บททั้งหมดของ Forever Always: บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 19

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."

The following week, the house felt like it was shrinking. Victoria was there almost every day, and Mrs. Grant made sure I was the one assigned to her personal needs, a move that felt less like a job and more like a test of my endurance. She was bitchy, draining and demanding but it was my job and not like I had anyone to complain to. I was in the drawing room, setting out the heavy silver service for the afternoon tea. Victoria was draped over the armchair, her legs crossed, watching me with an expression of pure boredom. "Is that how you were taught to polish the tray?" she asked, her voice cutting through the quiet. I stopped, the cloth still in my hand. "Yes, Miss Sterling." "Well, it’s dull," she snapped. She reached out and flicked the edge of the silver with a manicured nail. "It’s like everything else in this house lately faded. I expect things to be brighter when I’m mistress here." I didn't look up. "I'll do it again." "See that you do," she said, leaning back.

The stone stairs felt like they were growing taller with every step I took. My lungs were burning, not just from the climb, but from the pure, icy terror that I was about to lose everything over a few hours of sleep I never intended to take. I reached the service door to the kitchen and pressed my ear against the wood. Silence, save for the low hum of the industrial refrigerator. I slipped inside, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I looked down at myself in the dim morning light filtering through the high windows. My black uniform was a disaster. There were wrinkles across the lap that no amount of smoothing could hide, and a faint, telltale smudge of dust from the cellar floor marred the hem. My hair felt like a bird’s nest, and my skin still carried the faint, lingering scent of Ethan’s cologne sandalwood and rain. I needed to get to the staff quarters, change, and be back before the first kettle was put on. I moved toward the back hallway, but the sound of the

The creak of the floorboard was still echoing in my ears long after the hallway went silent. Ethan had slipped away through the servant's entrance, leaving me to step out into the corridor alone, my heart hammering against my ribs. I didn't even make it three steps before a shadow detached itself from the gloom of the back stairs. "A dangerous place to linger, Sasha." I gasped, spinning around. Mr. Harrison stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression as unreadable as a stone monument. He didn't look angry; he looked weary, which was somehow much worse. "Mr. Harrison, I was just…” "I know what you were doing," he interrupted, his voice a low, sandpaper rasp. He stepped closer, and for the first time, the cold authority in his eyes shifted into something that looked uncomfortably like pity. "And I know what you think you’re doing. You think Ethan Grant is your shield. You think because he holds you in the dark, he will protect you in the light." I looked down at

The light was the first thing that hit me, a brutal, uncompromising white glare that felt like a physical weight against my eyelids. My head throbbed with a rhythmic, dull pulse, a reminder of every shot of tequila and every glass of champagne I’d swallowed in a blur of neon lights. I tried to roll over, but the texture of the fabric beneath me was wrong. It wasn't the scratchy, thin cotton of my staff cot. It was silk. Cool, expensive, and impossibly smooth. I snapped my eyes open, and the ceiling didn't have the familiar water stains of my room. It was vaulted, white, and perfect. "Oh my God," I whispered, the words sounding raspy and foreign. I bolted upright, and the cold air hitting my bare skin sent a jolt of pure electricity through my system. I was naked. I was in Ethan’s bed. And the sun was already pouring through the massive windows of the master wing. Panic, sharp and icy, sliced through my hangover. I didn't have time to process the headache or the haze. I scrambled