The Fiancé: A Fake Fiance Billionaire Romance (Irish Billionaires) by Sienna Blake

Author:Sienna Blake [Blake, Sienna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: SB Publishing
Published: 2021-09-26T16:00:00+00:00

29

Izzy

I’d ordered the jukebox out of the kitchen, an act of self-will, an act of self-cleansing. It was rumbling and bouncing its way to a consignment shop somewhere in Dublin as I dragged the knife slowly along the length of the carrot. My frilly apron had shared the same fiery fate as my maid’s costume, as my lacy thongs and bras, as the suitcase of clothes Isabelle had sent along with that week’s Mail Order Barbie. I was wearing a simple pair of jeans and a simple white tee. I’d left the silk scarf in the top drawer of my armoire and the bold red lipstick on the bathroom counter. The ridiculous heels were probably still lodged in one of the hedges of the maze outside from when I’d hurled them into the oppressive night; they’d probably remain there until winter stripped the branches of their leaves and they were revealed like a swallowed toy in a dog’s stomach on the hospital x-ray. Not that I would need them then anyway. By that time I’d be pregnant, laid up in bed, unmoving…unmoving.

I’d found an empty pantry shelf for the tower of ancient cookbooks I’d used as props. Instead I scrolled through a recipe from this decade on my phone, which I’d propped up against the bowl of vegetables from the garden.

The kitchen was silent as I worked slowly, steadily. Nothing was boiling over. Nothing was spitting, spurting, squelching. There were no tendrils of black smoke sniffing out a fire alarm. My knife didn’t whack against the cutting board and when I moved a pot, I did it carefully.

It was the closest I would get to peace there in the mansion. The window was open and the breeze caressed my bright cheeks in the heat of the stove. At least for the time being, flowers still bloomed in the expansive garden. There was quiet and I was myself. If that was all I got for the rest of my days, then at least it was something.

The peels from the carrots curled as I dragged the knife down, down, down. They looked like the curled shavings that fell from a wood carver’s bench. Was this the little corner of life I had left to shape for myself, in the manner and way I, and I alone, wished it? How much happiness could I form from a long, slender carrot? How much joy and purpose and connection was there to carve out?

I’d wanted a whole forest to work with, big, wide, ancient trees to write my name upon. That was the life I’d worked for before…well, before, just before. And now? And now I had a paring knife and carrots.

I sighed and brushed a fallen strand of hair from my hot cheek with the back of my hand. It was enough, I told myself. It would be enough. Eventually it would have to be enough.

Wouldn’t it?

I hadn’t heard the car pulling into the gravel drive outside the mansion. I hadn’t heard him slip

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