CHAPTER 3 — "Living With a Stranger"

Naomi's POV

The Holt mansion did not look like a home.

It looked like a warning.

Black iron gates that opened without anyone touching them. A driveway so long I had time to reconsider every choice I'd ever made before the car stopped. And the house itself... white stone, tall windows, the kind of architecture that whispered old money in every language simultaneously.

I stepped out with one small bag because that was all I had and stood on the front steps like a delivery that had arrived at the wrong address.

Which, honestly, wasn't far from the truth.

The head housekeeper, a thin woman named Mrs. Cho, met me at the door with a smile so tight it could've cut glass.

"Miss Bridges," she said.

"Mrs. Holt," I corrected automatically, surprising even myself.

Her smile didn't waver but her eyes did something complicated.

"Of course," she said. "Right this way."

She gave me a tour that was really just a very polite way of showing me exactly how much of the house I wasn't expected to use. The east wing was Mr. Holt's. The library was Mr. Holt's. The private dining room was where Mr. Holt took his meals. The main kitchen was available to staff.

"And where do I eat?" I asked pleasantly.

A pause so brief you'd miss it if you weren't paying attention.

"There is a small dining room near the guest quarters," Mrs. Cho said. "We thought you'd find it more... comfortable."

Comfortable. Right.

My room was actually lovely, large and quiet with a window that looked out over the back gardens. Under different circumstances I might've appreciated it. But I'd noticed the way the kitchen staff glanced at each other when I passed. I'd noticed the way the young housemaid dropped her eyes and pressed herself against the wall like I took up too much space in the corridor.

I'd spent a lifetime noticing things like that.

I unpacked my single bag and changed out of the pinned dress, finally, and pulled on something that actually fit me properly, dark trousers and a loose blouse, the kind of outfit that said 'I am a person who exists’ without asking anyone's permission.

Then I went to find the kitchen because I hadn't eaten since morning and no mansion in the world was going to stand between me and food.

I was halfway through assembling a very respectable sandwich when I heard heels clicking on marble.

"So you're real."

I turned around.

She was stunning in the specific way that felt deliberately weaponized. Tall, slim, dark hair swept into a perfect knot, wearing a dress that cost more than my annual rent. She leaned against the kitchen doorframe with her arms folded and looked me over the way people look at something they've accidentally stepped in.

"Celeste Vane," she said, like the name should mean something to me.

It did, actually. I'd seen her photographed beside Adrian at three different charity events. The internet had spent eighteen months calling her his future wife.

"Naomi," I said. "Adrian's current one."

Her smile was slow and sharp.

"Cute." She moved into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water without looking at me. "Let me save you some time, sweetheart. Adrian doesn't want you here. His family doesn't want you here. And whatever you think you've stumbled into..." She let her eyes travel down my body and back up. "You're not equipped for it."

I looked down at my sandwich. Then back up at her.

"Do you want half?" I asked. "I made extra."

She stared at me.

I took a calm bite.

She clicked back out of the kitchen without another word.

***

Dinner was a quiet exercise in humiliation.

Nobody told me Adrian's mother was visiting. I found out by walking into the small dining room assigned to me and finding it occupied by a woman who looked at me like I'd just tracked mud across a priceless rug.

Margaret Holt was sixty-something, silver-haired and immaculate in the way that required significant daily effort and staff. She sat at the head of the small table like she'd claimed it specifically to make a point.

"You must be the girl," she said.

"Naomi," I said. "Your son's wife."

"Mmm." She looked at my plate, then at me. "You're not eating in the main dining room."

"I was told this room would be more comfortable."

"Yes." She sipped her tea. "It will be."

She said it so gently. That was almost the worst part. It wasn't cruelty exactly. It was something quieter and colder. The absolute unshakeable certainty that I did not belong and that everyone, including me, already knew it.

I ate my dinner. Every bite. Slowly and deliberately.

Then I said goodnight and walked back to my room with my head straight and my jaw set and my eyes absolutely, completely dry.

I was not going to cry in this house. Not tonight. Not ever.

I closed the bedroom door behind me and let out a long breath.

The room was dim and quiet. I moved to the small desk by the window and switched on the lamp and then stopped.

There was a cardboard box sitting on the desk that hadn't been there when I left. Small, brown and unsealed.

I frowned and pulled it open.

Inside was a bundle of old photographs, the kind printed on thick paper with white borders, faded slightly with age. Someone must have mixed up the rooms when bringing in storage. I started to close the box.

Then the top photograph caught my eye.

A little boy, maybe seven or eight years old. Dark hair, serious eyes, already carrying himself like the world owed him something. Even at that age, Adrian Holt looked like Adrian Holt.

But it wasn't the boy that stopped my breath.

It was the woman crouching beside him with her hand on his shoulder and her head tilted toward his with the most familiar smile I'd seen in years.

The photograph fell from my fingers.

Because the woman in that photograph...

...was my mother.