Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 69286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
This will be my home for the next four weeks. As much as I wanted space from my parent’s constant bickering, the ghostly feel of the property makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
The rumors of Gran’s deteriorating mental capacity have been whispers I grew up with, and I have a feeling that’s why my parents agreed to me visiting her. Perhaps they want this stupid ball to go off without a hitch, so the Bardot name isn’t tarnished. That’s all they care about anyway, and that’s the reason they sent me instead of coming themselves.
With my last name, I’m known throughout the country as the most eligible bachelorette, but even though my reputation precedes me, I’m still single—much to my mother’s disgrace.
By the time I turn twenty-one, I should be married with children, at least according to my mother. The traditions that run in my family are archaic. Even though we’re in the twenty-first century, they seem to think we’re still living in the middle ages.
“Here you are.” Ellington’s voice causes me to jump as he walks up behind me. “I’m sorry, miss,” he apologizes with a tepid smile. I watch as he pushes the door open, and a loud creak of annoyance comes from the hinges as it gapes, welcoming me inside.
Shockingly, the house is warmer than I expected when I enter. The marble tiles underfoot echo with the click of my heels. The long, deep-red-and-brown rug that lies in a straight line leading up to a sweeping spiral staircase gifts the enormous space with a hint of balminess.
I wonder if there’s a heating system of sorts, but my grandmother would never pay for this place to be kept heated if I had to guess correctly. A heavy chandelier hangs above me, with crystals glinting in the dim light.
“Hello.” A voice comes from my right, forcing me to turn toward a doorway that leads off from the foyer. “Welcome to Bardot Manor.” A woman who looks to be in her mid-forties smiles at me brightly.
“Thank you,” I respond. “I’m—”
“Scarlett Bardot,” she says, interrupting me. “We’ve been so excited to have you visit. I hope you had a lovely trip?”
“Yes, it was acceptable,” I tell her before glancing around once more.
Ellington offers me a nod before tipping his black driver’s hat at us and exiting, shutting the heavy door behind him. And that’s the final nail in my proverbial coffin. Once the car leaves, I’m stuck here.
“Let me show you to your room,” the woman, who I still don’t know, says.
I place a hand on her arm, needing her to look at me before I ask, “What is your name?”
She gushes, holding her hand to her chest. “I’m so sorry. How rude of me. I’m Estelle,” she informs me before curtsying as if I were the queen and she a mere servant. It seems Gran has taught the staff to bow down to her. I’m not surprised.
“No need for formality. I’m not my grandmother.” Before Estelle can respond, I head toward the staircase and take a few steps up before turning to see the woman following without my bags.
“I’ll have Gray bring those up shortly.”
“Thank you.” I face the staircase, and when Estelle reaches me, she turns left, and I follow. The hallway is carpeted with thick, dark brown material that allows us to move silently, the plushness quieting our footsteps as she takes me all the way to the end and pushes open a dark wooden door. The bedroom ahead is prepared with fresh flowers in a vase on the vanity made of dark, rich oak, sitting looking over the enormous four-poster bed, draped in what looks like fresh bed linens. The pillows are the color of deep merlot, and the comforter a similar dark red.
“This will be your wing of the house. Your grandmother is on the other end. You’re welcome to explore on your own, but just be wary of going out into the garden after dark.” Her voice is tainted with a dark threat that has me snapping my gaze toward her.
“Why?” I question, waiting for her response. For a moment, I wonder if she’s going to reply, and I turn away, allowing her privacy rather than gawking at her. I open the curtain to look out over the lawn’s lush greenery and flowerbeds with bright leaves shimmering with water droplets under spotlights that illuminate the beauty that awaits me tomorrow morning.
The bright colors of the petals—reds, yellows, oranges, and even purple—are so pronounced under the glow I can make them out easily. A pathway leads toward thick forests that further extends to a mountain that looks like a large, black mound. The forest ahead reminds me of those I read as a girl in dark fairy tales. “There aren’t any big bad wolves out there.”