Page 22 of The Last Morgan
"Two guest houses, one near the front gates and the other to the rear of the house," Corey replied. "They'll rotate shifts and patrol the grounds throughout the night."
"And the lead Dove? What is his name?” Lucy asked.
"Byron. That’s all I know. He doesn’t talk much. He makes the others nervous." Corey smirked
Lucy smiled. "Make sure the staff give them everything they need."
Corey turned to her. "You tell them. I don’t work for you."
She laughed.
Chapter 13
They arrived back at the mansion just as the sun dipped below the horizon. The mansion glowed gold in the twilight, its wide windows reflecting the last warmth of the day. Inside, the atmosphere was stiff. Lucy entered the dining room, her heels echoing across the marble. Richard sat at the head of the table, wine in hand with the rest of the family seated either side of him.
Lucy handed her jacket to a maid, freshened up quickly, and took a deliberate seat at the opposite end of the table.
The staff were serving dinner, but it was hard to ignore the difference in treatment. They smiled warmly at her aunt, uncle, and their children — offering extra attention, extra portions. But when they reached Lucy’s side of the table, it was a different story. Cold glances. Slower service. Polite, but just enough to get by. Let’s just say... they weren’t exactly made to feel welcome.
Lucy said nothing. Just smiled faintly, folding her napkin across her lap. The clink of cutlery filled the silence. The occasional murmur of conversation. The atmosphere was brittle almost ready to crack.
Lucy leaned forward.
"Aunt Lillian, what time do the house staff begin work?"
Lillian looked up from her wine. "Six am sharp."
"Good," Lucy said. "Have them all assembled in the foyer by seven. I’d like to introduce myself formally."
One of the servers froze mid-pour. Lillian, tight-lipped, gave a small nod.
"You heard her. Pass it on."
After dinner, Lucy stood. "Goodnight, Corey."
"You’re missing out," he said through a mouthful of second helpings. "These potatoes are unreal”.
Lucy smiled as she left.
Her room was quiet. She peeled off the day slowly—each layer of clothing a symbol of power shed for peace. The bathroom filled with steam as hot water thundered from the shower-head. She stepped in, letting the heat wrap around her, melting away the stress, tension, and politics.
Water slid down her back, tracing the curve of her spine, pooling at her feet. Her head tipped back under the stream, her eyes closed, whilst the thoughts of the day tumbled away like droplets.
The directors.
The board.
Davina.
And Byron.
She shouldn’t have thought of him.
She stepped out, skin flushed, hair dripping. Wrapping herself in a towel, she padded across the room toward the window, drawn by the cool night breeze.
And there he was.
Byron.
