Page 61 of Unravelling: Aria & Crispin
He extended a hand. "I'm Marcus. Thank you for coming on such short notice. Come in."
She stepped inside, uncertain of what awaited her, but grateful for the smile and the chance to begin again.
The sitting room smelled of lemon balm. Aria sat on the edge of a pale linen armchair, still clutching her shoulder bag like it might float away.
Marcus was surprisingly warm at first, charming in a well-worn, upper-class kind of way. He talked about the heat, how un-British it was for May, and how the Piccadilly Line upgrade had turned the whole area into a maze.
"You wouldn't believe the state of the platforms," he said, shaking his head. "Even the pigeons look lost."
Aria had chuckled politely. His voice was smooth and his words effortless, the kind of man who'd never had to repeat himself to be heard. He reminded her, oddly, of Ophelia-confident, courteous, a little removed. Someone who always seemed to know more than they said.
He offered her tea. "Earl Grey? Or something herbal, perhaps?" She declined, grateful, but still on edge. He explained that his wife would be joining them shortly, gestured casually to a hallway that led deeper into the townhouse.
"You might as well get a sense of the place," he said. "It's not terribly large, and it's well-kept. My wife's domain, really."
He led her through the pristine kitchen with pale granite counters into a dining room with French windows that looked out onto a perfectly clipped lawn. His manner was respectful. There were no lingering glances, no probing questions. She began to think maybe, just maybe, this could work.
It took her a second to register that he was moving again. "Come. Let me show you the upstairs."
Chapter 33
Aria
She followed him up the carpeted staircase, running her fingers along the smooth mahogany railing. The air upstairs had the kind of quiet that came with thick walls and enough money to keep the outside world at bay.
He gestured to the first door on the right. "This would be yours. It's small but self-contained with an ensuite shower, wardrobe, and small desk. My wife prefers the staff to have their own space."
Aria stepped in. The room was neat, impersonal, with cream walls, pale oak furniture, and a window that overlooked a walled garden.
He showed her the linen cupboard, explained laundry expectations and the daily cleaning rotation. She was to help with meal prep once a week, though a cook handled most dinners. No guests, though. No late-night comings or goings.
"We've had...problems in the past," he said delicately. "Nothing serious. But trust is hard-earned, though we're offering it freely, and we expect the same."
Back downstairs, he waved a hand towards the sitting room once more, and she found herself easing back into the same pale linen chair.
"A live-in arrangement is what we're looking for," Marcus said as they returned to the sitting room. "We will cover food and board. "
Aria felt it then-that tiny thrum of fragile hope. Maybe this was her chance for a start fresh. A safe space with a bit of security.
Then, like a switch had been flipped, Marcus' posture grew slightly stiff. He stood straighter, his smile dimmed. The air between them seemed to drop a few degrees.
"This job is yours, Aria. We would prefer an immediate start. We can draw up a contract with a decent salary, if I may say so."
Her fingers went still on her bag strap.
As he spoke, Marcus reached into his inner vest pocket with the same smooth elegance that came naturally to men who had never known want. He retrieved a small cream-coloured slip of paper-thick, embossed on the corner-and an expensive-looking pen with a gold nib that gleamed as he uncapped it.
He scribbled a figure in neat, looping numbers.
When he turned it to her, Aria's breath caught and her eyes widened. This was more than three months' rent. She stared at it, almost giddy. Hope rose so suddenly and sharply in her throat that it made her feel lightheaded. For a fragile, glittering second, it felt like her luck had changed.
So much so that she almost missed the next part. She opened her mouth, the words "I'm pregnant" hovering at the back of her tongue, ready to slip free.
"All I ask," Marcus continued, his voice calm and even, "is that you cut off contact with Crispin. You've earned a bit of breathing room."
The words didn't register at first, but then they did in a rush.
"I beg your pardon?" she whispered, mouth dry.
