ‘Three Days Later’
Ryder’s estate spans fifty acres, bordered on all sides by dense groves of towering evergreens that seem to close the world out completely. The winding drive cuts through perfectly manicured lawns and flowerbeds so precise they look airbrushed, but the deeper we go, the more the shadows take over. It feels cinematic. Isolated. Controlled.
My body is still sore from the way he took me before I left Resno’s, but I keep my expression neutral as his head of security—Gunnar—walks me through the estate like I’m just another asset to be logged.
To my disappointment, Ryder didn’t pick me up himself. He sent for me instead. No explanation. No greeting.
“This is the guest quarters Mr. Rochester has allotted for you,” Gunnar says, gesturing for me to step inside a pristine suite drenched in moonlit whites and silvers.
I follow him in, taking in the opulence—ceilings that stretch like cathedral spires, balcony doors framed in etched glass, and walls adorned with abstract metallic art. The faint aroma of eucalyptus clings to the air like a perfume meant to calm… or to mask something colder beneath the surface.
“Is this just for nights when I’m working late or something?” I ask, turning toward him. “Because I already have a place.”
“The bathroom suite is connected through that door on your left.” He’s allergic to questions, too. “All three of this room’s windows have a balcony landing.”
I walk over to one and step out, letting Seattle’s wind kiss my skin. The grounds below are stunning—rolling green hills, reflective koi ponds, and garden hedges sculpted like art installations. It’s beautiful. Curated. A kingdom with invisible walls.
Looking over my shoulder at the bed, I feel the sudden urge to ask for a short hour break, to steal a nap.
“I’ll show you the lower level now, Miss Jane.” Gunnar gestures for me to follow. “This is the most important part of the estate.”
I bite my lip and follow him down the main marble steps and into a narrow corridor that grows cooler with each step.
As we descend, the lights on the baseboards glow softly, casting faint halos on the floor. The faint scent of burnt wood begins to infiltrate my nose.
On my left, stacks of charred furniture and blistered picture frames stand behind a velvet rope like relics in a museum. A blackened chandelier hangs overhead, its glass arms curled inward like scorched fingers.
