Page 76 of His Pretty Little Duet

He iseverything.

He is walking, talking sin. He is patronising and controlling and has emotional amour so comfortable around him it has formed another layer of skin. Condescending. Dangerous. Secretive. Lethal, most definitely. He has blatantly told me he isn't mine but promises me a future with security.

And I am in love with him.

Irrevocably in love.

Invincible.

Fawn

When I situp in the morning, well-rested and surrounded by nothing but the light hum of the air-conditioner, a sinking dissonance slides over me. This is the second night I have slept through without having anything to record in my notebook. This morning, rattling around in my brain is a vast content of nothingness. I drag my hand down my face and sweep my hair over my shoulders.

I blink ahead. Above Clay's desk is a clock, ticking away, with the little hand happily pointing to the nine. I slept in too. Presumably, Clay will be in the City Building, cutting ribbons with big scissors or signing important documents, or whatever a mayor does on a Wednesday before lunch with Jill from marketing. I slide out from his bed and shower. I don't know if there is a Jill from marketing. Maybe her name is Robin or Jennifer. No matter her name, I'm jealous she gets to spend time with him.

"I won't be yours."

His words lay facts down inside my mind before I can even toe the line of jealous girlfriend. I'm not. He's not. We are something else entirely.

After the shower, I wander naked into his huge dressing room. The moment I step inside, sleek downlights in the recessed ceiling build a perfect glow above the racks of clothing.

"Woah," I mutter, moving between the rows of garments to sit on a black leather ottoman large enough to sprawl out on. To the left of the impressive space hangs suits and shirts, organised by colour and style. In small cubicles below the outfits are his shoes.

On the right—my breath hitches—aremyclothes... "What the fuck?" More than I bought the other day at the boutique, too. Also organised by colour and style. Despite his procurement of the items, they all still seem to be in my usual bohemian style, but somehow...not.Boho-chic, I would call it. I drop to my knees and touch the cute dusty pink slip-on flats in a little black box. Then the tan ones. And then heels. I pick them up, inspecting the thin wrap around leather. "So beautiful," I whisper, a sudden Everest of dizziness rising through me.

"I will be making sure you are spoilt rotten."

A little chuckle slips from my lips.

He is so fucking bossy even when he's not here.

I slip into a cream-coloured lacy shirtdress, with henna style embellishments, and just long enough to cover my upper thighs and slide on the pair of pink flats.

For the rest of the day, I watch Maggie cook and learn a little as she goes about her usual routine. As soon as she finishes baking brownies, I spring from the countertop and search the entire house for Jasmine, eager to share them with her, to hear about her day, to tell her about mine, but despite Bolton having mentioned she is rostered on, I can't seem to track her down. The way things are headed, it is as if we could one day have a kind of friendship, and for the first time in my life, I want to explore that. Be honest. Unguarded.

And although I am surrounded by people, her absence transforms the mansion. It seems larger, and I feel myself getting emotionally lost in the vastness and the hustle and bustle of it. Wincing when I recall that awkward conversation about Cinderella and pumpkins, I realise I haven't seen her since the night of the party.

My heart is slow and a little low, when I retire for the evening, not having found her. Entering his bedroom, I glance around without my awe-goggles on and find it to be equally as soulless as it is beautiful. Wandering around the room, I circle each perfectly exquisite piece of polished black-wood furniture.

My heart sinks lower still.

The only sign this is a permanent residence and not a hotel room is my dreamcatcher swaying under the air conditioner's gentle current. Sighing, I make a mental note to create a pillow stack with his cushions every morning.

Glancing up to watch the clock tick past the notch at the eleven, I frown, knowing he's been gone all day and most of the evening.Unless... unless he's here in the house somewhere.

Striding from the bedroom, I head towards the office I saw him in last week.

As I approach the door at the end of the hall, music entices me to stop by another instead. I push the double doors open and see a bespoke television screen spanning the entire length of a wall and two rows of leather recliners set on a small incline.

A fucking theatre.

"Woah," I mutter.

As I walk down the centre, taking the little steps to the lower level, I notice Xander at the front; he's not watching the show flashing in the soft lighting but is highlighting pages in the thick document on his lap.

"Hi," I say, and he twists his head to see me. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Fawn," he sings, letting a wide, charming smile transform his serious expression. "Not at all, girlie. Come sit with me. Oh, wait, shouldn't you be in bed? I know my controlling big brother has some serious rules in place for you."

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