Rosamund
By the time I went down for breakfast, I was running through my plan.
The "confirm the red" debacle had been a setback, but not a fatal one.
I'd handled it without crumbling, and from the way Mrs Harlow had nodded when I'd raised my arms for the maids and said, "Let's get started," I could tell that my composure had been noted.
Good. Every interaction in this house was a performance review, and I intended to pass with distinction.
I was going to be so perfect, so indispensable, so utterly beyond reproach that Nevan Wilder would have no choice but to fall in love —
I stopped walking.
Fall in love with me? Is that where that thought was going?
I pressed my palm against the corridor wall and let out a breath that was half laugh, half disbelief.
Where had that come from?
