Stealing Cinderella(40)
Is he disappointed? Angry? I can’t tell.
“Put on the robe and come down the hall to the kitchen,” he says. “You’ll be joining Calder and me for breakfast.”
The pulsing vein in his neck alerts me to the tension simmering beneath the surface, so I nod. “Okay.”
He casually eye fucks me for a few long, lingering moments and then disappears again.
I slip into the robe quickly and loosely braid my hair to pull it away from my face until it dries. When I poke my head out the door and into the hallway, it still feels as though I’m doing something forbidden. But that fear is outweighed by the desire to explore Thorsen’s estate.
When my bare foot hits the shiny white tile floor, it echoes off the wall, and I turn my head in each direction, trying to get my bearings. I have two choices of direction, but it’s obvious from the distant noise to my right that the kitchen is presumably that way. Still, I find myself pivoting in the opposite direction, curiosity leading the way as I tiptoe farther down the hall.
The first door I come to is on the left, and it’s identical to my own. But when I turn the handle and open it, I know without a doubt this isn’t just another guest area. The spicy scent of Thorsen hits my nose first, followed by the dark details of the room. While the hallway is light and brightly painted, this room is shrouded in tones of gray with heavy drapes obscuring any outside light pollution from the windows. A melancholy feeling hangs in the air, and I know this is definitely his room.
Glancing over my shoulder, I half expect to see him lurking behind me as I venture farther inside the space. But he isn’t there, and I’m free to explore. As far as furnishings go, the room isn’t all that different from mine. His bed is bigger, and the closet too. On the right side of the suite, a set of French doors leads to a balcony. Noticeably absent are the plethora of sexual torture devices he must keep contained to my space.
My fingers graze the bed where he usually sleeps before moving on to his nightstand. Pulling open the first drawer, I find nothing of importance. The second drawer yields nothing either, and it confuses me. He lives here full-time, yet it doesn’t seem like he lives here at all. I walk into his closet, examining the neat rows of trousers and shirts hanging from the racks. In Thorsen’s world, only four colors exist, apparently. Gray, black, blue, and white. On the opposite wall, there’s a similar theme amongst his Oxford style shoes, consisting of only black or brown, in varying designs.
As I wander from the closet and into the bathroom, I wonder if this is what his brain is like too. Is he living in a pre-technicolor world where the shades of his mind are so limited he has trouble distinguishing anything with real vibrancy?
The master bathroom is another clue that he’s a man who doesn’t have a taste for the excessive lifestyle into which he was born. While I don’t doubt that his clothes are expensive, I’m beginning to sense a pattern. Thorsen lives for the necessities, evident by the few toiletry items he keeps in his vanity. A shaver, cream, shampoo, soap. In another drawer, I find a manicure kit and some hair gel. It seems like that’s about as exciting as it’s going to get. Then I open the last drawer on the bottom, which appears to contain towels and handcloths. But when I push them aside, I notice a small black case beneath them. It looks like a shaving bag, but it’s thin enough that I’m questioning if there’s even anything in there.
When I unzip it, the only item inside is a dark blue glass bottle with a hand-scrawled label. Nerium Oleander. I’m not familiar with the name, but as I examine it, something feels off about it. Is this what he used to drug me?
A noise from inside the room startles me, and I quickly shove everything back into the drawer, shutting it as quietly as I can manage before I peek around the corner.
“Oh!” A frightened older woman peers back at me. Her maid’s uniform indicates she must be a part of his housekeeping staff.
“Sorry.” I offer her a sheepish smile. “I… um, got lost. I was looking for the kitchen. We haven’t met yet, but I’m Ella.”
“Lisbet.” She glances over her shoulder nervously as she points at the hall. “You shouldn’t be in here, Ella. The kitchen is down the corridor to the right.”
“Sorry,” I murmur again, scurrying away quickly.
Out in the hall, my racing heart calms as I place one foot in front of the other, putting as much distance as I can manage between Thorsen’s room and myself. I repeat the name of the label on the glass bottle under my breath a few times, committing it to memory so I can look it up later.
As I venture closer to the main area of the house, I notice a difference in the brightness around me. Natural light floods in from the windows, sparkling off every surface inside. When I reach the kitchen, I’m surrounded by more white. The cabinets, the island, the dining table, and chairs… everything is white. It’s beautiful but empty. There’s no sign of Thorsen or Calder, but there’s a set of French doors ahead that lead out onto the terrace. And from where I’m standing, I can hear the gentle lapping of water nearby.
Suddenly, I’m questioning if we’re even in a house at all. Is this just a huge yacht? I remember Lavinia mentioning something about the royal family being fond of their yacht. But no, this can’t be. I would have felt it moving. And I would have heard the water outside my window if it was right beneath me.
“There you are.” Calder pokes his head around the French doors, his eyes roaming over me with a casual interest. “We’re eating outside. It’s a beautiful day. Come join us.”