The ride took longer than expected, not because of traffic but because I spent time practicing my expressions in the car reflection. As I thought about the news still bothering me. Every time a streetlight blinked, it felt like I was on stage. I watched the estate grow larger through the window and realized how much I missed the small comforts of home, how the hedges lined the driveway, the specific angle of light on the west wing in late summer. All of this should have felt comforting. Instead, I practiced my smile one last time until it felt like someone else was wearing my face.
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, and unyielding.
I had practiced my serious, composed expression. The goal is to appear as a sensible leader, not a beleaguered heiress weighed down by headlines.
Aurelia Hartwell: Poor fashion choices. Social issues. Clumsy drinking. "What could be possibly worse than that."
Each judgment played in my mind. "Snap out of it!."
The car stopped. The driver handled my bag. 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. Her gray bun was tight enough to be a crown, her eyes sharp aswell.
"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 curtains back home as I followed her down the marble hallway."
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, looking like a painting that had come to life just to annoy me. He wore a black suit, a black tie, and had perfectly styled black hair. He looked too stylish, almost as if his tailored outfit was making fun of the room. With his hands clasped in front of him, he seemed to be waiting for guidance... or for me.
A sudden tightness in my jaw yanked me back to childhood. One memory stands out clearly the kindergarten art contest. We were five years old, determined to color inside the lines. While I was tying my shoelace, he took the only golden crayon from my small hand — at least, that's how I remember it. The judges laughed at me, I cried. Sebastian stood in a sunbeam all afternoon, holding his trophy with that annoying grin on his face. Years later, I could still see the gold streak on his little knuckle, a sign of his success that he seemed to enjoy so much. It hurt that his stealing the crayon had been so simple — he always made winning look easy.
I wanted to hiss, How dare you?
I wanted to demand, Why are you here?
Instead, Mrs. Dalloway cleared her throat.
"Miss Hartwell, allow me to introduce Mr. Sebastian Kincaid, your personal butler."
The words personal butler hit like ice water.
Sebastian bowed like an actor looking for applause. "Miss Hartwell." His smooth, teasing voice made my name sound like a joke. "It's been a while."
"Too long," I replied. Depending on the memory, it could feel too long… or not long enough. Childhood rivalries tend to stick with you.
"What brings Mr. Kincaid to Hartwell?" My tone became sharper, with sarcasm hidden in my 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 shine. Even his business card smirk at me.
I touched the edge of the business card, feeling like I was searching for something hidden. Kincaid Management, the name seemed polished, much like his perfectly styled hair. I should have been angry with my family I should have confronted them right away. Instead, a cold thought crossed my mind, maybe I had been placed here to help someone else's plan. My father liked to create complicated situations and could be harsh. He enjoyed puzzles maybe he left one here that still needs solving. If this was part of his plan, then Sebastian was not just charming or arrogant, he could be a piece moved on a chessboard I never agreed to play on.
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?
I took a deep breath to calm the tight feeling in my chest. The grand hall was too bright, with every marble surface reflecting questions I wasn't ready to face. It felt better to move instead of standing here under his watchful gaze.
As I walked down the hallway, I felt like the walls were closing in. The portraits on the walls seemed to watch me with cold curiosity, and my footsteps echoed loudly. I fixed my skirt and practiced the smile I would show my relatives and for photos. Finally, I went to the breakfast table. the one place that might provide answers or just create new complications for me.