I unfolded the rest of the clothes and paused, my gaze falling on the undergarments neatly arranged beside the blouse and skirt. My cheeks heated instantly. Soft silk, delicate lace, muted tones, black, carefully chosen, elegant, and undeniably intimate.
Even now, he thinks of everything, I realized. My fingers brushed the fabric, feeling the smoothness of the silk, the intricate lace. It wasn't just functional; it was thoughtful, personal. A small, silent message left for me, even though he wasn't here, even though he had gone back to his own life, he had made sure I would be cared for.
I took a deep breath and dressed carefully, slipping into the undergarments first. The silk and lace hugged my skin perfectly, delicate but supportive, like armor and intimacy rolled into one. The faint scent of cigar smoke lingered on the fabric, subtle yet unmistakable, a reminder that he was everywhere, even when invisible.
Next came the blouse, a crisp white cotton blend that felt cool and structured against my shoulders. It draped elegantly, accentuating my curves without clinging, sophisticated and controlled, much like the man who had left it for me.
I then slid into the high-waisted skirt, crafted from soft wool with a slight stretch, tailored to perfection. The cut emphasized my waist and flowed just above my knees, the fabric moving gracefully as I walked. Paired with the blouse, I felt transformed, poised, elegant, and subtly aware of every intention woven into the ensemble.
Finally, I picked up the heels, their polished leather sharp and deliberate. Each step clicked against the plush carpet, the sound echoing faintly in the vast room. With each movement, I felt the quiet authority of the outfit, the meticulousness of Knox's mind reflected in every stitch, fold, and texture.
I twirled slightly in front of the mirror, catching my reflection. Past and present intertwined, the intimate thoughtfulness of the undergarments, the elegance of the blouse and skirt, and the authority in the leather heels.
Even alone, I could feel him. His mark, his scent, his intention, subtle gestures that left me both aware and achingly aware of him, and of how much he had planned even in my absence.As if on cue, a soft knock echoed through the vast room. My pulse quickened, and I instinctively froze mid-step, hands lingering on the fabric of my skirt.
A moment later, the maid appeared in the doorway, posture perfectly straight, her black hair neat and bangs framing her face. She gave a polite, formal nod.
"Miss, breakfast is ready as instructed by Master Nightworth. He requested your presence," she said, her voice soft but precise, carrying the same effortless charm as before.
I straightened slightly, smoothing my skirt, still feeling a mixture of excitement and apprehension.
"Of course,"
I murmured, trying to keep my voice even. The maid inclined her head once more, then stepped aside to allow me to pass, her movements fluid and composed. The air seemed to hum faintly with the lingering trace of cigar smoke, and I couldn't help but feel his presence even in his absence.
I followed the maid through the winding halls, the soft click of my heels echoing on the polished wooden floors. The sunlight poured in through tall, narrow windows, casting warm, golden patches across the walls painted in soft cream and muted taupe. The space felt vast but lived-in, a careful balance between elegance and comfort.
The walls were adorned with paintings, landscapes, abstract patterns, and subtle portraits, framed in simple dark wood rather than gold, giving the mansion a refined, understated air. Rugs of deep burgundy and muted forest green lined the hallways, softening my steps and adding a quiet warmth to the otherwise expansive rooms.
A faint scent lingered in the air, a mixture of cigar smoke and polished leather, threading through the mansion like a silent signature. It made my chest tighten slightly, pulling my attention even when my mind tried to focus elsewhere.
The maid led me into the dining room, a space both grand and surprisingly welcoming. A long, dark oak table stretched across the center, polished to a subtle shine, with chairs upholstered in soft gray fabric. Breakfast had been laid out neatly: steaming plates of eggs and toast, fresh fruit in a simple wooden bowl, and small pastries arranged with quiet care.
I paused at the doorway, taking it all in. The soft hum of the morning, the warm light spilling in, the quiet authority of the house, it felt alive, as though it were aware of every movement I made. Even though Knox wasn't here, his presence was woven into every corner: the scent in the air, the careful placement of everything, the way the light seemed to fall just right across the table.
I took a step forward, letting the quiet grandeur of the mansion sink in. Each room seemed to hold a story, each shadow a memory. And even in his absence, I felt him everywhere, guiding, observing, claiming this space in ways both subtle and undeniable.
"Where is Knox?"
I asked softly, my voice barely above a whisper, carrying more hope than expectation.
The maid's eyes widened slightly, her composure faltering for just a heartbeat. She blinked, clearly caught off guard by my question.
"He… isn't here at the moment, Miss," she said carefully, her tone polite but firm. "Master Nightworth had business to attend to, but he instructed me to ensure you were comfortable and that breakfast was ready. He… will return later."
I frowned, confusion knitting my brows. Her hesitant reaction made me more uneasy than the answer itself. There was something in the way she paused, something unspoken lingering behind her words.
"Will he… be back soon?" I asked, trying to hide the tremor in my voice.
The maid inclined her head slightly, a polite but unreadable expression on her face. "I cannot say exactly, Miss. But Master Nightworth's instructions were that you eat and wait. He trusts that you will be safe until his return."
Safe. The word echoed in my mind. I swallowed, my pulse quickening as the empty dining room suddenly felt too large, too silent. Even with the sun spilling through the windows and the warmth of the breakfast laid out before me, I could feel Knox's absence as a tangible presence, heavy, insistently pulling at the edges of my awareness.
I sank into a chair at the table, my hands trembling slightly as I reached for the cup of tea set neatly before me. Every nerve in my body seemed to ache with anticipation, waiting for the moment he would step through the doors.