Carissa dragged herself back to the first-floor guest room. She locked the door, slid down the wood paneling, and buried her face in her knees.
She didn't make a sound, but her shoulders shook violently. The image of Isadore vomiting in pain played on a loop in her mind. The guilt was suffocating.
She sat there until the vomit on her shirt dried and crusted. Moving like a zombie, she went into the bathroom and stood under the freezing shower, letting the ice-cold water punish her skin.
She changed into a pair of oversized cotton pajamas. She sat on the edge of the bed as the sun went down.
Dinner time came and went. No one knocked. The entire estate had collectively decided to starve her out.
By ten PM, Alistair stopped outside her door. He delivered two sharp, perfectly spaced knocks. When she didn't answer, his voice drifted through the wood, crisp and professional. "Mr. Gates has other arrangements this evening. You are advised to rest early." The polite dismissal was a masterclass in silent contempt, a reminder of her utter insignificance in this household. Carissa bit her lip until she tasted blood, staring at the wall.
At two AM, the silence of the house was absolute. Carissa's stomach cramped so painfully she doubled over. She had to eat.
She crept out of her room barefoot. The marble floors were freezing under her feet. She navigated the dark, cavernous hallways, relying on her memory to find the central kitchen.
A single dim sconce illuminated the massive room. Carissa opened the heavy stainless-steel door of the Sub-Zero refrigerator. It was packed with Wagyu beef and truffles and fresh produce.
She didn't dare touch the expensive food. She found a squished piece of whole-wheat bread in the back and a bottle of cold water.
She shut the fridge.
"Plotting your next murder attempt?" a dark voice sneered from the shadows.
Carissa gasped. The water bottle dropped from her hand, hitting the rug with a dull thud. She spun around.
Guilford leaned against the marble island. He wore black silk pajama pants and an unbuttoned shirt that exposed his muscled chest. He held a crystal glass of amber whiskey. His dark eyes were bloodshot, radiating a dangerous, exhausted energy.
Carissa stepped back. Her spine pressed against the cold metal of the fridge. She clutched the pathetic piece of bread to her chest.
Guilford's eyes dragged down her body, taking in her bare feet and defensive posture.
"I'm sorry about today," Carissa whispered. Her voice was thick. "I was stupid. I just wanted him to be okay."
Guilford scoffed. He downed the rest of his whiskey and slammed the heavy glass onto the marble counter. The sharp crack made her jump.
He closed the distance between them in three long strides. He planted his hands on the fridge on either side of her head, caging her in. He smelled of alcohol and raw heat.
He grabbed her chin, his fingers rough, forcing her to look up at him. "Drop the victim act, Carissa. It doesn't work on me anymore."
Carissa stared into his dark, furious eyes. Her own eyes were red, but she refused to cry. "What do I have to do to make you believe me?"
Guilford's gaze dropped to her trembling, slightly parted lips. The air between them thickened. His breathing hitched.
For a split second, Carissa thought he was going to kiss her. Or strangle her.
Guilford suddenly jerked his hand back as if she had burned him. He took two steps away, his chest heaving.
"Eat your garbage and go back to your room," he ordered, his voice harsh and ragged.
He turned and stalked out of the kitchen, his retreat looking almost like a panicked escape.
Carissa slid down the fridge, gasping for air. She looked at the crushed bread in her hand, took a bite, and let the tears finally fall in the dark.
