DECEPTION | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Mabel, the bedroom thief, lounging on my sheets and relaxing in my chairs, is permitted to roam the estate without an array of sentinels watching her every move.

Mabel, the complacent scrounger, is the person in the nursery and playroom, having fun with Dominic.

To think I had to loan that gorgeous king-size bed to someone so rude and disrespectful.

To think I had to share Dominic with such a disdainful human being.

Mabel, I wouldn't get too comfortable in my shoes.

I slept on the right side of the courtyard's annexe building with Edith, the household affairs manager, and the mirror image brunettes, Iris and Lilith. Gilbert, the cantankerous chef, and Jonah, the cute, able-bodied landscape gardener and swimming pool service technician, also slept here, but on the left side of the annexe building.

Everyone shared the tiled bathroom, fitted kitchen, spacious living room and smallish dining room.

It was impossible to avoid housemates at any time of day. There is always nuisances skulking about, which is particularly maddening for someone who loathed people with a passion.

Privacy is a thing of the past, so I mostly stayed in the bedroom, where it is peaceful and less stressful.

I had a box room, which contained a cottage-style single bed, a freestanding double wardrobe and a bedside table to match the chest of drawers.

The small room with dirty, frosted glass windows resembled a prison cell without metal bars and bolted doors. What's worse is the window barely opened. When I tried to force the rusty hinges to budge during the stuffy hour of midnight, the wooden frame cracked, splintered, and threatened to break. I settled for a table fan I bought two weeks ago, when shopping at The Brunswick Centre, to compensate for the lack of oxygen and fresh air.

I had eyes on me whenever I ventured through the aesthetically manicured gardens that belonged to the owner. Mr Jones' loyal subjects did not trust me. If I got too close to the main house, they'd step out from the shadows and simply stare. It was the type of death stare predators gave prey before they attacked.

Alas, I had the same problem when in the company of ex-co-workers. They tolerated me at best, dipping heads when I entered a room or grunting when I asked a question.

I was suddenly beneath them, not worthy of their time, patience or attention.

If I joined unlikely friends at the dining table for dinner, I ate mutely, listening as they talked about matters of trivialities.

Gilbert was the head cook, the Master of Culinary exquisiteness, and he despised me and the very ground I walked upon, so I was lucky to be served the same warm, hearty meals alongside everyone else.

If Gilbert had his way, I'd eat leftovers from out of the bin or starve to death. He practically threw bowls of vegetable stew at me, never offering home-cooked bread.

Most nights, I sat alone in the safeness of my bedroom, reading old books I had found on the cherrywood bookcase in the foyer, whereas the others got comfortable in the living room, imbibing non-alcoholic wine and digesting dark chocolate puritanically. I never received an invitation to enjoy small doses of pleasure with them or to carouse until the early hours, not that I'd welcome the reluctance of friendships.

I have been a lone wolf for as long as I can remember.

I did not need fake friends or their bullshit.

But there is always a silver lining.

Jonah had taken it upon himself to knock on my bedroom door one evening, having sat in the other room, wondering if the outcast needed to see a friendly face. He felt sorry for me, I guess. He put a glass of fizz on the bedside table, where the lamp glowed, and asked if I'd like to help him clean the pool the following morning.