Page 7 of Restoration

And my life never even gets started.

***

AFEW HOURS LATER,I’m sitting behind my desk in Edmund’s home office.

Edmund doesn’t actually have any real work to do. His father was one of the Worthings, a widely branching billionaire family whose fortunes keep growing because of wise business decisions. His parents died when he was fifteen, leaving him more money in a trust than he could possibly spend.

He was so young when he lost them. What would anyone expect an orphaned teenage billionaire to do? He had fun. Went wild.

And fifteen years later, he’s matured but he hasn’t fully stopped.

So he doesn’t actually use his home office for anything except holding his computer and some paperwork he needs in files. When I asked if I could get a desk in there too, he was perfectly happy to oblige.

Basically the office is mine.

I’ve been feeling heavy—low in my gut—for the hours since that conversation with Edmund over packing. I recognize the feeling.

It’s dread. Bleak knowledge. The reluctant recognition of something that has to happen that I’m scared of.

I’m not sure why his bland assurance that I’ll always be here to take care of him drove it home for me, but it did.

It’s time.

It’s long since past time.

I unlock the top drawer in my desk and pull out a sealed envelope. Inside is my resignation letter.

I first wrote the letter more than a year ago. I printed it off, signed it, and sealed it in an envelope. Then second-guessed myself and stuck it in this drawer instead of giving it to him.

Every couple of weeks for the past year, I’ve reprinted it. Re-signed it. And sealed it into a new envelope.

I could never quite do it. Quit this job and start my life for real. My parents never regained the wealth they lost, but they’re stable now. They don’t need me to support them. So there’s absolutely no reason for me to keep this job except that quitting feels like a betrayal of Edmund.

But staying on any longer is a betrayal of me. I don’t want to spend my entire life as a personal assistant.

I want to accomplish something. Use my skills and gifts and talents. I want formeto define my life rather thanhim.

So I give a little nod and stand up, taking the letter as I leave my office. Edmund is down in the basement, working out in his home gym. When he’s done, he’ll return to his bedroom to shower and change.

I walk slowly upstairs, enter his bedroom, and place the letter on the corner of the bed after I smooth out the plush duvet.

My reflection in the large wall mirror startles me even though I look the way I always look. Average height. Curvy body. Reddish-brown hair. Dark brown eyes. Freckles. Dressed in black pants and a simple gray top. Never making a show. Always hoping to fade into the background.

I stare down at the envelope resting on the fabric. My stomach churns, and my heart races.

But I’m absolutely sure this is right.

I’m only twenty-eight years old. I still have most of my life to turn into what I want. But if I don’t act now, I’m going to be fifty and still scurrying around in Edmund Worthing’s shadow.

I’m not going to do it.

So I turn on my heel and walk away, leaving my resignation letter on his bed.

***

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I’m still shaky and kind of sick, so I wander outside in an attempt to distract myself and create more distance between me and that letter.

Edmund has lived in his parents’ mansion all his life. There are ten bedrooms and way more space than he’d ever need, but he’s never even considered selling it or moving somewhere else. The large double doors in the front lead out onto wide, shallow steps that then narrow into a cobblestone walk down to the large loop of the driveway.

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