The morning was already half spent by the time Rachel slipped through the black iron gates of Mr. Camden's estate.
The house loomed, stately and dignified, but the weight of its silence pressed down on her as heavily as the day before. She hugged her tote bag closer to her side, reminding herself that this was only day two. She could handle him — his sharp tongue, his pride, his stiff upper lip.
She had to.
Her sneakers made little sound against the polished marble floor as she entered the living room.
Mr. Camden was already seated in his armchair by the wide windows, a spread of papers on the table before him. He didn't even glance up when she came in, though his voice cut through the quiet.
"You're late."
Rachel checked the watch on her wrist instinctively. "It's nine-thirty. You told me to come by ten."
"Exactly," he said without missing a beat, still leafing through the papers. "Which means you've arrived half an hour too early."
