Page 15 of Till Death Do Us Part

She shows me the en suite next. The bathroom is large, painted in white and creams which give it an overly clean feel. There’s a large claw bath in the centre and a walk-in shower on the far wall. More than enough space for me. The counter is porcelain, and a sparkling silver sink sits in the middle. The cabinet is stocked with the basics, though I make a note to ask about a car and trips to the local supermarket when I speak to Antonio so I can buy my own preferred products.

The next door in my bedroom leads into a walk-in closet that is larger than my bedroom back at home. The rails are filled to the brim with clothes, all my size and all with the tags still attached, and there are two huge shelves stacked with shoes of differing varieties, ranging from running trainers to the highest heels I’ve seen.

Having grown up with money, I am not unused to a more extravagant lifestyle, but this is far beyond anything I have ever experienced in my life. We grew up in a modest five-bed house with only two floors and no wings. Papá doesn’t like to flash his wealth, though it seems Antonio and his men have no such qualms.

The only thing similar is the staff, though I am sure our housekeeper, nanny, and home tutor pale in comparison to the sheer amount that must work in the shadows of the mansion. My father is very particular with whom he allows into our family home. So he keeps his staff to a minimum.

I doubt that is a remote possibility in a residence of this size.

“I’ll let you get settled, and I’ll have a pot of tea in the library in an hour.”

“Thank you, Margo,” I tell her sincerely with a smile, following her out of the closet and back into the bedroom. “That would be wonderful.”

“Any time, Pippa,” she replies, patting my shoulder before leaving me in peace.

A little while later, showered and dressed in leggings and an oversized grey hoody, I find my way back to the library. My finger trails over the spines of the books lining the walls until I come to a stop at a shelf of books that do not seem to fit the mould in here. Most books I have passed by so far are classics: the likes of Shakespeare, Emily Brontë, and Jane Eyre. This shelf, however, looks as though it could have been handpicked from my personal collection at home.

Dark romances fill the shelf, some I’ve read, others I have not yet. My brow furrows slightly at that. Did someone speak to my sisters? My father? Were these books brought here for me, or does somebody else in this mansion have a penchant for psychotic book boyfriends and toxic relationships in their novels?

I grab a favourite, a story about a girl falling in love with her stalker. With the book tucked into my chest, I slide down onto the love seat and pull a pale pink blanket over my curled-up legs. Margo kept her word, and there’s a pot of perfectly brewed tea sitting on a small foldaway table. There’s a knitted cosy on the top in the shape of a pumpkin, a seasonal décor choice, I would assume since September creeps to a close and October looms.

Halloween is not usually a big holiday in England, though from what I can gather, Americans seem rather fond of the spooky season. Personally, I would rather lock myself away with a spooky romance book than be caught dead wearing a costume and parading around as anybody but myself.

The small lamp beside me casts a golden glow over the pages as I read, lulling me into another world. There’s a collection of candles burning, the scent similar to pumpkin, which sit on the fireplace built into the centre of one of the shelves, and for the next couple of hours, I lose myself in the comfort of my book.

“I see you’ve made yourself at home already,” a deep voice rumbles, coming out of nowhere. Startled, I jolt upwards. Tea spills over the sides of my mug and onto the page I’m reading.

“Shit,” I hiss, placing the mug down and shaking the book off—though it is of no use. The liquid has seeped through the pages, causing ink to run and several words to become a jumbled mess as the pages start to stain. “Fuck. No.”

“It’s just a book, Princess.”

“Just a book,” I mutter under my breath, my gaze lifting and my eyes narrowing on Leonardo. “It is not just a book.”

“It looks like just a book.” He shrugs, his face the picture of innocence as he smiles down at me.

I take a deep breath, willing myself to not throttle him with this book when he lets out a low chuckle.

“Anyway, dinner is ready. I was sent to hunt you down.”

He repeats himself, staring at me like I’ve lost my mind when I don’t respond.

Maybe I have.

Or maybe I have read one too many stalker romances of late because dinner was not the first thought that flashed into my head at his choice of words. Though, I don’t want to admit what the image of him hunting me down looks like. Heat travels through me, my cheeks flushing under his scrutiny.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I reply far too quickly to be truthful—and if his answering chuckle is anything to go by, he recognises that too. He watches me as I place the book in front of the window, hoping the early-evening sun shining through the blinds might help dry the pages before any more damage is inflicted.

My mouth opens on a yawn when I stand, the nap in the car earlier did little to ease the tiredness in me. Folding the blanket, I drape it over the back of the loveseat and pick up the teapot and mug.

“You realise there are staff who will clean up after you, right?

“I figured, a place of this magnitude,” I retort as Leonardo guides me down the hallway towards the dining room. “However, I have always cleaned up after myself and I’m not going to stop doing that now.”

“You didn’t have staff growing up?”

“Yeah, we did, but Papá is a bit paranoid, I guess. He doesn’t like a lot of people in the house. So he kept it to a bare minimum.”

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