Novels by gwennyblooms

I woke up the next morning with the sickening certainty that Mrs. Grant knew everything. The kiss, the complicity, the entire disastrous exchange in the pool Harrison had seen it, and Harrison reported to her. My phone remained silent, but the lack of communication felt like the quiet before a judge's sentence.I was scrubbing the delicate tiles in the greenhouse, one of the few places in the house that smelled of living things instead of old money and ammonia, when the shadow fell over me."Sasha."The sound of Mr. Harrison's voice was always dry, emotionless, and final. I straightened immediately, my heart hammering.He was dressed perfect, a clipboard held loosely in his hand. He didn't look at the flowers or the dirt; his focus was entirely on me."Mrs. Grant is under the impression that the staff is becoming careless," he said, his voice low and precise, devoid of anger, which made it far more terrifying. "She believes there are distractions compromising the order of the house."

I was already dressed in my dark clothes when I left the staff room, my skin still clammy from the nightmare. The memory of the gunshots and the useless phone call felt more real than the polished hallways of the Grant house. I needed to move, to be occupied, to stop being Chimamanda. The pool area was quiet, bathed in the soft, ambient glow of the underwater lights. It was still 4:00 AM. Ethan was there, but he wasn't stressed or focused. He was sitting on the tiled edge of the pool, his feet dangling in the water, wearing a thick gray hooded sweater. He looked utterly, surprisingly bored. "You came," he said, turning his head toward me. He didn't stand up, didn't move to hide his expression. "You asked me to," I replied, my voice rough. I kept my distance, sitting on one of the cushioned loungers, maintaining the space between master and maid, co-conspirator and handler. He sighed, a long, weary sound that broke the silence. "I know. It's ridiculous. I just... I couldn't slee

The heat was thick, humid, and smelled of the dry earth after a sudden storm. I was nineteen again, but my skin felt tight, too small for the guilt that was supposed to fill it. We were in the cramped, airless back room of our house. The single kerosene lamp threw long, flickering shadows on the corrugated tin walls. "You have to be quick, Chimamanda," my mother whispered, her face tense. "The sun is down. The roads are clear now." "Mama, please," I pleaded, my voice thin and high. "Let me stay. Let me call Mr. Adebayo. We can hide." She grabbed my hands, her grip surprisingly strong. "No. No calls. No staying. Only moving." She looked toward the small, wooden cot where my brother lay sleeping. "You are taking Kian." Kian, nine years old, curled up tight with his arm draped over a threadbare stuffed lion. The sight of him, innocent and trusting, was a blade twist in my gut. My mother pulled a small, battered notebook from inside the lining of her skirt — a plain, black book that

The sound of the lock clicking in the door of Mrs. Grant's dressing room didn't signal freedom; it signaled the tightening of a noose. I didn't move for several minutes, my back pressed against the wardrobe, the word Chimamanda still ringing in my ears like a death knell. They knew. They hadn't just looked at a file; they had bought the identity I had buried with such agonizing care. The threat wasn't a warning; it was a certainty: I was a fugitive, and Mrs. Grant held the arrest warrant. My hands were still shaking, but I forced myself to retrieve my phone. I had to complete Ethan's mission, even if the intelligence was now tainted by my capture. His blind, arrogant faith in me was my only temporary shield. With stiff, mechanical movements, I sent the photos of the personal ledger keys to him. [10:45 AM] Sasha: [3 photos attached] His reply was instantaneous, celebratory, and devastating in its oblivion. [10:46 AM] Ethan: Perfect. You did it. That's a huge win. You're incredi

The scent of chlorine and expensive cologne clung to my clothes, a phantom reminder of the pool. For two days after the secret meeting, I felt an almost unbearable emotional whiplash: the lingering, intoxicating heat of Ethan's kiss battling the chilling knowledge that he was using me to destabilize his own family. The tension in the house was a taut wire. The Mayor was subdued, locked away in his office for hours. Mrs. Grant, however, was vibrant with hostile energy. She was everywhere, her presence a cold, piercing light that searched for any flaw, any evidence of my treachery. She had increased my duties to absurd levels — tasks designed to keep me near the family's possessions and under her direct scrutiny. The next command came not at midnight, but mid-morning. [10:15 AM] Ethan: Grandmother keeps the personal ledger keys hidden near her dressing table. Small silver lockbox. Get me a photo of the keys. Today. The request was a punch to the gut. The keys to the personal

I didn't hear from Ethan for three days. Three days of scrubbing surfaces and trying to look invisible while the memory of my crime , the security logs, the fear, his cold "Good" , burned in my mind. The ache from the push was gone, replaced by a constant, nervous tension. I was his accessory now. I waited. The text came not late at night, but in the middle of the Tuesday afternoon, when the household was settled into its rhythm of quiet power. [3:45 PM] Ethan: Indoor pool. Midnight. No clothes. I dropped the dust cloth. The last two words , « No clothes » were a punch to the gut. This wasn't a request for logistics. This was a demand for me, leveraging the fear and the loyalty I had shown him in the Maintenance Room. He was testing the boundaries, seeing just how far my terrified compliance would take me. I sent a single reply [3:47 PM] Sasha: I’ll be there. With clothes. His reply was instantaneous: Wouldn’t dream of you wearing a uniform. See you soon. The indoor pool was a