Page 52 of A Forgotten Promise

“Thank you.” I see the movers out and close the front door behind them.

Leaning against it, I sigh. So this is it. I’m officially living with my fiancé. Not that he bothered to show up and welcome me.

His housekeeper, Livia, gave me the keys and showed me my room.

“This is where Mr. Quinn wants you,” she announced. “If you have any questions, I’ll answer them tomorrow. I’m sorry, but my granddaughter has a play at school today, and Mr. Quinn allowed me to leave early.”

She talks about him like he was an employer of the month. I can’t possibly imagine Corm treating anyone with respect.

So here I am, all alone in my new home. I shiver at the idea. A bathroom here is probably the same size as Cora’s entire apartment.

The place is massive—obnoxiously massive. The ceilings are so high, I swear you could fit a small plane in here, and judging by the heliport on the roof, it wouldn’t surprise me if he did.

Why does he even need such an enormous place? Is it a status thing? The foyer is large, with a staircase on one side and a square archway across from it, leading to the dining room.

The floor is checkered black and white, and looks almost like a gigantic chessboard. As his future wife—fake wife—am I the queen or the pawn here? I’m pretty sure it’s the latter.

Across from the front door is the entry into the corridor that leads to the living room, kitchen, and some other rooms.

In the middle of the rounded foyer is a large oval table with the most peculiar statue on it. The bronzed abstract monstrosity probably cost a fortune, and if its purpose is to scare away visitors, it does a pretty good job.

Behind the statue, a long corridor seems to end with glass doors leading to the backyard, I think. I’ll explore that later.

Rounding the statue, I wander down the hallway to the living room. It’s like walking into a high-end designer catalog.

The walls are soft gray, and everything is sleek and minimalist, but there’s this strange warmth in the space. It’s too clean, too curated, but still... comfortable.

It doesn’t have that icy, sterile feel of my childhood home. No marble statues glaring down at me, no grand chandeliers flaunting our wealth to everyone. This place, for all its scale, feels more like a home than that mausoleum I grew up in ever did.

Jesus. What am I thinking? This is not my home. It’s just a temporary station, before I get my trust fund and finally stand on my own two feet.

I worked hard since I was fifteen not to depend on my father. And here I am, at twenty-seven, exactly in that situation.

The idea makes me want to cry. More so because I don’t even know what to do with my life currently. I have no degree, no skills, no experience other than posing, smiling, walking, and being efficient at packing and navigating airports.

I have never written a resume or applied for a job. I worked hard for twelve years, and now I’m dependent, not on one man, but on two at the same time.

My father, who hasn’t spoken to me in a year, and mylovelyfiancé, who made it clear I shouldn’t mess with him.

I haven’t seen him for two days, and yet I’m still feeling the aftershocks of our last encounter. The way my body craved him. The way he crowded me. The way we parted.

Don’t control my time with your trivial mind games, and I will leave you alone.Thank God Larissa interrupted us. Sex must be off the table. It’s the last thing this hateful, temporary relationship needs.

I need to get laid. But I can’t even go clubbing. Betsy sent me a list of events and commitments for the next two months, and I practically won’t have time to sleep. Not that I’ve been sleeping much since the twelve-hour shuteye after our date.

I wander over to the dining room, my footsteps muffled by the thick, plush rug. Nestled in the middle of the large room, with floor-to-ceiling windows overseeing the manicured backyard lawn, is a long table, sleek and dark.

It’s made for power dinners with CEOs and politicians, not for breakfast or genuine conversations.

I run my hand along the smooth surface, wondering if anyone’s ever sat here long enough to spill coffee or laugh too loudly.

I’m irrationally upset he isn’t here. Not that I need a welcoming committee, or to be in his presence, but somehow, being here alone makes me feel insignificant. Like he couldn’t bother. Like I’m not important enough to put me on his agenda.

Don’t be stupid, Saar.I’m not important. I’m just a means to an end. A photo op. Arm candy. He doesn’t need to make an effort in the privacy of his home. Or anywhere behind the closed door.

Why the fuck am I so unsettled, blaming him for my lack of direction and purpose? Moneyless, jobless, without a plan, just… this. A fake marriage and a house so big I may actually get lost in it.

I grab a glass of water from the kitchen, take a long sip, and set the glass down on the island, staring at the spotless counters.

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