CHAPTER SIX
971 Words
Georgiana’s POV
I should’ve stayed in bed.
But sleep wasn’t something that came easy anymore. Not in this house. Not with the way the air crackled under the weight of things unsaid.
I pulled on my robe and padded down the hallway with my steps soft and quiet. I didn’t even know where I was going at first. My body just moved. Past the guest rooms. Past the grand staircase. Past the framed photos I never stopped to look at.
I should’ve turned back the second I saw the glow spilling under the door.
But I didn’t.
The music room.
I opened the door gently, just enough to see inside.
And froze.
Michael was there. Not hunched behind his desk like always, not hidden in the cold, clinical corners of his home. He was seated at the piano. Not playing. Just sitting there. Like a man trying to remember what silence sounded like.
Except… he wasn’t alone.
He was holding my sketchbook.
The one I’d hidden in the false bottom of my drawer—the same one I hadn’t opened since the day my life went off track. Pages bent with time and thumbprints, raw ideas trapped in graphite, smudged lines that still smelled like hope.
My breath caught and my chest tightened. .
He turned a page, slowly. Like he wasn’t just reading drawings—he was decoding me.
I stepped inside, pulse pounding in my throat.
“You went through my things.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look surprised.
“I went into the room I pay for,” he said, flipping to another page.
Still calm. Still cold.
Still in control.
“That sketchbook was hidden,” I said tightly. “You don’t accidentally find something taped beneath a drawer.”
He looked up then. “No. I didn’t.”
The silence after that wasn’t empty. It was full of implications.
He stood, closing the sketchbook with deliberate care. “These are good. Too good for a girl scrubbing my floors.”
I took a step forward. “Say what you really mean.”
“I think you’re lying.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
My jaw clenched. “What do you think I’m here to do, Michael? Spy on your mail? Poison your dinner?”
“I think you’re hiding something.” His voice was lower now. Sharper. “And I don’t like people I can’t read.”
I almost laughed. “Maybe you’re just not used to people not begging for your attention.”
That did it.
He stepped closer.
“I know your type,” he said. “You come into a place like this and think you can survive off charm and mystery. But that won’t work on me.”
“Charm?” I raised a brow. “You think I’m trying to charm you?”
He didn’t answer. But his silence screamed.
I took another step. Just enough to narrow the space between us.
“You don’t scare me,” I said quietly.
“I should.”
“Why? Because you’re rich? Because you scowl better than the average man? Please.”
The look in his eyes shifted. Just a flicker. Just enough to register that something had gotten under his skin.
Then he noticed what I was holding behind my back.
His eyes dropped, locked on my fist.
“What’s that?”
I didn’t move.
“Georgiana.”
Still, I didn’t answer.
He reached out—not quickly, not forcefully, just enough to make my skin prickle.
I stepped back.
But I wasn’t fast enough.
He caught my wrist.
Not hard. Not cruel. Just firm.
And for a second… we were too close.
His breath brushed my cheek. Warm. Controlled.
Dangerous.
“I don’t like secrets,” he said, voice low. “Especially in my house.”
“And I don’t like men who think they can own every part of someone just because they signed a check.”
His eyes flared. “What are you hiding?”
And then—
“Michael?”
Elsie’s voice floated down the hallway like a divine interruption.
Then I moved first, yanking out my arm from his grasp “ I’m going to bed” I said already halfway out the door.
He didn’t say anything else but I knew we would be revisiting this issue.
Later that night, I sat in my room, staring at the ceiling. I’d been here for days, and every second felt like I was sinking deeper into a world I couldn’t escape. Michael was right about one thing: I didn’t belong here. But neither did he.
The next morning, I awoke to the sounds of Mavis bustling around the kitchen. I should’ve been used to it by now, but there was something about the routine that made my stomach turn.
As I walked down the hallway, I caught sight of Michael standing near the door. He was talking on the phone, his voice low and intense. I couldn’t hear the words, but I could see the way his eyes flitted around the room, like he was trying to gauge the situation.
When he saw me, his gaze locked onto mine, and for a split second, I saw something shift in his expression—something almost… vulnerable.
But just as quickly, it was gone.
“You’re still here,” he said, his tone colder than ever.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I turned away, heading for the kitchen. I wasn’t ready to face him—not yet. Not when I still had a plan to follow.
I was beginning to think I could do this. I could make him crack, make him face the truth. And when the time came, I would be ready.
But until then, I would remain invisible. Until I was ready to make my move.
- Writer
