Page 51 of Darkest Deception

So, I stay quiet. Ten minutes pass. I can’t forget she’s stuck in here with me and certainly can’t stop my eyes from going back to her every minute, regardless of the fact that I was ready to throttle her mere minutes ago.

And I manage to notice a few more things about her.

Like the white long-sleeved dress she is wearing. It reaches her calves and looks beautiful against her skin colour. The neck of the dress is high despite the heat that bathes London for the first time since I’ve been here. Her hair is tied up in a slicked-back ponytail with a side part, and the sharp eyeliner on her eyes and the emerald bracelet she has on almost make me smile.

There’s my little finding of the day.

“Did you cut your hair, Emerald?” I reach for the shorter ponytail, but she steps back with a frown.

“Don’t touch me.”

I chuckle at her small huff.

A cute frown of disbelief paints her face.

“You did, didn’t you?” I can tell she doesn’t believe that I noticed, but I did.

“Cute.” I wink at her with a grin, hoping to rile her up more.

Her nostrils flare, and her lips purse, her jaw tightening.

“Don’t call me cute. Do you hear me calling you—” Her mouth snaps closed.

“It’s okay. You can say what is on your mind. I’ll let it slide this once,” I coo.

She takes a deep breath in, then lets it out slowly.

“No, sir. Nothing for me today here. Let’s just wait in silence.” She turns away from me and steps back against the elevator, her eyes fixed on the wall ahead.

She thinks calling me sir will remind me who she is to me, but that doesn’t faze me. If anything, it makes me want to smile at her for trying her best.

I lean back against the back of the elevator too, crossing my feet at my ankles with my files on the floor. Every once in a while, I glance over at her, but she’s never looking at me.

The third time my eyes stray back to her, her eyes are closed, and that’s when I take my chance to take my fill.

The one question that has been running through my mind is why do I still stand outside her house every night when I see her every day at the office? Remo only asked me to monitor her so she was in my sight, but I hired her, so there is no need for me to follow her shopping, watch her do yoga at night, or find her social media accounts and stalk her online. I definitely shouldn’t look at each smiling picture, each post about her shopping, each selfie with the mayor’s daughter, and the many shots of her dressed in the most impeccable clothes that make her look like royalty and out of everyone’s reach. The thirsty bastards in the comments didn’t help to keep my annoyance in check.

There was also no need to know how much she loves eating different kinds of salads, watches reality TV a lot, loves thrillers, and loves the smell and sound of rain.

I love catching glimpses of her everyday routine. Sitting on the yoga mat every night and taking deep breaths. Watering the big plants in her room and petting them as if they are beloved pets. The bowls of fruit she brings upstairs with her sometimes while she reads magazines accompanied by a face mask.

My eyes trail from her nose down to her lips and the small mole I noticed on the other side of her face, but I stop at her lips. The bottom lip is slightly bigger than the top one painted a peachy brown.

It occurs to me that this is the first time there has ever been silence between us and we are both calm. I feel like I can hear every single beat of my heart, can feel every intake of my breath. It stutters the minute my eyes shamelessly trail down her body, taking in the way the dress hugs her gorgeous figure.

I find myself so captivated that I am leaning closer without intending to, to inhale the perfume she always wears. The fresh scent makes me close my eyes to commit it to my memory.

Until I feel the elevator jump and shake.

17

I jab at the emergency button, but the speaker just buzzes at me. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I realise there is no service available. I send a help signal through the software I created on my phone, but I know I will have to wait longer.

I sigh, letting my head drop back. We are both seated on the floor; though Ambrose is sitting on a handkerchief because she said, and I quote, ‘my dress is too expensive to get dirty sitting on an elevator floor’. It had me rolling my eyes, but I didn’t let my amusement show.

Ambrose is getting progressively more restless. She keeps looking through her documents, scrolling on her phone, and picking at her nails, but nothing keeps her occupied for long. I tried to talk to her, but she gave me one-word answers, and now, even those are gone.

Her hands are shaking ever so slightly, but she crosses her arms to hide them from me.

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