I dropped my hand.
He always said the key to surviving this job—to surviving Crowne Hall—was to keep your dignity. I think I’m about to test that.
The pitter-patter of my black flats tapping against black marble floors was the only sound as I walked to Grayson’s wing. Crowne Hall was deathly quiet—odd, considering there should’ve been a party going on, the one I should have helped Abigail get ready for.
I held my items tighter against my body.
The closer I got to Grayson’s wing, the darker it got.
Outside, Crowne Hall was known for its dark spires and shingles, a black castle that could be seen from anyplace in our town of Crowne Point. It was more than a mansion; it was a palace stuck in time. Inside? It was like something out of a Poe poem. Floral molding cut into pearly white walls, inky black railings and doors, with a peppering of gold trim.
Just outside Grayson’s wing, I stopped.
Two scary-looking men in charcoal suits flanked either side of the arched doorway. They didn’t so much as glance in my direction. Whereas Abigail had one constantly changing guard, Grayson was always flanked by a group of security.
I took a slow step, watching them.
When they didn’t stop me, I scurried past them, looking over my shoulder to double-check they weren’t about to take me.
They hadn’t moved a millimeter.
That didn’t calm me. No one got past them without Grayson’s say-so, not even maids.
Grayson was waiting for me.
I walked slowly down the hallway, soaking in my surroundings. I’d never been to Grayson’s wing. In fact, none of my friends and coworkers had. The only person who’d been here, whom he allowed here, was my uncle. He made my uncle clean the entire fucking thing.
And yet my uncle still defends him.
Grayson’s wing was long and winding, the architecture ornate, but it was so…empty. No pictures. No paintings. Nothing on the tables and no blankets on the chairs. Somehow my small bedroom felt more filled than this.
I finally reached his bedroom at the end of the winding wing. If I kept walking, I could go through a gilded door, taking steps down to Grayson’s own personal beach. I’d never heard of anyone going there, not even my uncle. Instead, I turned and faced black-and-gold double doors, so huge I had to tilt my head back to see the top.
We servants had one question we were allowed to ask the Crownes, one thing we could say to them. One.
You called?
Should I knock on his door and act like I was any other servant coming because he rang?
I looked back down the long, dark hallway, contemplating running back and trying to disappear among the cooks, when a crreak startled me. I took a sharp step back, my personal items falling from my grasp.
Grayson Crowne was sandwiched in the doorway, leaning against one unopened door. Shirtless.
Carved.
The paparazzi photos don’t do him justice.
I quickly scrambled to gather all my things, holding them tight to my chest.
“Let me go back to Abigail,” I said, trying again. “I’m nothing. I’m nobody—”
“Get inside,” he said, cutting me off.
He didn’t move from the doorway as I scurried inside, and I brushed his bare golden chest with my shoulder. I swallowed, trying to get my heart under control.
Once inside, I stopped between the arms of two black leather couches. For a second, I forgot to be afraid.
This was Grayson Crowne’s bedroom.