CHAPTER 2: HOUSE RULES

The Kensington mansion did not look like a home. It looked more like a fortress that had learned to wear a suit.

Gates. Guards. Gravel that crunched too loudly.

And the inside, was a hall of black marble where every footstep echoed. With portraits of dead men who all had Alistair's jaw.

"The maid's quarters are on the east side," Alistair said, walking ahead of me. "Marta will show you. But first, you will have to read something."

He led me into a study that smelled of leather and smoke. A paper waited on the desk…it had three pages, and a pen was laid neatly across it.

"Sit."

"I'd rather stand." I said, staring at the paper.

"I'd rather you didn't argue." He picked up the drink on the table and poured it for himself.

"Read." He commanded

I read fast. Years of reading menus, bills, and warnings from landlords had taught me to find the trap in a paragraph.

The terms were simple. Three years. I would live in his house. I would serve at his table and clean his rooms, and I would be available to him at any hour, in any way he chose. In return, Kensington debt would stand behind Monroe Industries until the day the contract ended.

I read the line twice. In any way he chose.

"It doesn't say what happens if I refuse something," I asked.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you won't." He sat on the edge of the desk, and the leather creaked. "A woman who's bargained for her father's name doesn't walk away over small things."

"Small things?"

"Everything is small compared to a company, Miss Monroe."

I set the paper down. My hands felt strange, like they belonged to someone else. "I'll scrub your floors. I'll cook your food. I won't get a thank you for it."

"I don't say thanks."

"And I won't call you sir?"

He paused. Something moved at the corner of his mouth…not a smile, more like a man noticing a crack in a wall.

"What will you call me?"

"Mr. Kensington, of course."

"Hmm?" He sipped his drink. "Then sign it."

I signed. The pen scratched like a nail on glass. When I put it down, he picked up the paper, folded it once. And put it in a safe behind a painting of a horse.

"Three rules," he said. "Don't leave the grounds without a guard. Don't lie to me again. And never go into the west wing."

"What's in the west wing?"

"Rule three."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting, Miss Monroe. And no more questions."

A knock interrupted us. It was soft, polite, not a guard's knock. A man stepped in immediately without waiting. He was about sixty, silver-haired, with a warm brown eyes and a cardigan, of all things, under his jacket. He looked like someone's favorite grandfather.

"Alistair, forgive me, the gate man said you'd brought someone home." His eyes found me. They softened. "Oh. Well, hello."

"Uncle." Alistair's whole posture changed. Not softer… but straighter, like a soldier when an officer enters. "This is Amarah Monroe. She works for me now."

"Monroe." The old man smiled. "Not Elise?"

"Elise made her choice."

"Ah. I see." He came closer and held out a hand. "Stephen Kensington. Alistair's uncle, and the family's oldest nuisance."

His hand was warm and dry. I shook it. And for no reason I could name, my skin prickled.

"Amarah," I said.

"A lovely name. And a familiar one." He tilted his head. "Your mother was Lena, wasn't she?"

The room tilted. "You knew my mother?" I asked slowly as my voice came above a whisper.

"Everyone in my generation knew everyone, my dear. She was a brilliant young woman. It was such a shame how quickly that illness took her."

I hadn't heard anyone speak of my mother kindly in eleven years. My throat closed.

"Thank you."

"Uncle," Alistair said immediately, a little sharper, "she's here to work."

"Of course, of course." Stephen patted my hand once and let go. Then lightly, the way you ask about the weather; he asked again.

"Tell me, did your father ever leave you anything? Papers? A box, a key, something sentimental?"

"No." The word came out too fast, and I didn't know why. But his questions left me wondering. "He left me nothing. Vanessa saw to that."

"Nothing at all?"

"Nothing."

Stephen smiled, and it was a good smile, kind, gentle. So I thought .

"Well. Things have a way of turning up." He said again, almost to himself.

"Uncle." Alistair's glass hit the desk. "It's late."

"So it is. Good night, nephew. Good night, Amarah. Welcome to the family, in whatever way you can be welcomed."

He left. The door closed. And the room felt colder with him gone, and I didn't understand why.

"He's kind," I said.

"He's been kind to me my whole life." Alistair's voice was flat. "He raised me after my father died. You'll be polite to him."

"I'm polite to everyone."

"You were polite to him. But you're never polite to me."

"You haven't earned it."

I expected anger. Instead he looked at me for a long moment, and his dark eyes did something I couldn't read.

"You're braver than your sister," he said. "Or stupider."

"Maybe both."

"Marta!" He called louder.

And a round-faced woman appeared at the door at once, as if she had been waiting behind it.

"Take Miss Monroe to the east wing. Give her the uniform. She starts at six."

"Yes, sir." Marta put a hand on my arm. Her touch was kinder than anything I'd felt all week.

I turned to go. But Alistair's voice stopped me at the door.

"Amarah."

It was the first time he'd said my name without a surname attached. It sounded different in his mouth. Heavier.

"What?"

"The contract says any way I choose." He wasn't looking at me. He was looking into his glass. "Ten o'clock. My room. I need you there and not in that uniform."

My fingers curled around the doorframe until my knuckles went pale.

"And if I don't come?"

"Then you'll find out," he said quietly, "how much a company is worth.”