The Hartwell gates stood before me, their grand potential hidden under a gloomy sky. At that moment, they looked less like a welcome and more like iron barriers — cold, unyielding, guarding secrets I wanted to escape.
I had practiced my serious, composed expression like a politician rehearsing for cameras. The goal: appear as a sensible leader, not a beleaguered heiress weighed down by headlines.
Aurelia Hartwell: Fashion mistakes. Social collapse. Ungraceful drunk.
Each judgment echoed in my head like an unwanted song.
The car stopped. The driver handled my bag as if it were fragile porcelain, silently broadcasting: Treat her gently, she might shatter. I stepped out, defiant but uneasy, aware that Hartwell House once belonged to people who valued dignity over scrutiny.
"Miss Hartwell?"
A dry yet steady voice interrupted my thoughts.
Mrs. Dalloway. She approached with three envelopes tucked neatly in her gloved hand, like evidence files in some ongoing investigation. Her gray bun was tight enough to be a crown, her eyes sharp and faded like ledger ink.
"Mrs. Dalloway," I greeted, keeping my tone polite despite the knot in my chest. "Is everything in order?"
One eyebrow lifted. "Your cousin Julian requests twenty minutes at breakfast. He believes pastries can 'improve image metrics.'"
I gave her my practiced dignified look. "Commend him for boosting morale."
She gave me the same unimpressed stare she had once given interns and, rumor said, her two ex-lovers. "Your room is as you left it. However, the dressing room is off-limits. Your father's robes are stored there, and the moths have grown… aggressive."
Aggressive moths. Wonderful. I silently apologized to the curtain rods as I followed her down the marble hallway, shoes whispering against polished stone. The air smelled of lemon oil and old paper — comforting, but arranged so perfectly it felt almost accusatory.
And then I saw him.
He stood in the grand hall like a painting that had come to life purely to inconvenience me. Black suit, black tie, black hair perfectly in place. Too stylish, in fact — so immaculately tailored it mocked the very room. With hands clasped before him, he looked like he was waiting for divine direction… or for me.
A sudden tightness in my jaw yanked me back to childhood: crayons stolen in kindergarten, a race lost on sports day, the student council vote he'd snatched from under me. Sebastian Kincaid had always been the grin at the finish line. And there it was again, that grin — smug, practiced, victorious.
I wanted to hiss, How dare you?
I wanted to demand, Why are you here?
Instead, Mrs. Dalloway cleared her throat like a gavel striking order.
"Miss Hartwell, allow me to introduce Mr. Sebastian Kincaid, your personal butler."
The words personal butler hit like ice water.
Sebastian bowed dramatically, like an actor still hungry for applause. "Miss Hartwell." His smooth, teasing voice made even my name sound like mockery. "It's been quite a while."
"Too long," I said. Depending on the memory, it could be too long… or not nearly long enough. Childhood rivalries have a nasty way of growing up with you.
"What brings Mr. Kincaid to Hartwell?" My tone sharpened, my sarcasm neatly wrapped in politeness.
His eyes gleamed with mischief. "A generous offer." He tapped his chest. "Employment."
My throat betrayed me with a small sound. "Employment?" Since when did smugness qualify as a full-time job?
"Yes." With a magician's flourish, he pulled out a sleek card, glossy under the chandelier light:
Kincaid Management.
Sebastian Kincaid — Personal Services.
References available. Former lead roles upon request.
Of course it shone. Even his business card smirked.
My mind started racing. Why would my family hire a man my publicist once nicknamed "the smirk"? Who approved this? And most importantly — what was he planning?