Chapter 4 - The Bride’s Replacement
“A promotion?” I echoed, blinking in disbelief. “Mr. Blackwell, I’m a housekeeper. I clean bathrooms and fold sheets. I don't know the first thing about running... whatever it is you need run.”
“You know how to tell the truth when everyone else in this room is lying to me,” Caleb said, his voice dropping into a tone that brooked zero argument. “That is a rare skill in my line of work, Marisol. Far rarer than silver polishing.”
He turned to Marcus. “Get the catering director on the phone. Tell him to clear the ballroom floor, sweep away the sugar, and set up a secondary lounge area for the guests. Tell them the bride had a sudden medical emergency and had to retire to her suite.”
“A medical emergency, Boss?” Marcus grinned faintly. “Classic.”
“And Marcus?” Caleb added as he turned back toward the door.
“Yeah, Boss?”
“Escort Marisol and her daughter to the Master Wing. Put them in the West Suite. Ensure they have whatever food, clothes, and comfort they require for the night.”
My jaw dropped. “The Master Wing? Mr. Blackwell, I can’t stay in the Master Wing! That’s—that’s where family stays!”
Caleb paused in the doorway, casting one last glance over his shoulder. The hallway light caught the sharp planes of his face, making him look like an Italian Renaissance painting of a ruthless prince.
“Consider it hazard pay for having my future ex-fiancée scream at your child,” he said dryly. “I’ll see you in the morning, Marisol.”
Before I could protest further, he vanished down the corridor, his footsteps fading into the thick silence of Blackwell House.
The West Suite was larger than my entire childhood home.
It featured soaring ceilings, a massive stone fireplace, velvet armchairs, and a king-sized bed with linens so soft they felt like water against the skin. A private marble bathroom contained a clawfoot tub and an array of imported lavender soaps.
After tucking a sleeping Daisy into a makeshift nest of plush pillows on the massive bed, I sat by the window, staring out at the rain slicking the manicured lawns of the estate.
Down below, black sedans were beginning to depart down the gated drive. The party was over. The great and powerful had scattered like frightened crows at the first sign of a storm.
What was going to happen to Celeste?
In polite society, she would be sent packing with a generous settlement or a quiet plane ticket to Europe to let the scandal blow over. But this wasn't polite society. This was the Blackwell family. People didn't just break engagements with a mob king without paying a heavy, irreversible toll.
A soft knock at the double doors broke my train of thought.
I opened it cautiously. Standing in the hallway was an elderly woman with kind eyes and a neat gray bob, wearing a housekeeper’s uniform of a higher rank than mine—the head housekeeper, Mrs. Gable.
“Good evening, Marisol,” she said softly, holding a rolling cart loaded with silver domes and a warm glass of milk. “Mr. Blackwell asked me to bring up some dinner for you and the little one. He said you missed the hors d'oeuvres.”
I stepped aside, letting her wheel the cart in. “Thank you, Mrs. Gable. I... I still can't believe any of this is real.”
Mrs. Gable smiled gently, setting a plate of roasted chicken and root vegetables on the mahogany table. “None of us can believe Celeste Vale is gone. Good riddance, if you ask me. The woman treated the kitchen staff like stray dogs. She threw a ceramic saucer at the sous-chef last Tuesday just because her tea was lukewarm.”
My eyes widened. “She did what?”
“Oh, Mr. Blackwell doesn't see half of what goes on downstairs,” Mrs. Gable sighed, folding her hands in front of her apron. “He’s too busy keeping the empire afloat. But he has sharp eyes when he chooses to use them. The fact that he brought you up here... well, it’s got the entire staff talking.”
“Talking about what?” I asked nervously.
“About the fact that Caleb Blackwell hasn't looked twice at another woman in five years—and tonight, he looked at you the way a man looks at a life raft.”
Before I could formulate a reply to that terrifying statement, the heavy oak door of the suite swung open without a knock.
Caleb walked in.
He had removed his tuxedo jacket, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms to reveal strong, corded muscles and a faint, jagged scar running across his left wrist.
Mrs. Gable immediately curtsied. “Good evening, Mr. Blackwell. I was just seeing to Miss Marisol.”
“Thank you, Martha,” Caleb said, his voice smooth. “You’re dismissed for the night.”
“Yes, sir.” She cast one knowing, sideways glance at me before slipping quietly out the door, closing it firmly behind her.
Caleb walked over to the table, glanced down at the untouched food, and then looked over at the bed where Daisy was softly snoring, clutching a stuffed rabbit Mrs. Gable must have conjured from somewhere.
“Is she asleep?” Caleb asked quietly, lowering his voice.
“Yes. She’s exhausted,” I said, standing up from my chair and smoothing my black uniform dress. “Mr. Blackwell... why am I really here? You don't have to keep playing the protector just because she pointed out the truth. We can go back to the staff quarters downstairs. We don't want to cause trouble.”
Caleb walked toward me, stopping just inches away. His height and presence filled the expansive room, making it feel suddenly very small.
“You aren't causing trouble, Marisol,” he said, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. “You are the only person in this house who told me the unvarnished truth tonight. Do you know how rare that is for a man in my position?”
“People lie because they’re afraid,” I whispered.
“And people like Celeste lie because they’re greedy,” Caleb replied, his jaw tightening. “She’s gone. Her father’s shipping contracts have been terminated, and she’s currently on a private jet back to her mother’s estate in Newport. She will never set foot in Connecticut again.”
A shiver ran down my spine. He had dismantled an engagement, severed a million-dollar business alliance, and banished a woman in less than three hours.
“And what about us?” I asked, my voice barely audible.
Caleb reached out. For a second, I thought he was going to touch my face, but his hand stopped, resting instead on the back of the velvet armchair beside me.
“Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock,” Caleb said, a strange, half-amused smile touching his lips, “you are going to report to my personal office on the third floor.”
May you like
“Your office? As a housekeeper?”
“No,” Caleb said smoothly, turning on his heel toward the door. “As my new chief of staff. Let’s see how long you survive in the nest of wolves, Marisol.”
