Page 63 of Ruthless God

“I wasn’t sneaking.”

“Debatable.”

She straightens her posture, as if I’ve offended her, and says, “Mr. Irons thought you might need help to find the living room.”

“I do. Thank you.”

Millie nods and motions for me to follow. As we walk, a thought lingers, heavy in the back of my mind. Did Claudius send her out of convenience? Or because he still wants eyes on me at all times? Did he think I’d try to find my way and stumble upon something I’m not supposed to see? Something I’m not supposed to know? The idea doesn’t sit right.

After a few moments of silence, I glance at Millie and say, “I didn’t mean anything by what I said earlier. I was teasing you. You know, the way friends do.”

I let the word linger.

Friends.

Millie keeps walking, her shoulders stiffening just slightly.

Then she says, “We’re not friends.”

Her tone isn’t rude, but firm. Final.

“We could be.”

“No, we can’t.”

The certainty in her voice gives me pause.

“Because Claudius doesn’t want us to be friends?”

She glances over her shoulder, looking wary.

“I’m sure Mr. Irons doesn’t care what I do.”

Maybe she believes it, maybe she doesn’t. But that glance? The way she checked before answering? That wasn’t about Claudius.

I hum, pretending like I didn’t notice. “Agnes, then.”

She doesn’t reply. But she doesn’t have to. The silence says enough. I just hit the nail on the head.

“Why doesn’t she?—”

Millie cuts me off sharply. “The living room, ma’am.”

She gestures toward the open door, her voice clipped, rushed. Then, before I can say another word, she hurries away. Practically runs. I watch her go, my mind spinning. What the hell is going on here?

“Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to come in?”

I step into the living room, my frustration simmering beneath the surface. But then I pause.

Much like the rest of the house, the room is lavish. But where the other spaces feel sleek and modern, this one is something else entirely. It’s Old-World elegance, untouched by time. The walls are deep, moody wood panels, polished to a soft sheen that catches the warm glow of the gold sconces flickering against them. The ceiling? High, vaulted, with intricate crown molding that speaks of a craftsmanship long forgotten.

A massive fireplace dominates one side of the room, its carved stone mantel stretching almost to the ceiling. The firewithin it crackles, casting dancing shadows across the space. Above it, an ornate oil painting of a man—one who bears an uncanny resemblance to Claudius—stares down at me, his eyes dark, unreadable.

The furniture is heavy, regal, built to last centuries. Dark leather armchairs, their arms curved with intricate detailing, sit atop a plush Persian rug, the pattern worn but elegant. A mahogany coffee table, massive and carved with scrollwork, rests in the center, topped with crystal decanters of amber-colored liquor and a single silver tray holding a half-smoked cigar.

Rich velvet drapes hang from the floor-to-ceiling windows, deep burgundy, thick enough to shut out the world. Everything about this space whispers of old money, power, and legacy.

And yet it feels heavy. Suffocating. Like stepping into a room that remembers too much. A room that’s seen things it will never tell. My gaze flickers to the portrait above the fireplace, my unease deepening.

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