Page 1 of Power and Possession

Chapter One

Ashlynn

I wondered if this was how I was going to die. My feet hit the pavement, one foot in front of the other. I could feel my pulse increase, the cold air brushing past my face and hitting my sensitive front teeth as I panted. It was nearing dark; the shadows from the trees loomed menacingly at me with every step. Yet I knew the shadows weren’t what I should fear tonight.

I made my way up the lane, finally recognizing the coffee shop on the corner, with its faded blue door and the checker-patterned curtains covering the windows. Yes. Somewhere familiar. I slowed my pace, trying to catch my breath and convince my chest not to explode from the toll the sprint took on me.

Adrenaline coursed through my body, every inch of my nerves hyperaware. There was no one on the street, but the soft glow from the streetlights illuminated the cobblestones and made me feel less isolated.

Feeling safer in the presence of familiarity, I finally dared to glance over my shoulder.

He was gone.

I sighed. I was overreacting. I was probably just imagining that he was following me. But, over the past few weeks, I had seen a couple of strange men, dressed all in black, and I swore they were watching me. I saw one of these men when I got my morning coffee yesterday, his dark eyes focused on me over his paper in the corner of the cafe. Last week, as I walked to my au pair job, I swore a man was trailing behind me, almost up to the gates of the Harrington Estate. When I turnedup the gated road, he continued down the street, keeping on with his pace, but I swore I could feel his eyes upon my back as I walked up the drive. Luckily, the entire estate was guarded by 24-hour surveillance. I usually felt safe there. But tonight, as I was leaving, I thought I saw the same man almost a quarter mile up the road. I tried to take a different route home, but I ended up getting turned around. I’d only been living in this part of England for a few months.

After I finished my studies in Cambridge, I looked for a job in London, eager to be in a city that was full of life, history, and culture. But my degree in Arts and Humanities wasn’t exactly an MBA, and I found myself working retail jobs, serving coffee, and trying to make money with my hobby as a photographer. Not exactly what I had come to the UK for, so when a professor approached me about an au pair job for a friend of a friend, I came out to Derbyshire for an interview and was hired. My professor told me how socially connected the parents were, and I hoped it might lead to something better.

When I first met the family, I found out that the only qualification the Harringtons were looking for was an American. Their twins, Henry and Martha, were obsessed with American culture—and what the Harrington children wanted, they got. My first day was spent explaining cookies versus biscuits, a lift from an elevator, and the loo from the bathroom. They were sweet kids—Henry was a bit reserved, and Martha was incredibly precocious but easy enough to manage. Plus, the pay was good. Even though the Harringtons requested that I live on their estate, I made enough money to afford a tiny flat a mile away.

Both Edward and Marisa Harrington came from a long line of aristocracy, and their never-ending calendar of events took them out of the country and away for late nights. I was embarrassed to admit that I had no idea what either parent did, but I knew it involved a lot of three-piece suits and elegant evening gowns. I knew the look of high-end couture when I saw it. And the Harringtons were incredibly high-end. With theirtitles, horses, and staff, they were exactly what I was looking to escape when I left New York four years ago to attend Cambridge University.

My father was an investment banker. He sent me to the best preparatory school in Manhattan. But the second my mom died, there was nothing left for me in New York but a handful of superficial friends and a cold and distant father. He didn’t even put up a fight when I told him I’d applied to Cambridge. New York or London—he didn’t care where I was as long as I was out of the way when he brought home his latest applicant for the position of trophy wife.

Even though I missed the energy of the Big Apple every once in a while, I wasn’t going to stick around and watch a woman hardly older than myself become Mrs. Topher Phillips II, and, effectively, my stepmother.

I passed the small cemetery on Grace Street–the tombstones and grave markers ancient and faded–and I rounded the corner to my little walk-up. It was tiny, even smaller than my bedroom growing up, but I loved it. For the first time, I was self-sufficient. Everything in it—from the second-hand toaster to the cheap IKEA couch—was bought and paid for by myself.

I opened the door, my hands shaking as I turned the knob, and I let myself inside. The second I made it through the door, I turned the lock and latched the metal chain securely. I was sure I was being paranoid after living in New York for so long, but that didn’t stop me from double-checking the lock as I made my way to the radiator. I blasted it on high, hoping to stop shivering. I wasn’t sure if I was cold or just full of unspent energy.

Otis, the Harrington’s driver, had offered to take me home, but I’d foolishly declined, thinking I’d go for a run before heading back to my flat. The evenings here were quiet, and I’d gotten into the habit of making a big dinner and then vegging out on the couch, reading or watching TV. I’d never been model-thin, and instead rather curvaceous, but I didn’t have the money to buy all new clothes if my waistline grew. However, after the scare I had, maybe it would be better to let Otis drive me homeon the nights when I didn’t have to stay over at the Harringtons.

Living at their estate had been a deal breaker for me. While the Harringtons made it clear they wanted a live-in childcare provider, I wanted my own space, and I didn’t want to spend my life dependent on others. It certainly brought my mother nothing but heartbreak, and I wanted to forge my own path. Reluctantly, the Harringtons agreed to a six-month trial of me living off their estate, providing I’d stay over when they traveled or had a late night.

I removed my tennis shoes and threw my backpack on the floor, dropped my purse next to it, and took the three short steps to the kitchen. It could hardly be called a kitchen—it was barely more than a sink, a stove, and a refrigerator—but it was mine. I poured myself a glass of wine and grabbed some fresh vegetables from the fridge. I started cutting them up to make minestrone soup, when I saw something out of the corner of my eye—the doorknob rotated a tiny bit, just enough to make me notice the movement before it hit resistance against the lock.

Trembling, I picked up the knife I was chopping with and walked slowly to the door, my breath shaking and my chest about to burst. My cell phone was in my purse, which I’d left in front of the door with my backpack, so I had no choice but to creep towards the door. I slowly made my way across the tiled linoleum, holding my breath as I looked outside through the peephole.

There was no one there. Just the ominous shadows from the tree outside my window. I loosened my grip on the knife and sank against the door, trying to calm my ragged breathing. Was I hallucinating? Had my encounters the past few days rattled my brain? I was usually methodical and practical, not prone to fits of emotion or fantasy. But, still, I’d counted at least two different men watching me. Sure, I was attractive, but nothing special. I’d been hit on before, but I felt a hostile energy coming from these men, as if they were innately dangerous. Perhaps I should take up the Harrington’s offer to stay with them, even if I found Lord Harrington a bit terrifying. I’d never felt scared like this before.Even at Cambridge, I was surrounded by other students and never alone. Yet now…I felt completely isolated. I didn’t know anyone here. No one to check in on me besides my employer.

I shook off my panic, trying to rationalize my fears. There was no reason anyone would stalk me. I was just an average American trying to start a life away from her family; trying to get by. At least, that’s what I told myself.

I tossed the vegetables back in the fridge, my stomach now in knots and too nervous to eat. I wiped the kitchen knife off and put it back in the block, then changed my mind and carried it with me down the narrow hall to the bathroom. I laid it carefully on the cold tile of the bathroom counter and then glanced in the mirror. I looked horrible; I hadn’t bothered to put on make-up this morning. My hair was up in a high ponytail, and I pulled the elastic band out before filling up the bathtub, fiddling with the tap to try to get the water just right. It seemed to have two temperatures: freezing cold, or scalding. Shucking my clothes, I moved the knife closer to the tub so I could grab it quickly. I couldn’t believe how dramatic I was being. But, still, it made me feel better as I stepped into the tub and closed the shower curtain. The hot water finally hit the right temperature, and I let the stream cascade over me, warming me up and beginning to chase away my fears. For the first time that day, everything seemed normal. I closed my eyes, placing my hands along the wall for balance as the water dripped down my face.

Once I ran out of hot water, I turned off the tap and grabbed a towel, humming to myself and wrapping it around my body. I didn’t have a blow dryer, so I carefully cocooned my hair into a smaller towel, brushed my teeth, and then walked across the hall to my tiny bedroom. Tiny wasn’t even small enough to describe it. Minuscule was more like it. It was just big enough to fit my full-sized bed, my nightstand, and a dresser. I grabbed my favorite camisole and a pair of athletic shorts, and then I collapsed on the bed. The leftover adrenaline pumping through my veins had made me exhausted, and I closed my eyes, ready for sleep to take me.

“Henry, you’re going to ruin it!” Martha’s sweet voice was louder than normal as she scolded her brother. She covered her watercolor painting with her arm, protecting it from the paint dripping off of Henry’s brush.

“I am not!” he argued, flicking and dripping the paint along his own paper. “I’m like the artist who made messy paintings. Ashlynn, what was his name?”

“Jackson Pollock?” I laughed, enjoying his creativity.

“That’s the bloke! His paintings are famous, yeah?”

I tried not to smirk. “Yes, pretty famous. His studio was in New York, did you know that?”

“That’s where you’re from, right Ashlynn?” Martha looked at me with her pretty blue eyes, a dab of purple paint on her chin.

“That I am.”

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